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…”
Thursday, August 13, 2015
You Might Miss Something
I went on a couple of errands today that turned into a bit of an adventure.
My first errand was to go get my phone fixed. I’d been told that there is a shop in Escondido that does nothing but fix phones, so I called them last week and finally made it over there today. I had already googled the directions, which I still print out because I don’t trust Siri. Anyhow, I always get turned around in Escondido and today was no exception. I drove right past the store and had to make a u turn to go back. Twice.
The owner had told me it would only take 20 minutes and suggested I go get a cup of coffee. So, I got back in my car and went in search of a place to kill some time. I passed a Starbucks as I’m not a coffee drinker and cannot understand why people pay $5.00 for a caffeine fix. Instead, I decided on Denny’s and went in and had breakfast where I paid over $2.00 for a cup of hot water basically. And after I’d brewed my tea, I ended up not drinking it because it tasted like soap. Yuk.
Meanwhile, I tried to pick up my phone about four times. Duh!
Anyway, the adventure part hadn’t started, yet. After getting turned around – again – I found my way back to the Fix It store to pick up my phone. It looks great. Works fine. But I should have asked how much this repair was going to cost before I agreed. I expected it to be about $20 or $25 dollars and it was closer to $100.00. Whoops. To me, a $100 is a lot of money. I may have chosen to have it fixed anyway, but I should have asked…
Next I went in search of a bakery. I had discovered this bakery in class last semester when I had a group of students looking for local places to buy various goodies. And one group shared about Webekings Bakery. I was impressed with the name and decided I would pay them a visit, but they closed before my class started, so I knew I’d have to make a special trip someday. As Escondido is pretty far from Oceanside, I waited until I had two things to do in town.
With a map in hand, I had spent my time eating my breakfast and making sure I knew where I was going. Nonetheless, I drove right past it. Circled around the block and finally pulled over to call them. Turns out I was right around the corner, but it was worth the trip. Their pastries were to die for. Yummy!
So, where’s the adventure? The adventure is that the bakery is located at the intersection where I had turned to go to school four nights a week for the entire semester yet I hadn’t seen it. Even after our class assignment – when the students pointed it out on a map – I drove right by. Many, many times.
And I’m wondering how often we fail to see the wonderful things that are right in our path? How often do we drive right by? How often are we so intent on getting where we are “supposed to be” that we fail to take in our surroundings?
Life is an adventure. Slow down a bit. You might miss something.
My first errand was to go get my phone fixed. I’d been told that there is a shop in Escondido that does nothing but fix phones, so I called them last week and finally made it over there today. I had already googled the directions, which I still print out because I don’t trust Siri. Anyhow, I always get turned around in Escondido and today was no exception. I drove right past the store and had to make a u turn to go back. Twice.
The owner had told me it would only take 20 minutes and suggested I go get a cup of coffee. So, I got back in my car and went in search of a place to kill some time. I passed a Starbucks as I’m not a coffee drinker and cannot understand why people pay $5.00 for a caffeine fix. Instead, I decided on Denny’s and went in and had breakfast where I paid over $2.00 for a cup of hot water basically. And after I’d brewed my tea, I ended up not drinking it because it tasted like soap. Yuk.
Meanwhile, I tried to pick up my phone about four times. Duh!
Anyway, the adventure part hadn’t started, yet. After getting turned around – again – I found my way back to the Fix It store to pick up my phone. It looks great. Works fine. But I should have asked how much this repair was going to cost before I agreed. I expected it to be about $20 or $25 dollars and it was closer to $100.00. Whoops. To me, a $100 is a lot of money. I may have chosen to have it fixed anyway, but I should have asked…
Next I went in search of a bakery. I had discovered this bakery in class last semester when I had a group of students looking for local places to buy various goodies. And one group shared about Webekings Bakery. I was impressed with the name and decided I would pay them a visit, but they closed before my class started, so I knew I’d have to make a special trip someday. As Escondido is pretty far from Oceanside, I waited until I had two things to do in town.
With a map in hand, I had spent my time eating my breakfast and making sure I knew where I was going. Nonetheless, I drove right past it. Circled around the block and finally pulled over to call them. Turns out I was right around the corner, but it was worth the trip. Their pastries were to die for. Yummy!
So, where’s the adventure? The adventure is that the bakery is located at the intersection where I had turned to go to school four nights a week for the entire semester yet I hadn’t seen it. Even after our class assignment – when the students pointed it out on a map – I drove right by. Many, many times.
And I’m wondering how often we fail to see the wonderful things that are right in our path? How often do we drive right by? How often are we so intent on getting where we are “supposed to be” that we fail to take in our surroundings?
Life is an adventure. Slow down a bit. You might miss something.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
I Wish I'd
I Wish I’d
All of us have lots of “I wish I’d” - I do - things I wish I had done, things I wish I had said, things I wish I had seen. And as we get older, the list of wishes grows. When I think of all these, I am reminded of the words from the Lion King’s theme, The Circle of Life…
From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
Thus we must choose wisely those things we will do, those things we will see.
On my first trip to Europe, I went with a friend from high school. June had been to Europe before and was kind of acting as my tour guide and travel agent all in one. She was the person who told me to pack only one medium sized suitcase, so we could get on and off the trains fairly easily. And she’d decided when we’d go and to a large extent where we’d go, and, thus what we’d see. Of course, there were a few givens. I wanted to hear Big Ben, I wanted to ride in a gondola, and I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
We first went to visit an old high school friend who had moved back to England after we graduated. Although she was born in the states, she’d grown up in and around London and she had really missed it when her parents moved back to the U.S. Besides, this was the seventies and the British music scene was happening. The Beatles were still the rage along with the Stones. And Shirley had always loved music.
After our time in London, on our way to the mainland, we stopped in Dover. I don’t remember why, but we ended up in a little place not far from the famous white cliffs having a bite to eat and I got my usual order of hot tea. And as our meal progressed, I mentioned to June what a wonderful cup of tea it was. And she looked at me as if to say, “Duh?” And while I admit it wasn’t on my list - having a cup of tea while gazing at the white cliffs of Dover is pretty cool.
We took the ferry to Calais and the train from there to Paris. And we wandered about, got a hotel, caught a glimpse of the Louvre and then took the el across town if I recall correctly. And when we emerged from the subway station, we were standing so close to the Eiffel Tower that I didn’t see it. I’d expected to see if off in the distance, not barely 50 feet away from me. Anyway, I glanced quizzically at June and said, “Well, where is it?” And she pointed upwards. And I looked up and back down and up again, and my eyes filled with tears. Perhaps, I’d thought I would never see it. Perhaps, I was just grateful to see it. I don’t know, but I was overwhelmed with emotion. If you haven’t been to Paris, and you’d like to go, may I suggest you do.
The tea in England is amazing. And there’s nothing quite like pizza in Italy or Bratwurst in Germany. If you’re shopping – French perfume, Italian leather, and, of course, German automobiles.
My first trip included Spain although I never made it to Portugal which is where my mother’s family is from. Indeed, Lisbon remains on my list of places to visit. Along with the pyramids. And the Nile.
So, I leave you with words from Patsy Cline’s song, You Belong to Me
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle…
See the market place in Old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs…
Please.
All of us have lots of “I wish I’d” - I do - things I wish I had done, things I wish I had said, things I wish I had seen. And as we get older, the list of wishes grows. When I think of all these, I am reminded of the words from the Lion King’s theme, The Circle of Life…
From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
Thus we must choose wisely those things we will do, those things we will see.
On my first trip to Europe, I went with a friend from high school. June had been to Europe before and was kind of acting as my tour guide and travel agent all in one. She was the person who told me to pack only one medium sized suitcase, so we could get on and off the trains fairly easily. And she’d decided when we’d go and to a large extent where we’d go, and, thus what we’d see. Of course, there were a few givens. I wanted to hear Big Ben, I wanted to ride in a gondola, and I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
We first went to visit an old high school friend who had moved back to England after we graduated. Although she was born in the states, she’d grown up in and around London and she had really missed it when her parents moved back to the U.S. Besides, this was the seventies and the British music scene was happening. The Beatles were still the rage along with the Stones. And Shirley had always loved music.
After our time in London, on our way to the mainland, we stopped in Dover. I don’t remember why, but we ended up in a little place not far from the famous white cliffs having a bite to eat and I got my usual order of hot tea. And as our meal progressed, I mentioned to June what a wonderful cup of tea it was. And she looked at me as if to say, “Duh?” And while I admit it wasn’t on my list - having a cup of tea while gazing at the white cliffs of Dover is pretty cool.
We took the ferry to Calais and the train from there to Paris. And we wandered about, got a hotel, caught a glimpse of the Louvre and then took the el across town if I recall correctly. And when we emerged from the subway station, we were standing so close to the Eiffel Tower that I didn’t see it. I’d expected to see if off in the distance, not barely 50 feet away from me. Anyway, I glanced quizzically at June and said, “Well, where is it?” And she pointed upwards. And I looked up and back down and up again, and my eyes filled with tears. Perhaps, I’d thought I would never see it. Perhaps, I was just grateful to see it. I don’t know, but I was overwhelmed with emotion. If you haven’t been to Paris, and you’d like to go, may I suggest you do.
The tea in England is amazing. And there’s nothing quite like pizza in Italy or Bratwurst in Germany. If you’re shopping – French perfume, Italian leather, and, of course, German automobiles.
My first trip included Spain although I never made it to Portugal which is where my mother’s family is from. Indeed, Lisbon remains on my list of places to visit. Along with the pyramids. And the Nile.
So, I leave you with words from Patsy Cline’s song, You Belong to Me
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle…
See the market place in Old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs…
Please.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Christmas in July
Christmas in July
As a business woman, I’ve always gone along with the assumption that the idea of Christmas in July was basically a marketing ploy to boost retail sales during the traditionally flat summer season when folks are spending their money on vacations rather than gifts, but when I thought about writing this piece, I looked it up. Trust Wikipedia to set me straight. It seems the concept can be traced back to an opera of 1892. The opera is based on Goethe's book The Sorrows of Young Werther. I’m not familiar with either the book or the opera, but I do like discovering that the phrase is not just some slogan.
I’ve always wanted to commemorate the idea if not actually celebrate it because the Christmas in December is always so full of rushing about that I often don’t get to appreciate it until after the tinsel decked tree has been put out for the green folks to pick up. Toward that, I may have actually sent cards one year in July which I was thinking about doing this year. OK. Maybe it’s a crazy thought, but at my age I am allowed a few of those. Wouldn’t you agree?
I know why this has crossed my mind again. It’s because I’m feeling nostalgic and when I feel nostalgic, of course, I think of you – my friends old and new who are spread around the globe and with whom I rarely make contact anymore and when I do, often as not, it’s via the social media which are convenient for sure, but are not really very sociable. I’d rather share a meal with you or at least a cup of tea. In lieu of that, then, I may just send you a card.
Later this week, my high school friends and I will celebrate our 50th reunion which seems unimaginable to me. I never expected to live to be 50, let along live long enough to celebrate being out of high school for half a century. OMG! 1965 was a long time ago. And the world is truly a different place than it was then. It would take an entire book to muse about that, so I leave it for another time.
I’m also feeling a bit sad this week because one of my grandkids is at the fair with his pig for probably the last time. He’s a senior now and it’s unlikely that he’ll do another FFA project. Both he and his older brother have participated in the county fair for many years, but those days are coming to an end. And as crazy as fair week is, I will miss it. We’ve celebrated the 4th of July at the fair for so many years, I don’t know what we’ll do next year. Something different, surely.
I don’t like different. I like same. I like comfortable. When I had to do my first report for my MBA way back in ’04 I choose the tiny little book Who Moved My Cheese? It is a discussion of the effects of change and how most of us stay in denial about the need to change until the last possible moment. Or longer.
I’m facing a change at my work that may not sound all that big, but one that has had me in tears many a night since it was announced last January. My 4:30p class was cancelled and I was left facing unemployment. Fortunately, a position opened up, but the new class begins at 7p and runs til 9:20p and it’s in Escondido which isn’t much further for me, but the traffic is horrendous. It’s bumper to bumper for 10 miles. Those of you who know me, know how much I hate traffic. My students in the new class were great, but they weren’t the same. My classroom was great, but it wasn’t the same. My boss was great, but he wasn’t the same. I want my old class back, but it isn’t going to happen. I’ve been told by several of the powers-that-be to give it up. It isn’t going to happen. Let it be.
Those are “crystal words of wisdom” that I find difficult to accept.
I thought about playing some music this afternoon and I was going to kick it old school and choose a vinyl, but when I turned on my reproduction of an old record player, the cd light was on. Curious, I didn’t open the door, I just hit play. And Elvis started crooning the words to Blue Christmas. It’s a sign! I’m going to send cards. You’ll get one if I have your snail mail address. If you’ve recently moved – yet another change – you’ll need to give it to me. J and J, you know who you are.
I used to spend a lot of energy choosing my Christmas card, but I find them much easier to choose these days. In years past, I would have them imprinted with everyone’s name, but I stopped that in 1992. I don’t know why, perhaps because I was alone then, but I do remember the imprint. It said “Grandma-to-be” in celebration of one of the biggest changes of my life. And like most changes, I came to the knowledge of it kicking and screaming! And discovered, as many of you have, that being a grandma is the best present in the world!
So, here’s to you my friends. I can’t tell you to embrace whatever changes you are facing, but I can tell you that you will survive them and in many cases they will help you to thrive!
Merry Christmas!
As a business woman, I’ve always gone along with the assumption that the idea of Christmas in July was basically a marketing ploy to boost retail sales during the traditionally flat summer season when folks are spending their money on vacations rather than gifts, but when I thought about writing this piece, I looked it up. Trust Wikipedia to set me straight. It seems the concept can be traced back to an opera of 1892. The opera is based on Goethe's book The Sorrows of Young Werther. I’m not familiar with either the book or the opera, but I do like discovering that the phrase is not just some slogan.
I’ve always wanted to commemorate the idea if not actually celebrate it because the Christmas in December is always so full of rushing about that I often don’t get to appreciate it until after the tinsel decked tree has been put out for the green folks to pick up. Toward that, I may have actually sent cards one year in July which I was thinking about doing this year. OK. Maybe it’s a crazy thought, but at my age I am allowed a few of those. Wouldn’t you agree?
I know why this has crossed my mind again. It’s because I’m feeling nostalgic and when I feel nostalgic, of course, I think of you – my friends old and new who are spread around the globe and with whom I rarely make contact anymore and when I do, often as not, it’s via the social media which are convenient for sure, but are not really very sociable. I’d rather share a meal with you or at least a cup of tea. In lieu of that, then, I may just send you a card.
Later this week, my high school friends and I will celebrate our 50th reunion which seems unimaginable to me. I never expected to live to be 50, let along live long enough to celebrate being out of high school for half a century. OMG! 1965 was a long time ago. And the world is truly a different place than it was then. It would take an entire book to muse about that, so I leave it for another time.
I’m also feeling a bit sad this week because one of my grandkids is at the fair with his pig for probably the last time. He’s a senior now and it’s unlikely that he’ll do another FFA project. Both he and his older brother have participated in the county fair for many years, but those days are coming to an end. And as crazy as fair week is, I will miss it. We’ve celebrated the 4th of July at the fair for so many years, I don’t know what we’ll do next year. Something different, surely.
I don’t like different. I like same. I like comfortable. When I had to do my first report for my MBA way back in ’04 I choose the tiny little book Who Moved My Cheese? It is a discussion of the effects of change and how most of us stay in denial about the need to change until the last possible moment. Or longer.
I’m facing a change at my work that may not sound all that big, but one that has had me in tears many a night since it was announced last January. My 4:30p class was cancelled and I was left facing unemployment. Fortunately, a position opened up, but the new class begins at 7p and runs til 9:20p and it’s in Escondido which isn’t much further for me, but the traffic is horrendous. It’s bumper to bumper for 10 miles. Those of you who know me, know how much I hate traffic. My students in the new class were great, but they weren’t the same. My classroom was great, but it wasn’t the same. My boss was great, but he wasn’t the same. I want my old class back, but it isn’t going to happen. I’ve been told by several of the powers-that-be to give it up. It isn’t going to happen. Let it be.
Those are “crystal words of wisdom” that I find difficult to accept.
I thought about playing some music this afternoon and I was going to kick it old school and choose a vinyl, but when I turned on my reproduction of an old record player, the cd light was on. Curious, I didn’t open the door, I just hit play. And Elvis started crooning the words to Blue Christmas. It’s a sign! I’m going to send cards. You’ll get one if I have your snail mail address. If you’ve recently moved – yet another change – you’ll need to give it to me. J and J, you know who you are.
I used to spend a lot of energy choosing my Christmas card, but I find them much easier to choose these days. In years past, I would have them imprinted with everyone’s name, but I stopped that in 1992. I don’t know why, perhaps because I was alone then, but I do remember the imprint. It said “Grandma-to-be” in celebration of one of the biggest changes of my life. And like most changes, I came to the knowledge of it kicking and screaming! And discovered, as many of you have, that being a grandma is the best present in the world!
So, here’s to you my friends. I can’t tell you to embrace whatever changes you are facing, but I can tell you that you will survive them and in many cases they will help you to thrive!
Merry Christmas!
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