Childhood is not what it used to be

I had what I think of as an idyllic childhood. It was the late '50's - early 60's and I think it was the best time to be a kid. My neighborhood was full of kids to play with, most moms were at home, and on nice summer days we'd be out the door as soon as we could eat and dress. We'd play games - both traditional, like Tag and Red Rover, and ones we made up, like Movie Star, or we'd hit the swing set, swinging as high as we could go, then letting go of the chains and flying into space!  Or we'd hit the streets, strapping on those metal roller skates with the grabber things you adjusted with a key (and which never stayed on your shoes), or our trusty bikes, heading out in packs to roam the neighborhoods and have adventures our moms never knew about.  Or sometimes we'd just lay around on the grass, watching clouds or bugs, scratching our mosquito bites and discussing such deep topics as "What'll we do now?", or "If we have enough money between us, we could ride to the mall and get some candy."
Some days, we would walk or bike to the elementary school where there was a jungle gym to climb on, bigger swings, and board games like checkers (both Chinese and regular) and that beans on a board game.

Those were the days. No one worried about kidnapping or germs. We went where we wanted, drank from the hose when thirsty and ate grass and dirt. We settled our fights ourselves, wore our scrapes and scabs like badges and only went in to grab lunch, or if the bleeding didn't stop.
We'd play all day until the chorus of mothers calling kids in to dinner began. Then we'd part ways for the evening, calling our good byes and making plans to meet up the next day, because, in that perfect world and time, there was always a never-ending stream of "next days" to fill.

At least that's how I remember it.

To Journal or to Blog? That is the question.

I know, I know. I've been way too lax about writing in here. I have no excuse, other than the one I gave when someone told me to do a blog: I keep a journal. I have kept one for 42 years and I guess I'm just more used to picking up the journal when I have something on my mind than going on the computer.

But why can't I do both? Why don't I just write what I put in my journal in my blog?  Partly because I write things in the journal I wouldn't want others to read. Innermost thoughts (and not all hearts and flowers thoughts, either), petty gripes or things that happened that just don't seem to warrant blogging about. Mundane, ordinary stuff from a mundane, ordinary person. And partly because I don't feel like rewriting the same old stuff I put in my journal, into a blog. It's boring enough without doing it twice!

This blog, it seems, consists of more spur of the moment type stuff. Ephemeral things spawned by a stray thought or sight that sets my mind wandering and, unless I'm at home, that musing has often left my mind (like many things do nowadays) by the time I get to the computer.

So, excuses or reasons, that's why I have so few blog posts.  I'll leave you with a few bits of ephemera and the half-hearted promise to try to retain more thoughts to put in here.

1. I love the Fall season. Love the crisp feel of it, and the clothes and shoes I get to wear, and the colors. I don't, however, love the season that follows it, which shall not be mentioned.

2. I still believe that if a tree falls and nothing can hear it, it doesn't make a sound. Sound is just a wave until it hits something that can turn the wave into a sound. If nothing ever does that, the wave will eventually dissipate without being heard/making a sound.

3. When someone asks me where I'd like to live, if I had the choice, I never can name a place with certainty. I don't think I've been enough places to know for sure what the best one for me would be.  Or I just don't want to make a decision. Probably the latter.

The Happiness Jar

At the beginning of the year, I saw online an idea for a jar in which you put notes about the things that made you smile and at the end of the year or when you need a pick up, take out the notes and read them. I decided everyone can use some remembered joy, so I found a jar and prepared to write the things that brought me happiness and made me laugh or smile.
 
After one month, I have four little slips of paper in there. Four. And one of them I cheated and put down something that happened at Christmas. What does this say about me? Do I find so little joy in things? Am I that morose? Or am I just picky?

I choose to think I'm picky. I could put things like getting a good test result from my doctor in there - the news did make me smile - or how the sun looks shining on the new snow (okay, that didn't really make me smile, but it is kind of pretty), but everyday things like that just don't seem to warrant writing down and putting away for a later pick-me-up. I guess I'd rather make note of the really good things. The one time only, serendipitous kind of happenings. The things I know will bring back good times and good feelings and that will make me laugh or smile at a low time or the end of the year.

So maybe three or four things in a month isn't so few. Maybe it's just right - for me.

Alien thoughts

This morning on the news, a man put on a gas mask. It was an older looking mask, with a rubbery full head cover.  Do you know what he looked like when he put it on?  An alien. He looked almost exactly like the typical, Area 51-era alien. All that was needed was for the mask to be gray.

This brought to mind again the thought I've had that aliens really don't look the way they're portrayed.  Do you really believe some other race would come to Earth, land, and step out of their ship naked as the day they were born (or hatched, or grown)?  No! They'd have on space suits to protect them from our alien atmosphere.

Consider if there had been moon men and women inhabiting the moon when we landed there in 1969. Here we come in our little lunar module . . . the door opens and out steps Neil Armstrong . . . Can you imagine what those moonies would have said about us?  "They're hideous!  Puffy and white like slugs! And no face! Just one huge eye!"

Of course, those aliens would have to be very small for their space suits to be so small, but who are we to say what they really look like? They could have bodies like insects, or have arms and legs like threads. Whatever works for them, I say.

So the next time someone greets a visitor from another dimension, galaxy or planet, instead of shooting at them or running in fear and spreading ugly rumors about their looks, maybe we should invite them in and ask them if they'd like to hang up their helmet so we can get to know them better.

Situations and manipulations

I once read an interesting book entitled Situations Matter: Understanding How Context Transforms Your World, by Sam Sommers.  It tells how where you are, who you're with and how you're feeling affects what you might or might not do.  From why crowds of people can ignore an accident or a person in need, to the ways in which advertisers and charities get us to buy something, do something, or donate to a cause.  And how to recognize it and combat it.

It made me wonder how often I have rationalized doing nothing (someone else will do something. No one else seems concerned) and explains why no one seems to notice if it's me who needs some help from strangers (it's happened on occasion).  Hopefully, having read this, I'll be more aware of situations in which I might help, and know, if the occasion should arise, the best way to elicit help from a stranger.

However, I've found out that many of the tactics people use to get me to do what they want don't work on me.  Send me address stickers along with a donation card? I'll happily and gratefully keep and use the stickers, but the card gets tossed unless it's a cause I can afford to give to and really care about, and if that's the case, I don't need "gifts" to get me to donate.  Call me to ask what my political leanings are?  I'll stall until I determine what side you're on, then will indicate I'm on your side.  It's not that I'm that ambivalent - I usually have very strong opinions on most subjects and about the current crop of candidates for any office. I just don't want to bother defending those thoughts and feelings to annoying strangers who have called me at home and disturbed my day or evening.  My daughter has told me that I mess up the polls when I give the answer the pollster wants, and to that I just smile and think, it serves them right!

Nostalgia vs practicality

I love dishes. I don't know why. I have three complete sets and another set of assorted coordinating dishes because I'm never able to refuse pretty dishes at a good price. I like them all, and most of them have their uses. At least in my reasoning they do. I have my everyday dishes; some Christmassy ones I love and use in December; and a beautiful set I could use for "good" (I'd use them more, but they aren't microwave-safe).  And then there's the other set. The set I really have no use for. That I have almost outgrown. The dishes my parents gave me for a wedding gift. The ones I used every day in the first year or so of my marriage and used for occasional holidays for 30-some years after that. They bring back some nice memories.
But are memories enough to warrant keeping them? I never use them anymore. They're rather dated looking, and not really my taste anymore and they just take up room in the cabinet downstairs. I could donate them or sell them online and let someone who would like them more than I do have them. I could, and maybe I should . . . but I just can't get beyond packing them up in boxes and looking online for possible prices.
Why do I hesitate? Why do I find it so hard to give away or sell something that holds nothing for me anymore except lingering memories?
The answer to that question may lie in the reason I still have a tattered yellow teddy bear sitting on a bookcase in my bedroom.

The Convertible and the Saw

 Or "What Will Ann Be Talked into Doing Now?"

This event happened in 2005, shortly after I got my new (to me) car.

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The morning started out pleasantly, Tom was going to go up north and camp for a few days, but before he left he wanted to put a bid in on a saw.

He won the saw, and there the adventure begins.

Rather than wait till he got back from camping to get it, he decided there was time to drive to the Chicago area, get the saw, get home and then go up north.

Rather than unhitch the camper from the van - and to save 50 dollars in gas and tolls - he said we could take my car. My new (to me) convertible. His plan was to put the top down, put the base of the saw in the back seat and put the saw in the trunk. He said it would be fine. Said he’d measured the space and it would fit, no problem. Scoffed at my worries that it wouldn't fit - would wreck my seats - we wouldn't be able to get the top back up - it would rain.

We headed out, drove 2 and a half hours, pull up to the seller's house and see . . .

The saw base was bigger than he thought it would be.

After trying several ways to fit it into the car, which required removing a lot of stuff off the saw – and my back seat, he got it to fit . . . if we didn't put the top up.

It was a sunny day, so Tom said it would be fine. Said we could put on sunscreen and be home in a couple hours.

Seven miles north of the Wisconsin state line, it started to rain.  We sat under an overpass for about an hour before it cleared up and we started out again.

In the middle of Milwaukee, in heavy traffic, it started raining . . . heavily.  We found another overpass and sat . . . and sat . . . Tom tried to laugh. I didn't laugh.

After an hour and a half, a visit from the Sheriff, and the fear we'd be there all night, Tom decided to try to turn the saw base. After taking off some wheels, it fit and the top could be put up . . . if the seat we took out could sort of lay on top of the base and poke me in the back of the head. Sure, no problem.

45 minutes later - 45 minutes of hunching forward to avoid whatever metal thing was hitting me in the head, we got home.

It isn't raining here.

Tom has decided to go camping tomorrow.

I won't be going with him.

We're going out to eat tonight.