On my pillow this morning. First thing. And it's all because of these.
Who puts shoe forms in flip-flops anyway?
These are Reeboks. What my husband wears around the house.
Flip flop. Flip flop. Flip flop.
So irritating! And I think he could mass produce them and sell them in the clock department. As alarms. They wake me up every morning as he moves around the bedroom. And the forms?
His words. "I've got to put them somewhere."
Speaking of produce. What am I going to do with all these cucumbers?
I battled my way through a jungle yesterday to find these. I think there are more hiding in there. But after finding, picking, and carrying, I was exhausted. And sweating!
Which reminds me. Duane hurt my feelings because he didn't like my idea of Sweating With Duane as a title for a fitness blog.
He said, "Sandra . . . it sounds so . . . dirty. *shudder.*"
Sniff. I thought it had a certain ring to it.
And it reminded me of sweating with someone else in Boston. No Reno. I think. Whatever. Wherever. I've always loved Richard. Really. He's very funny. And kind. And I told him about a current stressor at the time, and he encouraged me not to eat my way through it.
Goodness. That's a Heart Truth T-shirt. It makes me look fat. Which reminds me. My chest hurt yesterday while mowing the lawn. I need to sweat more. Join me.
This is part of Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Blog Carnival. Check other links over at his place.
Monday: Melancholy day. Like every day after coming home from a visit with my sissy.
Tuesday. Bad day. Crybaby day. Foot-in-mouth disease day. We all have them. This video helped me. I posted it on Facebook. But for those of you who didn't see it, here it is again.
It made me laugh.
So I'm over it.
I'm also over piddle on public toilet seats.
And prebagged grapes. I always feel guilty taking half out. That whole bag would rot before we could eat it.
Same with bananas.
A produce man once yelled at me for breaking off three bananas from a bunch of ten, or maybe twenty.
I cried.
I thought I heard Gracee crying while I was in the shower yesterday. Sounded like the produce man had beaten her with a bunch of bananas. Turns out she is now a deluxe Webkinz member. She was screaming with excitement.
"How do you become a deluxe member?" I asked.
"You have to take good care of your animals."
I dunno. I looked it up. Looks like it costs money to me. I hope she didn't do a little online shopping. Like she did when she downloaded a couple game subscriptions to my phone.
Oh, and I'm over stray shopping carts. Can't people corral their own? I feel obligated to run around the parking lot to park them. So they don't do damage to my car. Or someone else's. Or one of the Amish buggies that might be parked there.
Speaking of which, did you hear about Levi Detweiler who led police on a chase and ultimately crashed his buggy?
I'll bet he got an earful from his parents.
Which reminds me. I also hate earwigs. AKA pincher bugs. Nasty little creatures. They make me cry.
I'll bet you didn't know there were male and female differences.
SQUIRREL!
Is this a male or a female?
Wednesday: Kind of a squirrely day.
Thursday: Definitely disturbed. As are others today.
Later at Hartwick Pines, I snap pictures of every sign and every display. A little research for my WIP. I linger in the bunkhouse and imagine my great-great-grandfather's decor over and on his bunk that undoubtedly included his hammered dulcimer wrapped in burlap at the foot. I stop to write down things like Sweet Dark Burly Tobacco, Woman's Heart Tobacco, Dr. Sages Catarrah Remedy, and Bradley-Metcalf (Makers of Good Shoes Since 1843.) I snap more pictures.
Me: "Does my taking so many pictures bug you?"
Him: "No. Not really. Well, sometimes, it gets old."
Old? Did he just call me OLD?
We walk the Old-Growth Trail, taking us back to a time when "White Pine Was King" and note the "last remnants of Michigan's virgin white pine forest" and gaze upon the "Monarch's" remains. The Monarch is the "most famous tree" in the park.
"Unfortunately, the Monarch lost its live crown in a wind storm in 1992 and died four years later. Before the storm, the Monarch stood 155 feet tall with a circumference of 12 feet. It was about 325 years old when it died. We don't know when the rest of the Monarch will come tumbling down. It could be today, next week or years from now."
We contemplate the fallen crown on the ground and raise our eyes to the remaining trunk.
The Monarch is/was old. And none of us know when we will come tumbling down, either. Even if we're not "old."
Later we stop in front of the house I grew up in. The one my dad built on to the front of our six-room motel. The "little house" is still there, too--four rooms and a screened porch--that housed five of us until my parents decided that I, as the oldest, needed my own personal space and moved me into one of the motel rooms.
We don't ask to walk down to "our" lakefront, but we drive around to the other side of the horseshoe (Horseshoe Lake), and I remember memories from long ago. And there, still, are the lily pads I loved, topped with the yellow blooms that always held bugs. I used to pick bouquets from the boat.
I hung out on the lake and in the woods alone when I was a kid. I made "fern forts," by stomping some ferns down flat leaving leafy walls, had little picnics. I take pictures of some of "my" ferns. They seemed a lot taller back then.
When I was young.
Younger.
We're "up north" this week to visit family and hang out at Alpenfest--the 46th year. I was the third queen in 1967. And yes, the family teases me about being an "old queen." I prefer the term, "past queen." My mom likes to say I'm the "queen who became a King." When I meet people in town, I love being told I don't look "that old."
Speaking of old, those high-speed hand dryers scare me. I envision them stealing my skin's elasticity leaving my hands looking like overstretched crepe paper that never returns to its original shape.
Sigh.
I leave you with a video of Dennis and me on longer trips. We may be old. But we can still have fun.
" . . . most of us try to write too carefully. We try to do it 'right.' We try to sound smart. We try, period. Writing goes much better when we don't work at it so much. When we give ourselves permission to just hang out on the page."
So I was sitting here, not working, not trying, just hanging out on the page, when Scruffy, who was curled up on the back of my chair, suddenly stiffened, and her pupils widened, and her tail twitched.
I looked out the window, and . . . SQUIRREL!
I mean. . . TURKEY!
Sidetracked, but just minutes before she (he?) strolled down the center of the road. Just hanging out. Taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells.
Probably a turkey writer.
Heading toward "a wavery magical spot"shimmering ahead.
I wonder what kinds of words a turkey writer uses. What does a turkey call a human? How would a turkey describe me as he peers from behind that tree? What stories does he tell his turkey friends? Does he talk turkey, get serious, pull out the white board and try to solve the problem of humans in their habitat?
Or does he just go with the flow? Forget himself while his feathers quiver with the wonder of "rich treasures, beautiful souls, and interesting" humans. Does he just put his little claw in the dirt and write what he hears?
"We can either 'think a plot up' or we can 'jot a plot down.' We can either 'think of something to write about' or we can write about what we happen to be thinking about."
"How much control are we willing to surrender for the sake of allowing creativity to move through us rather than our trying to flog it forward for agendas of our own?"
"Most of us are really willing only to write well, and this is why the act of writing strains us. We are asking it to do two jobs at once: to communicate to people and to simultaneously impress them. Is it any wonder that our prose buckles under the strain of doing this double task?"
Wait.
I've forgotten I'm supposed to be disturbed today. Maybe I am since I'm writing like this about turkeys.
Which brings up the question.
Did you know that three consecutive strikes in bowling is called a "turkey?"
Nobody really knows the origin of that, but here's a possible answer.
"There used to be sweepstake tournaments during the holidays, Christmas and Thanksgiving. If a person bowled three strikes against the heavier pins (usually four pounds), the crowd would scream 'turkey," and the bowler would receive a live turkey for his or her performance." (from Life's Imponderables by David Feldman.)
And now you know.
So go write something.
Just
start where you are.
And be sure to check out all today's other pleasantly disturbed posts over at
"I am a bad wife. I handed my husband a stack of TV dinners and said, "Choose one." That's what I posted on Facebook and Twitter pages yesterday. I love some of the responses.
Jody: Hey! I like the TV dinner idea! You were very thoughtful to provide . . . well, something! Susan: At least you didn't hand him a bunch of women and say, "Choose one." Duane: That's so wrong. I have only eaten one TV dinner in my life. Stephanie: Hey, if you're the one who put it in the microwave, it counts as cooking. Amy: You're my hero! Keiki: No worse than the rest of us, my friend. Chad: The fact that you did not throw them at his head makes you at least a semi-decent wife.
For the record, he choose a Lean Cuisine of "wild salmon, whole wheat orzo pasta, spinach &carrots in a basil sauce." And I did throw a bowl of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries at him. Can you picture that?
I had butternut squash ravioli. One of my favorites.
Then he (DH--Lainie, is DH okay?) went out and got me some DQ. He loves me.
How is it possible that Duane in all his almost 21 years has only eaten ONE TV dinner?
Speaking of Duane, I'm reminded of his beloved dog, Pokito, who has his own Facebook fan page but hasn't posted since the end of April when he tried to eat the gerbil. Or did the gerbil eat him?
And that makes me wonder how many robbers carry Bark Off?
I love birch trees. I remember how we used to peel the bark off to fashion and sew little canoes.
I love canoeing. I went white water rafting once down the Chattooga River, section 3 and part of section 4, with Wildwater Ltd in North Carolina. But that was in a raft, not a canoe. And I lived to tell about it. Barely.
We never owned a gerbil. But we had rabbits. Lots of rabbits. On purpose. Show rabbits. Pets. 4H.
Speaking of rabbits, here's a brave one.
Oh for that kind of courage! To tackle a writing project. To tackle life.
I decided to participate today in Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Blog Carnival today with some random thoughts of my own. Not that I ever experience randomness. I'm the queen of . . . SQUIRREL!
Now where was I? Oh, one thing about Duane. He does have a habit about sticking his foot in his mouth when it comes to old things. Like I don't remember exactly what he last said, but it had something to do with being old. I do remember calling him on it.
Which reminds me of the lady in our church who was asked what the best thing was about turning 107. She answered, "The total lack of peer pressure."
She was also once asked if she needed a ride to her 100th birthday party. She responded, "No, my son's taking me. But he IS 80, and he doesn't get around like he used to."
I read that women "my age" should use an eyelash curler. S'posed to open up our eyes. Should men "my age" use them, too? Would that let them doze off with their eyes open, and we gals would think they were really paying attention?
Startled by an elephant getting a bath as I drove past the fairgrounds. I guess there's a circus. What if the animals revolted and ran the show?
My dentist's torture assistant told me about her daughter who works for a soft serve ice cream place. She said she's only received one complaint--that the ice cream melted. Duh!
True confession: When I was a kid, I used to day dream about going to a Tigers baseball game. Bases loaded. Two outs. Down by 3 runs. Nobody available to bat. (I don't know why. Maybe they were all sick or injured.) The manager looked over the crowd, and his eyes locked with mine. I stepped up to the plate, hefted the bat, and whacked that ball out of the park.
Why are silos round? Because a rectangular silo develops air pockets that encourage spoilage. A cylindrical silo is also more likely to withstand a high wind. By the way, Franklin Hiram King developed the first one more than 100 years ago. No relation.
Speaking of kings . . .
I know how the grandfather clock got its name. Do you?
Also known as Sandy and even Snady--the result of a typo that stuck.
Bible teacher and inspirational writer. Former OR/PH/office nurse who keeps license intact--just in case.
Can You Breathe? Inspirational Contemporary Women's Fiction about one woman's search for simplicity.
The Putty Grampa Inspirational Historical Fiction based on my great-great grandfather who was a logger in the late 1800's.
The Putty Grampa's Son Inspirational Historical Fiction based on my great grandfather who played the hammered dulcimer for Henry Ford in the early 1900's.
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