I have two children who cannot imagine the world I lived in. When it comes to “Black History Month,” I have to tell it from a pasty white lady’s point of view. So, any offence I may be guilty of during this post is through ignorance, not effort.

February is “Black History Month,” a time to commemorate African-Americans who have changed the world.
Celebrating Black History began in 1926, when Dr. Carter G. Woodson, a Harvard Ph.D., initiated “Negro History Week.” Dr. Woodson, a historian, chose the second week in February because it included the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln.. In 1976, the Bicentennial (200th birthday) of the U.S.A., the week-long observance was extended to the entire month of February in order to have enough time for celebratory programs and activities. (Lifted from Enchanted Learning.)

I was a child during the civil rights movement. I remember an adult in my life saying that ‘colored people step off the sidewalk and into the street when a white person passes.’ I remember the minister of the First Methodist Church asking parishioners if a negro family could attend services. Since we didn’t go out much, I never actually saw the water fountains and segregated lunch counters.

By the time I began Junior High School, we could boast of having some color in our classrooms.

I prefer to use the term black but also have to admit that for the most part, I am color-blind. I really don’t notice skin color, unless a person is black, black and I mean no offense by this comment, I truly like the beauty of very dark skin.

My children can comprehend slavery, but the idea of people using separate bathrooms and stepping off for white folks is a bit beyond their imaginations. I hope they never have to witness such behavior.

I have trouble with the change to African American because, like most of us pasty white women, I think more richly complexioned people have solid roots in America for many generations. I don’t describe myself as European, with family from Ireland and Wales who came over in the 1800s and mixed with some Native Americans.

I am Human First and am known to check the box called other as I write in the word Human in the Race Category. I wish we could all be human but History cannot and should not be ignored.

So, like I said at the start, if I said anything that that might be ignorant, then it probably is ignorant. I wish everyone a great African American History Month and in June I’ll post about the History of Americans with Disabilities and the Act of 1990, another civil rights act. Oh, be certain I’ll tackle Hate Crimes and Gay Rights in the future, too.

Be well, everyone and comments are welcome if you keep them kind.

A friend told me that if all I do is complain, people are going to avoid me. She was a wise friend.

 I have a bone disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, OI, and it is a very quirky disorder. Those of us effected by OI have very unreliable bodies.

 The following description has been lifted from the OI Foundation’s website.

 On Saturday, the van was warming, we all had our shoes on, the dog was dressed and I flung my purse over my left shoulder. The simple action turned my humerus in a strange way and my shoulder popped out of place.

With OI, these things happen randomly and unless a bone is poking out, we tend to complete our plans.

Having a shoulder out is very inconvenient, a set back. I takes a week or maybe two before it is healed. I complain about these things. They are so random and so stupidly caused that I can’t help but allow myself time to feel both anger and disappointment over the injury. I’ll announce the injury and when I feel sufficiently validated, I adjust my activity level and go on with life.

Yesterday, predawn, I shifted in bed, a common area for injury usually related to pushing a blanket away. I swore, settled back in to finish my slumber, knowing I had just popped my right shoulder.

I announced this injury as well, making sure people around me knew how unfair I think it is to have both shoulders out at the same time.

I use hand controls and I cannot drive, I cannot climb and I cannot hitch my pants up without a lot of maneuvering and thought. So, I am bummed.

 While this post looks like a complaint and no one wants to hang around a complainer, I consider it a momentary self indulging plea for validation.

 When I say both shoulders are out, now, I want a knowing nod, something that conveys, belief. This is an unbelievable disease.

 After some self indulgence, I can go on to the brighter side.

 At least it isn’t an all out fracture. At least I have an activity level that can be adjusted. Thank goodness I have clothes to fight with. And I am thankful that my family gets it.

 So, now, I am going to get off my pity pot, pull up my pants the best I can and get on with life.

 Thank you all for visiting and indulging me. Comments are welcome. Come back in a few days.

Privacy?

I heard somewhere that if we leave our homes, we can expect to be caught on security tape at least seven times.

Nearly every person with a cell phone has the ability to capture our images in all settings.

The internet makes it possible for our images to be circulated world wide.

There can be no expectation of privacy.

News organizations take full advantage of this free for all as they encourage everyone with a cell phone to upload the news as it happens.

The potential for abuse far outweighs the advantage of having instant access to digital documentation. Ask any person in rehab who claims a sexual addiction problem. Take a look in your spam folder. Child exploitation and pornography are available to anyone claiming to be eighteen years old. Blackmail and old fashioned bullery are more examples.

I seldom use my cell phone camera, I prefer my digital cameras and have on at least one occasion, upset the management of an office supply chain store. My targets are not people, I prefer angles, lighting, interestingly chaotic displays, wildlife, scenery and family members.

I am a people watcher. I watch them unfolding from cars, gossiping in bookstores, and mothers unraveling while the children take over the shopping trip. I watch. I listen, too. Sometimes, I pull out a notebook but the camera stays put.

I collect snippets oconversation, moodswings, nervous laughter and surprise. I notice settings, scenes, context and how it enhances or distracts from the human situation. The setting seldom reflects the topic.

Rear Window is one of my favorite movies. The character, a photographer, played by Jimmy Stewart does not photograph the lives framed by neighborhood windows. He watches, listens, imprisoned in a plaster cast and oppressive heat and from isolation becomes intimately involved in his neighbors’ lives.

I prefer simple observation and reflection to documenting my life through the viewing square on my cell phone. I don’t have to remain true to the experience if I commit the images to my notebook and my memory. In the recalling and retelling I can Tell it Big.

Is it a bad thing to admit to eaves dropping? Is it eavesdropping at all when there can be no expectation of privacy? Is my act of observation as much a crime as using a cell phone to capture images? Where is the line? How do we know we have crossed it?

Cell-Phonery-Peeping -Tommery is a lazy way of eaves dropping. While a picture paints a thousand words, my collection of conversations, scenes, and situations can recombine in a thousand ways to form thousands of images, each different from the next.

Live life with all your senses. See it in context unencumbered by an LCD screen. Smell it. Hear it. Feel it physically and emotionally. Make notes. Mull life over and recast the characters, change up the scenery, give it a back story and imagine the mother spanking that child or buying his silence one aisle away.

Feel free to post an observation of your own. Change the names and don’t post anything harmful. Thanks for visiting and check back soon.

I use television as a distraction, a sort of ambient noise and I confess to wondering if I could keep my sanity if the world should become like Stephen King’s, Stand.

I’ve been watching the Young and the Restless since I was in High School. In college, many of us chose our courses around this soap and gathered in the Women’s Lounge for a daily fix.

Television has changed during my lifetime. I remember when a tv was furniture. We had to cross the room to change the volume and the channel. If we did change the channel, we had to adjust the fine tuning and sometimes go outside to give the antenna a turn. Rabbit Ears, coat hangers and tin foil made our living rooms look like a mad scientist’s laboratory. I also remember the horizontal and vertical hold knobs and how a good slap on the side could help settle things down.

It is a wonder this gadget caught on. People who remember shoe store x-ray machines also remember the tube booths. If your television was behaving badly, you could open the back, remove a tube, stick a number on the tube and the place it belonged. Then you would take the paper bag of tubes into the tube testing booth. If a tube was blown you could buy a new one, then go home and put your television back together.

This is something my Aunt and Uncle did not do. They opted to call in a television repairman, who made a Saturday house call. It was early morning on the 13th of October. My Mom had called the doctor and he insisted she couldn’t be having a baby because it was not her due date.

My Mom, Dad and brother showed up while the repair man was working. By now, everyone but the doctor was convinced of my impending arrival.

The tv repairman, having several children of his own, is credited with my delivery as he poked his head into the room and proclaimed, “Yes, that’s a baby, you should get that stuff off it.”

I was born in a caul, probably not a pretty sight. The doctor made a house call of his own and seconded the announcement of my birth and went on to panic about the germs that were all over me and the house, he rushed me to the kitchen and found nothing but dirty dishes. I am thankful my family did not put the infamous water on to boil or I might have been a poached baby.

Well, I see, my mind has wondered and not in a straight line, either. I haven’t mentioned the advent of cable, solid state and remote control and how they have changed our lives. I’ll save that for a future topic.

The way I use television hit a turning point on 911. Advertizing took a back seat to traumatic events on the 11th of September. Since then, I turn on the tv every morning and if I see a commercial I know that all is right with the world.

G-man says, "GoWee."

My daughter and grandson dropped in for a visit, today. G-man, loves to play with his Uncle Da, the way any rough and tumble two year old likes a rough and tumble teen-aged Uncle.

 
The G-man climbed up into the computer chair and sat like a very small Buda.  He said, “GoWee.”

 
Being attentive mom, granny and uncle, we all swoop in. “Go Pee? You gotta go Pee?”

 
Momma lifts the little guy off the chair and points him towards the bathroom. G-man says, “GoWee.”

 
He climbs back up in the chair and repeats, “Go       Wee.”

 
Wee, is the sound we make when uncles terrify us by sitting us in the computer chair and giving us a spin. I wonder how any of us survived childhood without an interpreter.

 
They have gone home, now. They left us a memory that is priceless.

 
Keep coming back. There is always something for me to tell and I will always try to tell it big.

Distraction

I am following a pattern to make a crocheted item called Posh Pineapple. The caption on the photo representation says, “Challenge yourself with this ornate masterpiece featuring richly textured stitches.” The materials involve a hook that measures 1.65 mm and 195 yards of size 10 thread.

The description and materials indicated the potential for complication. Working from a pattern is like installing computer programs. You have to trust the instructions and you have to obey. I have done nine rows and ripped out three. Each row wrapped back onto the spool is probably 30-45 minutes of work.

The instructions I most recently failed to follow in round nine include stars and parentheses. A snippet includes; *(2 dc, ch 2) twice in next ch 2 sp, sc in next ch 3 sp, dc in next dc, (dc in next ch 1 sp and in next dc) 4 times, sc in next ch 3 sp, ch 2; repeat from *. In Round Ten I discovered I had misread the part in ( ) and now I am back to round nine.

I suppose you are wondering what possesses me to do such an activity. Well, I can watch classic movies while I work a round. I have something very interesting when I tie it off and block it. I like the challenge and there is no way a worrisome thought about paying bills, chaos in Haiti or the Health Care Reform Package can gain footing in a mind distracted by; *(2 dc, ch 2) twice in next ch 2 sp, sc in next ch 3 sp, dc in next dc, (dc in next ch 1 sp and in next dc) 4 times, sc in next ch 3 sp, ch 2; repeat from *.

If you cannot bring yourself to sit stock still with a tiny hook and thread, taking pictures around town, slapping gesso on a canvas or writing some flash fiction should work very well, unless you are taking photos of grieving Haitian families, painting the end of the world or writing a tragedy. Except for the trip to Haiti, these activities are on my list of things to do during the next few days. You might be able to sell that photo, the painting or a bit of flash fiction and put the money toward that bill. If your bills are paid up, then you can buy more photo paper, canvases or a faster word processor.

Thanks for checking in, by mid-week I hope to have something awesomely thoughtful or creative to say, till then, what do you do when you need a distraction? Please, leave a comment.

I was in the passenger seat of a car. An old car. I don’t remember who was driving or where we were going. Someone, somewhere outside of the car, shot me seven times. I did not feel the bullets punching into my chest at an arcing angle. I did not resist. I simply died. It was a split second. I was in the car and then I wasn’t. I was as unaware as a dining room chair.

 
I drive cars I cannot control. I was in a smart car that told me in a disarming computerized voice, “You are having a collision.” I don’t know why I drive these cars with random events. It is much like a driver’s education lesson, where suddenly, the brakes fail, the accelerator sticks or the steering wheel falls off.

 
My teeth have turned cold and fallen out.

 
I am at the end of a semester and discover I have forgotten to attend a class I signed up and paid for. Even worse, I have gone through college and discovered I need to repeat high school because I never got a diploma.

 
I am enjoying a cigarette when it dawns on me that I quit the addiction years ago.

 
I have a child that I totally forget I’ve given birth to.

 
Once, my husband set us all up for a family photo and slit our throats. Recently, he was dressed as a Scotsman in a Duster cloak. I asked if he had a dagger in his sock and he turned his back, flipped up a ruffle on the coat and showed me his sword.

 
George Lightcap, you know who you are, showed up at my dorm door with a pocket watch and advised me that time was running out.

 
These are all potential stories. They are the stuff that dreams are made of. I am posting them at great risk of being gathered up in a butterfly net by bulky men in white coats.

 
Mostly, I am posting them because Audrey Shaffer who moderates the Writer’s Chat Room, brought it up as a topic for open discussion in the online chat room.

 
She asked if chatters used their dreams in writing. I have to say that the ones that do not evaporate before my first coffee refill are fair game for writing. I do let my characters have dreams and use them for discovery. I used a dream of a body in a wall to begin a novel, but, by the time it got to the computer it had changed into a freeze dried teen-ager stuffed behind a Ten Commandments Monument.

 
Reflecting on this topic, I have to admit, the dreams I do write about, stop coming back. I suppose this post is heavy with potential and morphology.

 
Thanks for returning to watch my mind at work and play. Till next time, dream it big.

Since I began using my new camera, the deer have been hiding. I blew my cover by announcing the new zoom lens could run right up their butts. Deer do not volunteer for colonoscopies.

 
Our President has his hands full with the undi-bomber’s failed attempt at mass murder over Detroit. He seems to be appropriately angry and making changes. I’m willing to let him do his job, however, I would rather have a pat down. Only two people experience the pat down, me and my ‘pat downer.’ A 360 view of my altogethers, however, can potentially be enjoyed by countless people, none of them interested in my face.

 
Kate Gosselin has bought some hair extensions and for some reason, this has become a child neglect issue. I am glad to see her depart from the Adam Lambert look. How can any child be neglected with the whole tabloid world up in their faces?

 
I finished reading, A Savage Wisdom, by Norman German and am thanking him, here, for entertaining me. Seeing manipulation and layering of lies through the main character’s mind was an unexpected experience. There was no justice at all in the electrocution of Toni Jo.

 
Many of you know I am a homeschooling mom. I am learning as much as my student. At this stage in my face spackled life, I never imagined contemplating the mathematical properties of a ‘point.’ A point has no dimension. It has no up, no down, no width, no depth, no in front and no behind. It simply, is. So, when I look back over this blog post and consider the point, I have no excuses to make.

 
It is.

 
Thank you for visiting again, leave a comment, a suggestion, a question. It doesn’t have to have a point, it just simply has to be. See you next post.

I was 36 years old, I left the post office and climbed into my car. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bright sunlight reflected in my car’s rearview mirror.

 
“What is that? A white hair? Way cool, now I know I’m not going to become blue haired or iron grey.” I put the car in drive and went home.

 
This was only the beginning. Having a white hair or two, I convinced myself was a badge of courage, a parenting job well done, and an exciting life.

 
One day, the rearview mirror showed me some lines around my eyes. Okay, I thought, with less enthusiasm, laugh lines are okay. A sort of denial clouded the mirror and I began using it as intended, to see what is behind me as I drive from point A to B and C and back again in a never ending loop between here and there.

 
A little hair color, some moisturizer and a positive mental attitude, would stave off the effects of time.

 
Then, one day, I heard about telomeres. They are like cotton balls at the end of our DNA strands that make cell division go right. Every time a cell is replaced, these telomeres are a tiny bit smaller, more ragged and imperfect. A copy of a copy of a copy, squared. This is as unacceptable as having bar tenders forget to card me. I suppose that is why I don’t drink.

 
Never fear. A few years back and many grey hairs after that first one showed itself outside the post office, I heard about this stuff that minimizes fine lines and wrinkles. I mean laugh lines, of course. And, I bought some.

 
The tiny and expensive tube instructed me to apply it to the nooks and crannies for the next six weeks and I would see a younger looking me. Every time I rubbed my face, these little dirty beads of calking came off of my dents and grooves.

 
Next, came the firming and filling lotions that are meant to be applied under the make-up. A primer, or an all over spackle. It firms and fills and takes years off a face. Look close and the fine print says results are not typical. I think that is a nice way of telling me, if it makes you feel better, use it.

 
If I had money, I could buy some technical intervention. I can actually pay someone to chemically burn the top layers of my skin away. I can get fillers or spackle injected inside my skin so it doesn’t roll up into little balls of dirt when I touch my face. There are brow lifts, complete with little nails up under my scalp to hold the lift in place. I can have my butt fat moved up to my face. It all sounds so intrusive.

 
I watch the commercials about age defying lotions, potions and make-up and resent the companies. I want to see a woman who has some age. I want to see a woman who hasn’t been in the professional make-up room for hours. I want to see a woman under regular lighting. I want the woman who applies the sparkly cartoon glimmers to be as real as I am. To qualify for a job advertizing these products I think the woman ought to have some divets and creases to fill in. I also wish toothpaste ads would show a person using toothpaste instead of a naked brush and computer generated brightness, but that is another topic for another post.

 
I stand in the make-up aisles and walk from end to end, looking for the miracle cure. Where is the jar of stuff that will make a mature, pasty white woman, living in Montana, look as good as her high school graduation photo? Suddenly, I recall, the photo, like all senior photos before and after, was retouched. Even that representation of youth was not real.

 
Okay, I admit it, I am losing the battle. Why not wear it with dignity? Why not have a good laugh when a child asks, “Why is she so little?” And the reply from his friend is, “It’s because she is so old.” Honestly? Dignity sucks. I do not want to look my age. I do not want to look washed out and hung out too long. I don’t want to watch the thirty year old model applying spackle and primer to her technically enhanced face while she sells me snake oil. But, I don’t want to give in either.

 
So, it is back to the stupid thing that caused this problem to begin with. Broad daylight and my rearview mirror. I think I will avoid both. Did you know, I am 25 years old? Frozen in time but not experience, until, of course, I pass a mirror.

 
Thanks for dropping by and return next time when I take on a new topic. What will it be?

There are three things I remember about 2009.

 
• President Obama’s Swearing in Ceremony.
• The H1N1 Flu.
• Michael Jackson’s Tragic Death.

 
Mine is a home-school family. After the primary election in 2008, we made a paper chain that had a marker chain for election day. The chain continued through the new year and concluded on inauguration day. On Tuesday, January 20th, Barack Obama became the 44th President of the United States. We studied and reviewed the Oath of Office and when the words didn’t match those we studied, a sort of geekiness settled on my son and me. To make it even more dramatic, Ted Kennedy collapsed during the luncheon. Hope and Change was in the air so real we could almost reach out to check for hard edges and weight.

  
The H1N1 Flu, a serial killer no one could see or contain, reached around the world. I wish I had thought to buy some stock in the manufacturers of hand sanitizer. I keep a pump bottle in my car to use before I go into stores and the gym and my home. I use it after I leave those same places. My personal mantra; “Open a car door – Use the Sanitizer – Close a Car Door – Use the Sanitizer.”

 
On a weekday in the summer of 2009, I let myself into the gym. I tied Havan, my CCI Service Dog, off near the cardio deck and began my turn at the treadmill. Being a compulsive reader, I hit the start button and began reading the closed captions on the television. It was then that I knew the King of Pop was not going to age into obscurity. Later, the networks made sure the video of Michael Jackson, on a stretcher with tubing in his nose stuck, in my memory. I resent our modern media.

 
Other things happened during the year, but if pressed to answer quickly, these are the first three that come to mind. Was it a good year? It was not a bad year. If I could go back, would I change anything? I suppose it is out of my pay grade to change the things I listed, so I have to say no.

 
On a local scale, there was a terrible explosion and fire in Downtown Bozeman. The City made national news with what we refer to as “Password-Gate.” And the Teamsters Union Members, after six months without a contract, blinked in the harsh reality of a recession and continued to appear at work as usual.

  
What an exciting year. Thank you for making it better by reading these posts and being my audience. I hope I did not disappoint you. Please, let me honor you in 2010 by my word offerings, amusing stories, nitwittery, serious subjects and occasional photographs.