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June 2006 Blog
Articles:
Enough to Make Him Turn Over in His Grave--6/7
Did You Ever Have to Look for Your Mind--6/11
Between a Rock and a Hard Place--6/14
Who, Who, Who Saves the Owls--6/18
Ode To My Desk--6/21
Life According to Zeus the Lapdog--6/25
Confession is Good for the Soul--6/28
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June 7,
2007
For
the next few weeks of blog entries, I’m pulling clichés from my book,
Murder in the Milk Case.
My main character’s mother is a platitude queen and uses them like she
uses air to breathe.
Tonight’s cliché is,
enough to make him turn over in his grave. Basically
it means something shocking that runs against the principles of the dead
person.
Here’s an excerpt from my book showing contemporary use:
“Well, that shows how much
you know.” She [my heroine’s mother] snorted. “As far as I’m concerned,
he should have waited forever. What in the world does a man his age want
with a woman thirty years his junior?”
Well, I could think of at
least one thing.
“And not only that, he let
her redecorate the house. I’m sure Estelle turned over in her grave.
It’s indecent. And now this. I tell you, what goes around comes around.”
I chewed on my fingernail as
I tried to figure out what had gone around and come back again. Then I
realized I was missing a valuable opportunity to gather clues.
My research shows that this cliché comes from a story called
Lost Sir Massingberd,
written by James Payn and published in the
Chambers's Journal
in 1864. Here’s the sentence from that book in which the phrase was
originally used: “This holiday-making and mixture of high and low here,
are themselves enough to make Sir Massingberd turn in his grave.”
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June 11,
2007
Subtitle: The Bunny Whisperer
Today’s essay has two titles. The first, as I’ve promised, is an oldies
song title that I butchered. Can anyone guess the real name of the song
and the group that performed it? Hint: this one is from the 60s.
And now on to my regularly scheduled blog entry.
Stress does strange things to a person. I can vouch for this personally.
The past several months have been extremely stressful. Nope, I won’t say
why, but I will tell you that I think it’s starting to affect my mind.
You might ask how stress could affect my mind since, as I mentioned in a
previous essay, I lost it quite some time ago and can’t find it. I must
politely request that no one ask me about that. Or anything else, for
that matter. Without my mind, I can’t think. That is stressful, too, so
maybe I’ll just go . . . .bunny whispering.
Bunny whispering, you ask? Remember the movie The Horse Whisperer? Where
Robert Redford played the guy who communicated with horses? Well, that
has little to do with this essay except that it’s where I got the
subtitle. And I already said don’t ask questions. Besides, I’m getting
to the point.
Eventually. . .
Anyway, I exercise regularly not only to improve my health, but also to
help maintain my sanity. That means I’ve been exercising a whole lot
lately. Specifically, jogging, which is something I only recently began
to do. There’s nothing like it to whittle down stubborn, middle age
spread. And I’ve always been highly impressed with other people who run.
I used to dream about being able to say,
Yes. Harrumph. Well. It’s time
to exercise. I have to go
running.
Like it’s a badge of honor or something. And now I can. In any case,
jogging is beneficial. I especially like dodging the cow patties on the
gravel road that goes through my folks’ pasture.
So, the other day, when I was finished, I walked through the gate,
sweating in an unfeminine manner (like the proverbial stuck pig), and
what should be sitting in my yard but a little baby bunny. Rabbits
aren’t my favorite wild creature. In case you wondered why, I’ll tell
you. Many wild rabbits carry a blood disease called tularemia, which can
be transferred to humans. For inquiring minds, that transfer usually
only happens when the animal is handled and the person touches the
animal’s bodily fluids. Like hunters skinning a rabbit with bare hands.
And almost as bad as that, dogs love to eat rabbit poop and then lick
their owner’s faces.
In addition, I’m a country girl, and that means that I don’t see wild
animals through the "gee
whiz, how cool is going back to nature" idealism that a city
person would. That’s as a result of having lived for years in the middle
of the woods in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia where deer ate all the
fruit off our trees, and the mangy rabbits and ground hogs ate anything
edible from wherever they could find it—like my vegetable garden. We
finally built a fence around the garden and buried the bottom in the
dirt so they couldn’t get in. The only creature that ever scaled that
fence was a bear—and that will be the subject of another blog entry.
But living where we do now, I no longer have a vegetable garden. I also
don’t have a dog that eats rabbit poop because I won’t let him. And I’ve
developed a tolerance for wild things that I didn’t have before.
So, back to my story. After I came through the gate, I saw this teeny
bunny. He jumped a few steps and tried to hide from me behind this Hosta
leaf. Not the brightest animal in the world, but he was definitely cute.
You need to understand that by nature I’m not a
warm fuzzies kind of
person. That’s important to know because when I started talking to this
baby bunny in baby talk, it was really weird. Especially since I was in
the yard, and anybody walking by would have thought I was talking to the
flowers. Which lately, come to think of it, is not out of the question.
As I talked, the most amazing thing happened. The bunny looked up at me
and twitched his ears. I moved closer until I was only foot from him,
and he didn’t move. I talked baby talk, and for five minutes, that
little guy sat there listening to me and watching me.
I’ve seen my little bunny almost every night since then. Usually when I
get back from running. He lives in my flower bed. Fortunately, I have
nothing in there that would be considered a gourmet salad for a rabbit,
so I don’t have to get mad at him.
I’ve considered naming him, but I don’t want to get attached. We have a
hawk that mans the skies above us, and I imagine a baby bunny is prime
meat for predators. I don’t want to cry over a rabbit. But now I’m
reconsidering. I think I might call him Harvey.
So, there you have it. The Bunny Whisperer. I just can’t believe that
I’m smitten. And I’m going to blame it all on stress. It can’t possibly
be because I’ve become softhearted in my middle age
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June 14,
2007
Once
again, here's my weekly platitude study, otherwise known as
Geraldine's Bromide Hit Parade
(named so after my grandmother).
First, an excerpt from my book,
Murder in the Milk Case (coming
out in January, 2007), that contains this platitude.
My heroine’s husband has hired a lawyer for her because she’s been
called into the sheriff’s office three times for questioning. The lawyer
is a portly man with a Harvard education who looks down on my heroine (a
self-declared redneck) as though she’s a grease spot on his tie. Now she
wants to talk to the detective investigating the murder, but she’s in a
quandary.
Did I dare call the
detective without first contacting my cultured counsel? I was, as my
mother would say, between a rock and a hard place. Help Detective Scott
or obey my husband.
The meaning of this cliché is apparent--to be in a difficult situation
with no seeming way out. What is interesting is the history. The first
time this appeared was in something called,
Dialogue Notes in
1921. That said, “to be bankrupt. Common in Arizona in recent panics;
sporadic in California.”
Now this platitude has become commonplace.
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June 18,
2007
My
daughter, Elizabeth, has always been a hard worker. Employers love her.
Even the Navy loves her. But this story is before Navy and before
marriage, when she was still at home. We lived in the Shenandoah Valley
in Virginia, nestled between mountain ranges. This particular summer,
she was working full-time at a nursing home to help pay for college. She
got up every morning at
o-dark-thirty to drive over the mountain to get to work.
I have an opinion about getting up really early (meaning before the
sun). I think the lack of light affects a person’s ability to be
coherent. And that would explain why Elizabeth’s brain wasn’t up to its
usual capacity. In other words, she wasn’t thinking clearly.
Well, this particular morning, Elizabeth had already left the house when
the phone rang at thirty
minutes past o-dark-thirty. Brad and I weren’t thinking
clearly, either. The voice shrilling through the receiver was that of
the owner of the nursing home where Elizabeth worked. She said that an
owl had crashed into Elizabeth’s car, busted the windshield, and she was
all torn up.
I probably don’t have to tell you that I immediately thought the worst.
I was imagining my daughter’s face ripped to shreds by owl claws and
flying glass, her teeth falling out of her mouth, and the car wrecked
beyond repair. What I didn’t stop to wonder was why no one had called an
ambulance if it were really that bad. However, I can’t be blamed for my
lack of coherency. The sun wasn’t up. Besides, who can think when they
get a call like that?
Brad and I react to emergencies in different ways. I slow down. Time
feels like it stops, and I can see each step I’m taking. I deliberately
don’t rush because I don’t want to make things worse by reacting like a
bat out of you-know-where. In other words, I annoy Brad because
apparently the slow motion isn’t just in my mind. I move that way. But
he annoys me, too. I think he acts crazy, careening around so fast he
falls over things (but then again, he always falls over things). So,
between our extreme opposite reactions and the fact that we were both
scared to death, the drive over the mountain was not pleasant.
“You’re driving too fast,” I said when we were halfway up the mountain.
“How can you say that?” he snarled. “Our daughter is hurt.”
“Well, you are driving too fast,” I said superiorly, nose in the air. “I
mean, what if we’re stopped by the cops? Then you’ll just get mad, say
something stupid, and probably get arrested. Then what? You think
they’ll let me drive away and leave you on the side of the road?”
He ignored me. “You should be more concerned for your daughter.”
“Yes, but cops don’t care about someone bleeding to death if that person
isn’t in the car spewing blood all over. They hear excuses like that all
the time.”
He snorted. “You should be more concerned for your daughter.”
“Well, it’s not going to help her if we’re in jail or wrecked somewhere
on top of this mountain.”
And so the conversation degraded until we got to the nursing home where
we pulled into the parking lot like we were pulling into a pit stop at
the Indy 500.
The first thing we saw was her car. In one piece. Windshield intact. No
dents. No scratches. I was confused.
We ran into the building to be greeted by the hysterical nursing home
owner. “Elizabeth’s in there,” she said breathlessly, pointing to the
bathroom.
This was a job for a mother. I left Brad frustrated out front, and I
charged into the bathroom where I found Elizabeth there with her arms
crossed over the front of her. Now I was really confused. She had her
face and her teeth. And I couldn’t see any blood.
“Mom, don’t laugh,” she said.
From that comment, you’ll understand that I’m telling the truth when I
say I laugh a lot. But at that moment, I wasn’t quite ready yet to crack
a grin.
“Are you okay?” I was intently studying her face.
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you bleeding?”
“Not much, just a little in my chest.”
After a quick exam, I saw she was telling the truth. “SO, WHAT
HAPPENED?” I asked.
“Mom, you promise you won’t laugh?”
“No,” I said. That was like asking me to promise not to breathe
She acknowledged the inevitable and began to talk. “Well, I hit an owl
and it rolled to the side of the road, so I stopped to see if it was
dead. It was soooo still. I picked it up and took it to the car and sat
inside with it. I was really upset because I thought I killed it. Then
it opened its eyes and the first thing it did was grab me in the chest
with its claws.
I started to smile.
“It’s not funny, Mom. It hurt.”
“Yes, I imagine it did.”
She started to smile, too. “Well, it wouldn’t let go. I didn’t know what
to do, so I started to sing to it. I was trying to make it relax so it
would let go. Then it finally flew away, but it left holes.”
I think it was the picture of Elizabeth sitting in the front seat of a
car with an owl hanging onto her body for dear life, and then her
SINGING to it that pushed me over the edge. I laughed hard. My daughter
the owl humanitarian.
Brad wasn’t so easily amused, however. Daddy’s little girl and all. I
think his comments were along the line of, what were you thinking !?! It
isn’t really funny!?! You could have been hurt!?! You have to go to the
doctor!?!
So, that was Elizabeth’s reward for her humanitarian efforts. Explaining
to the doctor how she got owl claw holes in her chest. Taking an
antibiotic just in case. And, for the rest of her life, being reminded
of this incident from none other than yours truly—who loves to laugh.
And whenever I find a good picture of an owl, guess what I do with it?
Email is really, really fun.
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June 21,
2006
In
lieu of an article about a cliché, I’ve decided to post a poem. . .About
my desk.
YOUR DESK?!? You exclaim. Why in the world would ANYONE write a poem
about their desk?
Well, frankly, anything I spend ten hours or more of my time with daily
deserves a poem. I truly love my office and my desk. (SEE THE PICTURE IN
MY
PEANUT GALLERY.) It's an enclosed sleeping porch off the master
bedroom of our old farmhouse. When I walk into my office in the morning,
I feel happy. Besides, my husband spent several hours installing the
Formica topper of which my desk is made. That alone deserves accolades.
But before I post my poem, I must digress, as usual. Recently, I was
told that my attempts at poetry would make Hallmark jealous. Keep in
mind that the person who made that suggestion has been the beneficiary
of several of my stupefying poetic efforts Given that he is as facetious
as I am, I probably shouldn't take the Hallmark comment seriously.
However, I will proceed as though it was meant in all earnestness,
despite my grave doubts. Any opportunity to share my writing, no matter
how pathetic the endeavor, is good.
So, without further hesitation, I’ll share a poem. Yes, it’s bad, but at
least it rhymes. And please be sure to come back for my regularly
scheduled, twice a week blog entries. After you read this attempt at
poetry, I know you’ll just be chomping at the bit to see what other
magnificent pieces of literary genius I can come up with.
Ode to My Desk
Each morning after breakfast,
I go upstairs to work.
I take a cup of coffee,
And that is where I lurk.
All day I sit and ponder
The words upon my screen.
And try to meet my deadlines
While keeping my routine.
My parrot sits there with me,
Making lots of noise.
He shreds up bits of paper
And plays with all his toys.
My desk is in an L-shape.
I like it very much.
It helps to keep me working
And organized and such.
I am so very grateful
I have this place to write.
A place like this to hold my stuff
Just fills me with delight.
Without my little office,
I don’t know what I’d do.
And now I’m finished writing
I’ll bid you all adieu.
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June 25,
2006
I
haven’t had time to search for an oldies song to title this blog entry.
For anyone who wondered where last week’s title,
Who, Who, Who Saves the Owls
came from, it was Who Let the Dogs Out by the Baha Men. Also, please
note that my daughter, who was the main topic of that post, made a
comment.
Now, on to Zeus. . .
For those of you who are not familiar with Zeus, check out his picture
on my biography page and in my peanut gallery. Zeus belongs to
Elizabeth, our daughter. She is in the Navy. Thus, we have had custody
of the dog as long, if not longer than she has. One might ask why
someone in the Navy would get a dog. One would be told
because he was adorable, I had
to have him, and I knew you and Dad would take care of him for me.
(One could also say, there’s a sucker born everyday, and I am one.)
I’m pleased to report that come September, Elizabeth will be out of the
Navy, and the dog is going home with her. Meanwhile, we have several
more months in which to deal with the dog that even Elizabeth says is
dumb. We all speculate that perhaps he was dropped on his head when he
was born. Or maybe it’s just genetic. Whatever happened, he’s not the
brightest bulb in the package. And, as far as I’m concerned, cute only
goes so far, then I begin to wish for something really, really ugly that
at least has brains.
So with that explanation, you’ll understand Life According to Zeus. (And
come back next week for Life According to Winston the African Gray.)
Life According to Zeus:
● I am happy.
● The world is my friend.
● Life begins anew every second.
● A simple pat on the head or a kind word equals happiness.
● I love attention.
● Chasing a butterfly or a bird or a bunny is worth the cost of getting
in trouble for not coming when called.
● I only pay attention to what I want to pay attention to.
● Doggy Selective Deafness (D.S.D.) is a real malady--really.
● I love attention.
● My only concern in life is getting fed. I’m ever hopeful. Even if I’ve
checked the floor for food droppings just a second ago, I’ll do it again
because you never know when a miracle will happen and something will
drop from heaven like manna.
● Everything on the floor and in the trash cans that I can reach is
mine. Bird toys, tissue, icky things--- even the cap to your flash
drive. But I’ll share with you, especially if you’re nice to me and pet
me and give me something to eat.
● I love attention.
● I didn’t leave that pile of poop on the floor. Look at me. Could
something so cute do something like that?
● Only a few things in life are bad news. A bath is tragic. Grooming is
tragic. Taking heartworm medicine is tragic.
● I love attention.
● I’m predictable: Feed me, I’m happy. Pet me, I’m happy. Look at me,
I’m happy. Talk to me, I’m happy. Did I mention that I’m happy?
Lessons Learned:
The world is not always your friend.
Don’t be indiscriminate with your affection.
Being distracted is not a good thing.
PAY ATTENTION!
Food isn’t everything—it just seems that way.
Poop might happen, but it should happen in the proper place.
The saying one man’s trash is another man’s treasure should not be taken
literally.
It's nice to be happy about the simplicities of life (as long as you
don't act simple).
Bathing and grooming are important.
Being too demanding of people’s time and attention is really annoying.
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June 28, 2006
Tonight I’m going to use another excerpt from my book,
Murder in the Milk Case,
to illustrate a cliché. In this scene, my heroine, Trish, has
finally confessed the truth (details of which I will not tell you—you
have to read the book) to the detective in charge of a murder
investigation.
Confession is good
for the soul
is a platitude that my mother used when I was young to make me tell her
all the things I’d done wrong. It lost its meaning early in my life
because I realized that she would use my confessions against me at some
point in the future. However, in the case of me and Detective Scott, the
saying held true to a point. After spilling my guts to him, I felt a
small sense of relief. Maybe that was simply because I no longer feared
that deputies would show up at my door to arrest me. At least not right
now. I was sure I was still on the suspect list, but telling the truth
goes a long way.
To further illustrate this cliché, I’m going to use it myself and
confess that I’ve taken no time at all to work on an entry for tonight’s
blog. My sister has been visiting from out of town, and we’ve been
spending as much time together as possible. Of course, if I’d planned
ahead, I could have had something ready. But, I confess, I did not do
that.
The meaning of this platitude is so obvious, I don’t even need to do any
explaining. Nor will I search for any history.
Please come back on Sunday for my next entry. That one is already
written and ready to go. And I promise that, unlike this entry, that one
took longer than five minutes to put together.
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