About that 650 lb Bear...

Today during our weekly breakfast at the local country store, we heard again about the BIG BEAR. Seems R and I are the only ones who've not seen him, although his footprints and the denuded barks of trees on the property tell us he's visited.

H mentioned that the dumpster in back of the store is 14 feet high, and he watched as BB put his arms on top, raised his left foot and hefted himself onto the top, mashing the dumster to the size of a crushed car. Then he went next door to the restaurant and did the same thing.

Another patron,D said at a cookout at his brother's house someone made the remark, "Now that the steaks are on the grill, wouldn't it be something if BB came into the yard?" Some few minutes later he did, heading, not to the grill, but to the huge apple tree in the corner of the yard. He reached to the top of his height, pulled off some apples and ate a few. Then he sauntered across the yard to the surprise of the guests, and disappeared.

D, a local whose been around bears all his life, assured us that this guy isn't going to bother anyone, so to watch and go on with our business. I'm afraid I would be frozen with fear to go on with any business.

...But the Memories Linger On

I've attended two concerts at the new BethelWoods in NY. The beautiful site is easy to maneuver by car and foot. Beautifully landscapted lawns make enjoying the concerts from either an indoor seat or on the lawn.

"Hippifest" was so much fun. Some of the presenters included names I've never heard of:The Turtles, the Rascals, Mountain Zombies, Badfinger, to name a few. Only two songs did I recognize and now can't remember them, so you know I have been out of the loop as far as rock bands are concerned. However, I felt good being at an historical event, seeing the original hippies of earlier times now in their 50's and 60's singing along while revisiting memories. Everyone, including original band members were reliving a bang-up time.

The lawn was no longer a muddy slush, but a green carpet stretching to everywhere. Plantings were minimal and the buildings were architecturally fitting. The amphitheatre in which we were seated followed the contours of the lawn that once held bodies packed like sardines.

A wonderful experience.

The following weekend we attended the performance of the Boston Pops playing music from oscar nominated movies and tony awarded television musicals. My date R declared that the Pops' selections were almost too tame after the rock 'n' roll music--this coming from a guy whose music listening extends no longer than 10 minutes.

Now we are preparing to hear "Earth, Wind, and Fire." What they play I have no idea; I just remember our kids having their albums. Maybe I'm more interested in sitting on the lawn while enjoyable music drifts by...

Note: Check out for a glimpse of past shows. First-rate for so little fee.

Acclimation Easy, But....

We are now back in the Catskills where the rain that fell in Mississippi has followed us here. Not fun to be cooped up in two 12'x12' buildings with two crossword puzzle books and fighting the humid air. But, that's not as bad as not being to communicate.

If I'd never known of computers and cell phones, I think I'd have been better off. I have to go 5 miles to be within a cell tower, which is ok, but my new wireless connection just didn't get me the help for my computer that I'd expected. That has been so frustrating, since I have a small business that depends on orders via emails.I now have found by hiking up the hill behind our cabin I can get just the right height to get a cell phone connection. But the hike isn't easy. Should I complain???

But let's look on the cheery side, mate. I love it here. Right now there are few animals or fowl roaming around, no bird sounds, only the scrubbing sound of a limb above our cabins. Makes us remember we're in the woods.

Neighbors say to look out for the 650 lb bear wandering on our property. You betcha! We are armed with whistles and a tin pan and spoon which we "play" as we wander. Now how can I ever find such excitement in the city?

Time to Eat Our Bounty and Leave

Within 48 hours we should be leaving Mississippi, our Madison home that has just been named one of the top 10 little towns in America (by Family Circle Magazine), to finish out the summer in the lower Catskills. I'm ready. No regrets about leaving this late.

When R came home with two tomato plants some few months ago, I barked, "What do you think you're doing? We've never had luck with raising tomatoes!" He planted them quietly in two terracotta pots and said, "Let's try once more. These are bush tomatoes, just the right size for eating."

Sixty-four days these tomatoes needed to bloom and produce slices for my bacon/tomato sandwiches. I knew we'd never see them turn pink before we'd be in New York. Our delay in leaving has brought us several ripened ones along with figs for our cereal most mornings.

We were never good at raising food. We would've starved had we been early pioneers. Nothing we did gave us a break in planting. We tried nut and fruit trees only to see them wither and die. We asked questions, read articles, followed directions. Nothing worked. The last tree we planted was the fig, and we put it in a corner where no other growth was, sheltered on one side by a fence and forgot it. Steadily it grew and occasionally gave us a hint of a taste but offered no bragging rights. Now it's an old tree and producing enough for enjoyment.


Some eight years ago the tree had grown four feet into the yard. Bushes planted by our neighbors nearby were vying for the sunlight. We had clipped and sawed limbs from year to year to control its growth to no avail. The tree kept growing upward, revealing its juiciest fruit out of reach.

I've had a week to enjoy these brown kisses as is or sliced into a bowl with a bit of cream. The tomatoes are sweet and juicy, making my BLT the best ever. These enjoyments are the few rewards I like about summers in Mississippi.

I Feel Guilty

When neighbor J takes his daily walk, he pushes a small cart with an oxygen machine. He takes a few steps, stops, looks around, watches a bird flit from one tree to another, then goes a few more steps, only to stop again to regenerate energy to finish his walk. He may get the equivalent of a city block or two, but he moves. Only a torrential rain, the only deterrent. He doesn't mind the misty rains. The cloying heat just shortens his walking time.

Always a proponent of exercise, J has several machines at home he continues to use. Despite heart trouble. He told us the other day that the doctors found some muscles not holding his heart upright, causing the organ to sit sideways. Difficult to diagnose.

Here I sit day after day doing what I enjoy in the air conditioning, not exercising because of the outside heat. Unless I'm in a giant mall, where I'll walk extra to make up for excessive sitting. I see J and wonder if some health condition will have to strike me before I become enthusiasic about exercising more. So often it takes a scare to push us into good habits.

Here's to all like J who, despite affliction and weather,"keep trucking," "hang in there," keep on goin'".

Parental Mentors

Neighbor M walks mornings and evenings carrying a small Rubbermaid container with succulent worms nestled in oatmeal. Birds know her and fly along the street, sweeping down to grab a grub that M has tossed and fly back to sit on a telephone line to feast. Some would call her obsessed, but, no, she's the bluebird guardian and teacher in our neighborhood. She has encouraged everyone on the block to place blue bird houses in their yards-- making them herself, and even installing for those who have little time.

This summer I observed a heartwarming situation of how bluebirds have the instinct to take care of their offspring so well.

A few months back a guy bluebird met a girl bluebird and they decided to take a nearby house (in our front yard), free of rent, and make a nest to raise a family. With eggs snug in leaves, moss, and fluff garnered from here and there, girlsoon realized that motherhood didn't agree with her. As she sat on her nest she dreamed of all that was missing in her life. After the babies hatched, she declared "Enough!" leaving crying babies behind to join a fly-by-night group seeking fun. New dad came home after a few days of hunting to find starving babies. Mama's gone! She had been missing so long in getting the kids fed on time, they eventually died.

Rejected boy bluebird flew around the yard, searching for his mate. When he realized she was gone for good, he spent no time before checking out the singles. He spied a young bird with big eyes and soft feathers. She found him handsome and virile. He and she made a nest. Readying for a family, she laid eggs. A few days later he came home late from being out with the guys and found she'd blown the coop! And four eggs churning! Like Superman to the rescue, he took over sitting on the eggs for weeks until one evening they hatched. We were watching from our dining room window, knowing birth time was within the next few days. What excitement! Little dad's journey to feed his brood every 10 minutes began. Back and forth he went constantly, bringing in food, and taking out the dirty diapers. He wasn't accustomed to housecleaning, but he knew the importance of keeping his babes germ free.

We kept a close eye on our cat, Bobbisox, who was keeping track of the birdies. R began to help little daddy by supplying worms between times of neighbor M's schedule. When the birdies began to fly, little dad was there, urging them not to get discouraged. He tucked them in at night and found a few hours rest in the branches above his house.

Bluebird parents have known "tough love" long before the term was used by humans. We turn to self-help books or tutoring from others in our quest to be decent parents. For the blue birds it's natural.

M has observed the antics of birds from the time a couple make a home in her yard to fledgling stage and later as young adults. One afternoon she told me that mamas discipline their kids with certain noises. One is the freezing chirp, used to teach kids manners. If a kid fails to behave, like getting a worm on time, a chirp sounds and the kid freezes in place. M has seen a birdie freeze with wings spread and one foot off the branch, ready to fly when the chirp sounded. If birdie doesn't follow the rules for eating, Chirrrrp! mama swoops down like a dive bomber to prevent the kid from reaching his supper. Mama will see that junior misses a few meals when he misbehaves. Oh, when have we sent our son or daughter to bed without supper or made him/her eat the same plateful at as many meal times as needed until all food is consumed??

Neighbor M has made me more aware of this wondrous aspect of nature through her constant care of/and information about bluebirds. She isn't the only bird lover, she's just the only one I've met. Time to clean out the bird houses so a traveler can find rest overnight.

It's Tea Time!

Nothing tastes better in the summertime than a cold glass of iced tea. Sweet, that is. In most restaurants and food service counters there are two urns for sweet and unsweet teas. Diets have caused this change. However, once your brain is attuned to sweet tea, nothing tastes the same after that moment of discovery.

Every morning after our two mile walk around Strawberry Park, Sis and I hit McD's for breakfast. I love their biscuits and sausage combo and I choose at 7:30 in the morning to have sweetened iced tea. Only at McD's is there no choice. The tea is sweeter than any Easterner can imagine, and almost too sweet for me. I have to add water, maybe a quarter to that super cup. Not one for coffee, I suck the cold tea through the straw relishing the morning pickup it gives.

An article by Lisa Singhania from The Associated Press states this about tea:

"Approximately 85% of tea consumed in the U.S.is iced. No one in the world except for us drinks sweet tea and no one in the U.S sweetens their tea as much as they do in the Southeast."

You have to love sugared tea, or use artificial sweetner, or drink as is. When Easterners think of the South, they imagine us sitting on our front porches (which few of us have now) drinking mint juleps, but you'll only find that on the Cool Drinks Menu of a New Orleans restaurant.

Southerners don't dip into a jar of instant tea--OH, NO! We brew in boiling water either tea bags or leaves to a strong dark, rich color (usually orange pekoe and pekoe), pour into a large pitcher, add sugar (watch it dissolve like magic before your eyes), water and a squeeze of lemon, stir, and pour over as many ice cubes as the tall glass can hold. Or you can put pitcher in the fridge to reduce quick melting of the ice.

A guest in a Southerner's home had better be prepared to forget the soda or wine on a hot summer day. If you're invited to sit on your host's patio with the soft southern breeze drifting across your face, then a tall glass of sweetened iced tea is the recipe for keeping cool.

Cicada Invasion

On May 24 ABC News had a report on the invasion of cicadas in the Midwest. The most interesting of all was the coverage of a cookbook author preparing these for a cicada party. Cicadini cocktail? Fried cicadas? Sushi with cicadas? I don't believe it, yet I watched the report showing participants eating the morsels that taste like "woodsy, peanut butter-like." And the male cicadas have a lot of protein!

A cicada invasion hit in the mid 1930's in Denver, Co. I was about four years old at the time. Still reeling through my mind on occasion is the remembrance of the total coverage outside these bugs made and the annoyance of having to brush them off after running from the car to the apartment where we lived at the time. Nothing we could wear or the quickness of our movements gave us any relief from thousands of cicadas who stuck on us. I don't remember being afraid of being bitten, more about the annoyance. Never have I been involved since then in any other kind of bug plague. Fortunately for the Midwesterners, this only occurs every 17 years!

Goodbye, Kisses

I should never have gone to the grocery store Friday. After walking my usual two miles, I swallowed a biscuit with sausage at McD's and headed to the next door store.

But that morning I figured I needed a pick-me-up for the weekend and came home with a bag of.....Hershey's Kisses! I may as well have shot myself, at least I'd have been several pounds lighter upon death. I had broken my vow of no more candy, held since March and I was strutting with pride.

Like a lot of ladies my age, pounds go on easily and rarely drop off. Weight is our middle name. I'm already looking at the latest microfiber underlings that promise a slimmer me. Honestly, life has not been good for my once-skinny body. When I was thin, chubby was in. Now thin is getting all the publicity. T'aint fair, McGee.

Before the night shades pulled over the sky on Saturday, I had devoured all the kisses, sneaking them in my mouth when R wasn't looking. He's slightly hard of hearing (though he won't admit it) so unwrapping the silver foil was too easy. Careful to accumulate the wrappings, I was savoring every motion of my tongue across the roof of my mouth, knowing very well that I was committing a crime of passion.

Despite the fact that latest statistics indicate the body's need for dark chocolate, there's no way I can live on one daily kiss. I need a lot of kisses (with a few hugs of forgiveness thrown in!) A hiker I met in Santa Fe bragged how well she was doing, eating one Dove chocolate a day as a reward for her tenacity to reduce sweets. I had thought about imitating her practice, but no, my eyes flickered past the Dove packages for my childhood favs--milk chocolate kisses. I hesitated a moment, thinking that if I could find the new cherry filled kind, I'd substitute. No such luck.

Now I'm filled with remorse, a noticeable fold around the middle, and a pitiful feeling of regret for my actions.

A Better Way to Walk

MY EARTH SHOES AS I SEE THEM

Trying to solve my hunched back, my weak knees, and husband R's painful back, we decided to try the new Earth Shoes. These are built with a "negative heel." The ads for Earth Shoes indicate that wearing them will allow you to walk correctly, with the heel lower than the sole. So off we went last week to the only store in our area stocking selections.

The walking shoes made my feet appear as small boats.(To you, seeing the photo, they appear "normal" size. The negative heel isn't apparent.) The toe box was roomy and the laces tied tightly. A good fit. Standing straight was an easy feat. Feeling like I was leaning on my heels, I testily walked around the store. Hmm--not bad. But the salesman thought I should try another brand just to get a comparison. Out he came with a pair of walking shoes with a curved sole promoting "neuro-muscular/proprioceptive training, lower limb blood flow, and postural and gait adjustment." MBT, they're called: Masai Barefoot Technology. (The Masai are known as shoeless natives.)

These shoes looked even bulkier than the Earth Shoes, but felt much better on the feet. The rocker sole gave one the feeling of floating across the floor. However, the price tag was considerably higher.

While I pondered the shoes, their prices, and their fit,, R decided to
try on a pair. He immediately liked both types, but the Earth Shoe was on sale--$100 off!! He bought two pairs, while I decided on the Earth Shoe, salivating for the MBT's. I, too, settled on Earth Shoes.

We were cautioned upon leaving that we should wear our shoes each day for a short time. Ignoring his advice,the next day we walked a mile in our selections, only to understand better the caution we'd received. Without practice wearing the Earth Shoes, the muscles in our legs and feet feel strained until the change in our posture and gait occurs. We have to wear them for a few hours daily in order to adjust.

Now R is ready to discard his other shoes. He has noticed an immediate change in his posture. As a woman who loves shoes, my discarding all others is a difficult decision that will take a bit longer. In the meantime, I have bought a pair of Earth Shoe sandals so I'll wear both pairs more than any other.

MBT's will be on our list for next year. Expensive? Yes, but the improvement of our neuroskeletal makeup is proof of their importance.

Weekend of Plays

Now I understand the War of the Roses--such bloodshed! This weekend Sis and I attended another annual Southern Writers' Project of the Alabama Shakespeare Festival. A marvelous Friday through Sunday of readings by new and somewhat-new playwrights both young and adult then evenings and matinees of this season's plays. I have to say I'm learning to "hear" strong and weak points of plays in the early stages of development which readings are for, and discussions afterwards gives the playwright a glimpse of what did and didn't appeal to the audience about the characters and situations.

"Rocket City" told of early stages of Warner von Braun's arrival with his German scientists into the city of Huntsville, AL, and the residents' reactions; "The Dragonfly Tale" showed us a communtity largely inhabited by blacks with a Jewish shopkeeper's involvement in their lives--an inside view of humanity:physical violence, pettiness, friendship, love, hate..."The Fall of the House" concerned a group of people stranded at one house the day after Katrina hit, how one woman stood her ground not to leave her home, while the victims she nurtured attempt to convince her to leave with the rescue boats.

Evenings we saw Henry VI Part B (having missed Thursday's production of Part A) where a second generation continues bloodshed to gain the crown and Richard III whose "right to the crown" was tweaked by Richard killing off his brothers and families and his loyal subjects to gain the power he felt he deserved. Lots of action, but most of all, a better understanding of Shakespeare's works. A quick review of history beforehand of how Shakespeare himself tweaked history for his dramatic plots by a seasoned college professor, gave us the understanding we should have obtained in our own college lit classes. Not an adult in the audience would have protested a class in Shakespeare after these productions. The program ran a genealogy chart of the "Dynastic Rivalry of The Wars of the Roses: It's All in the Family." that should be kept while rereading these famous plays. The resident actors and MFA students gave outstanding performances.

Present at the weekend festivities were playwrights who are making quiet noises in the play world. Their names unknown by most of the public, but will in coming years be recognized. Talks by these writers is worth the weekend away from home. We all left with the idea we could write a play.

"Thinking of You," a last year's reading by Peter Hicks was the light presentation. This is about a family's psychic ability and how it interferes with the daughter's opportunities to find a decent boyfriend who can overlook the fact that his girlfriend can read his thoughts. Funny, almost to slapstick.

Now I'm back to normal, ready to attack unpacking of boxes and replacing of furniture after five weeks of house renovations. As I rummage through the boxes I can lose my mind in the battles of royal families...

It's Only 85 Degrees? Gads, That's Hot!

Although the temperatures this month aren't the usual summer ones, when the thermometer hits above 80 degrees, I begin to feel like the characters in "A Streetcar Named Desire." Remember the glistening bodies, the few clothes those characters wore, the stringy hair? I FEEL I'm in that story when the first perspiration pops out on my body.

The other day I told my doc that I didn't feel good after walking. That seemed to surprise him, but nothing I say to him should raise his eyebrows by now. I guess I was hoping he'd tell me to quit walking, but he didn't. He asked me how I felt after being in water aerobics, and I said "tired." I'm sure he didn't believe me.

"Once spring gets here I don't feel up to par," I said. "Hmmm, " he replied. Since I don't know anyone else who feels this way, I assume I would make a good study for medical students.

Hot Mississippi weather has always been my enemy. As a preschooler I wanted to stay indoors in front of the fan. The relief was like taking a quarter of an aspirin for a thundering headache. Relief-- just an arm's length away. I wore only sun suits in those days. The bedroom fan oscillated day and night. Fortunately, my parents recognized my plight and we moved to Denver, Colorado, where snow was still on the ground that spring of '35. Mother's only mistake was to take me a month after arriving to a doctor for his advice.

"Hmmm," the doctor replied, "I think we have just as much hot weather as you do in Mississippi. I don't see the need for you to upset your life to move out here!" He had just signed my slow death warrant. After the grasshopper plague, the Parents packed me up and returned to the home state. And since then I've struggled to survive.

I have had that doctor on my short list of people I dislike. He ruined me with a few words. I could have learned to ski, climb mountains, and slept nights with the windows raised if he had made a more positive statement. He enslaved me to the heat for the rest of my life.

For 20 years without air conditioning my mornings as a teacher began fresh, and within 15 minutes my makeup had slid to my toes, my clothes stuck to my perspiring body, and my hair had become as stringy as that of Blanche DuBois. I would have given my right arm to wear her slip throughout the day. Tennessee Williams knew just how to write about the heat of the South. It eats at your soul, sucks energy from your pores, makes you listless.

I should be happy now. But, I'm every bit of a hermit in the summer in the Deep South. My only escape is to the cool waters of the pool at the fitness center. I can't wait for our July trip to New York, where the heat lasts from 11 am until 3:00 and then Mom Nature cools the earth down so I can relax. She's my buddy.

Do You Ever Read Good Books?

In recent weeks I've had the above question put to me, after explaining I'm a voracious reader of mystery books. "Sure," I answered, "I sometimes surprise my librarian with a known author of good books. On my last trip to the best "store" for books, I spied an author, Nicholas Evans, and found he had his fourth book The Divide published. An Englishman, he is the writer of the popular The Horse Whisperer and The Smoke Jumper.

I've also read a few of the best 100 books of the year. One of my non-mystery favorite authors is Alexander McCall Smith, author of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. This group of stories is set in Botswana and gives a delightful running account of a woman's life in the dusty country that she finds appealing.

When I was sure I was going to visit Los Alamos, I read the story of its birth, which wasn't a mystery novel, although the bomb business was kept a mystery; I want to reread Hiroshima by John Hersey.

For those who think authors like Tony Hillerman, Lee Child, Harlan Corban, and Kathy Reichs aren't real writers; well, they are. Writers of mystery and intrigue have grown in popularity over the years. Remember how popular Sherlock Holmes series were? Writers of this genre have found their place in the world of books.

I guess there's no one list called the Best Books of the Year. I've found from various websites that the best books of Publisher's Weekly will differ from that of New York Times Book Review or of Barnes and Nobles Best List. In each there are always one or two mystery writers. "Best" may mean the most sought after books, the ones with the biggest sales, or the number of published ones.

I read what will transport me to another world: biographies, travel accounts, histories, and those by foreign writers. Mostly,I just want to be entertained, not educated in politics, religion, or world events unless the time is ripe for it. I don't read self-help books, cook books, or practical books on gardening or cleaning or mixing drinks or preparing for a party, for example. Do those books help one to be a widely-read reader?

On my bookshelf there are a number of non-fiction books written by talk-show hosts, political figures, and admired people, and a few poetry and meditation books, but I've not had the inclination to read them--yet. There'll come a time when I no longer can trudge to the library or the local bookstore and will have to reach into my book collection, but until then, those books will take up space on my bookshelves.

Back to the Grind of Everyday Living

I must say the hiking trip was an adventure. Learned a lot each day. Elderhostel always has a great group of adults, say those who've participated in trips numerous times. How can one imagine a better group of folks repeatedly? Well, it happens. What rarely happens is that friends made on one trip never meet again. They are reduced to email addresses.

Our group came from various states from the West Coast to the East Coast with Canada thrown in twice: Ontario and British Colombia. All were experienced hikers, save yours truly. But I learned more from that one trip than any in which I could have participated. These hikers were my cheering squad, always tolerant of my inept attempt at hiking. My main problem was breathing in the altitude of 7,000ft and above.

Now I'm back in sultry Mississippi, still waiting for the completion of our home's remodeling. Workmen these days seem to imitate the turtle. I'm tired of living in two rooms, facing three rooms' worth of furniture and accessories. So I had a let down when I entered the doors to discover that I had forgotten where I'd placed anything of necessity. Took me three days to find the envelopes (I know, I could have gone to the PO and bought some); four hours to unearth my date book; and one day of constant searching to find some cooler clothes. However, I'm attempting to stay level headed, ignore the heat wave, pray for rain, and enjoy not cooking for a few more weeks.

Why complain? I shouldn't. Sis and I missed tornadoes hitting us in Texas by a few miles and braced for an accident that, luckily, didn't happen. Every driver in the lane behind us in Ft. Worth, looking like they were hitting 75 miles an hour with only a yard or two to brake, stopped.

Sis and I had a great time together. I'll need a vacation of rest at least for six months; however, Sis already is planning another Elderhostel trip. Let's wait until fall, Sis, OK?

"The Worst Climb is Over, Now Just Keep Going. . ."

Our crew of 18 is my cheering squad. Wednesday, I managed to hike up Tsankaii Trail, which was difficult for me, but I got to the top and back with the muscles in my legs in a knot. The trail weaved around some tuff (ashes of volcano hardened and containing stones); or it led us to the edge of a cliff. Often we put our feet in steps that had been worn in rock (made by early Indians?)lifting one foot in front of the other to propel us forward; climbing up and down typical Indian ladders (that first step the longest), and at other times squeezing between rocks with our backpacks on. The trail was up and up and I wasn't sure I could make it, but I wouldn't have complained for anything. I did find other hikers who had knee problems and needed some time off. My backpack, which has a reservoir for water, was really good, as holding anything in my hands was difficult when maneuvering in and around the rocks. All I had to do was sip the end of a tube hanging beside my left shoulder.

By the time we got to Bandelier National Park, I said goodbye to the others and sat out the two hours. Fortunately, there were several who felt the same as I and this gave us time to get acquainted more.

Leaving Bandelier at 3 pm we with cars headed to Abiquiu, some 2 hours north on 84. The scenery seemed much like the desert of Western movies. Actually our next home for three nights and two days would be Ghost Ranch some 15 miles north of Abiquiu on the road to Chama.

Today,Thursday, the "easy" path for everyone but YOU KNOW WHO was to Chimney Rock, on the acreage managed by Ghost Ranch. After vowing I'd sit this one out, loyal suporters told me to ignore my frozen thigh muscles and hit the trail, that I'd feel better when I started. Hah! I made it up the steepest hill, huffing and puffing enough for four people, so loudly I couldn't hear the explanation of the paleontologist who was pointing to thoursands of years old-algae and lichen. When I reached the rest of the group, they began climbing again. "You've done the worst, just keep going," was the mantra of the few who felt compelled to urge me on. I gave out after trying the next hill, sat on a rock and promised the hikers to stay intact until they returned.

Downhill later proved to test my knees, my thighs, my eyesight (I looked down hiking up and down the hills), so hitting bottom was like a refreshing drink of water.

Let's face it. Despite drinking so much water I thought I'd be the next Old Faithful in reverse, I knew that my problem was the altitude. Of course, there are the muscles unused to such punishment, but breathing some several hundred feet more than the 7,000 plus feet is difficult.

I took the afternoon off and napped while the experienced ones went to Box Canyon. Humph! I'd hiked one canyon, and this is more difficult. I've sense to know when to quit.

Did Someone Say " Hiking"?

Thinking we were in fine fettle to hike a few miles, Sis and I were the slow ones on a trip Monday up a mountain some thousand feet higher than Santa Fe. Following a trail called Dick Ball, perhaps because he cleared it, we were grateful for the level areas, trudging up the small hills that seemed so easy(and were to the more experienced hikers) that suddenly I felt my breathing labored. I swallowed so much water, that I felt I'd float to the top, but a few minutes rest helped me catch up. After two miles up Sis and I quit the others who wanted to hike further. We knew we'd only drag the others down waiting for us, so we hit the down trail slowly and rested for 30 minutes, wondering if we'd made a good decision to try this vacation.

Today, Tuesday, we'll hike in a canyon, tomorrow the Bandelier Park, which will be some up and down walking, and then on to Abiquiu. We have discovered that we don't have the right clothers for the very cold, windy afternoons and mornings. But we are still with the group, despite fighting a cold or an allergy picked up on the mountain.

109 East Palace

My neighbor V insisted that I purchase a copy of the above named book and read it as Sis and I drifted towards Santa Fe. It is the story of the secretive nature of those who were engaged in planning and executing the Atomic Bomb. I've capitalized the words because, although it helped us win against the Japanese in WWII, there is an awesome, penetrating feeling one receives when the story gets to the actual day of the first bomb test.

Sis and I visited 109 E. Palace the other day and to our regret, a linen shop was in the same building that had been set up as a undercover office to serve as a starting point for all physicists, their families, military personnel, and other needed workers. Locals didn't know what lay behind the iron gate; that inside the white lintel entranceway one who entered, "disappeared."

I lived through this war and somehow I'd forgotten about the AB. Years of peace and wars in other foreign soils, growing up and raising my own family, I was caught up in the "now." All the time, work was going on at Los Alamos, NM, a short hour's drive from Santa Fe. Even the Santa Feans didn't know that on a mesa past the San Idelfonso Reservation, history was in the making.

We didn't complete the book before visiting Los Alamos. The road leading to the mesa began a mix of mind pictures playing at rapid speed as we drove up and up and up. We were remembering the descriptions of the difficulty of military vehicles carrying precious cargo on muddy roads, the vistas that were seen by the newly arrivals, and once on the mesa top, we saw nothing that those who had to live in secret saw. A thriving city with all the modern conveniences...just the opposite for the workers and their families.

Los Alamos has two museums: the Bradbury Science Museum which gives a brief history in photographs and then gives hands-on science information. Extensive material on the components of "Fat Boy" and "Little Man" (named after W. Churchill and FDR) that were the forerunners to the bombs dropped on Hiroshima snd Nagasaki. Displays of research being done now to "serve national security, eneregy, health, and environmental research needs", as the pamphlet handed out states. This is a wonderful science lesson for young people. The history is quite complete, a number of lessons in themselves about the progress and timeline and what was being done at Los Alamos at the same time war was being raged in Europe.

Visiting the History Museum on the former campus of a boys' ranch that was appropriated by the U. S. Army for the research, gives tangible remains of life on top of the mesa. Life under secrecy wasn't ideal by any means, and while the physicists worked long hours day and night trying to beat the Germans, whom it was reported were already working on a bomb, their wives were attempting to carve out a semblance of daily life putting up with poor electricity, little heat (the mesa is 7,355 ft. high), improper kitchen equipment, vegetables that rotted in transport, little fruit, and anything you can imagine could be devastating so far from civilization. Yet, the persistence of these women to provide a balance without being able to contact their families, who knew nothing of their husbands' work for years, should be rewarded. As should the military personnel who were stationed there.

The local bookstore displayed all the various books that have been written about this project, led admirably by J. Robert Oppenheimer, a quiet man who deceived those under him as to his ability to keep the large group filled with hope and working to capacity. 109 E. Palace isn't the last of the stories I'm going to read. Written by the Jennet Conant, granddaughter of James Conant, who played a part in this secretive world, has compressed into a readable account the story from its early days to the decisions made afterwards as to the use of Los Alamos. Although there are many others who've done this, hers is the latest to be published. There are books written by WACS who served during that time, a book of some of the workers, giving their photos during the period, as well as an up-to-date one. On one page they've written of their time at Los Alamos.

Some interesting highlights(or low points) of life there: everyone had the same address, Box 1663; workers were given numbers on their security passes; important persons were given fictional names and everyone called the other only by a first name; no outsiders for years knew where their sons or daughters were working--just "somewhere"; no one could get off the mesa without special permission, so local inhabitants were asked to provide R/R for the overworked physicists and their wives; there was no shopping for the women, poor laundry services, so they began to wear overalls that would take the wear and tear of dirt.

When you visit Los Alamos, you can also see the Jemez Mountains that are the result of a volcano that erupted and left these mesas or peninsulas. Bandelier National Park adjoins and is a testament to the early Indian settlements who left petroglyphs on cliff walls, as well as dwellings set back in cave areas formed by the volcano. The area of the volcano eruption is Calles Caldera, a national preserve. One can see the deep depression left after the eruption.

Everyone should be reminded of the path that led to the development of the bomb, the results of that destruction, the terrible feeling the physicists felt knowing their hard work would kill thousands of people.

I hope generations to come will study this time in history.

Acoma: Then and Now

My adult children were 8, 11, and 12 years respectively, when the family journeyed west on THE BIG TRIP. We were heading to California on a two-week whirlwind of spots I could remember having taken when I was 13 years old with my parents.

Memory only serves me now, as I didn't keep a journal in the 1960's. But we all remember the Acoma reservation. A simple sign directed us off Interstate 40, which had been Highway 66 in my teen years. This side road was unpaved but layered with rocks and seemed endless. Finally, we arrived at another sign that indicated only a few more miles, and the Chrysler pulling our pop-up trailer groaned as it labored up a steep hill, R being carefull not to slide backwards. At the first level area, we parked and followed visitors before us scrambling up some stone stairs. To our kids, this was an adventure.

Suddenly we were on top of a mesa. An Indian posted near the steps pointed us to a tiny shack you'd think was for a watchman. Inside we were told to leave our cameras behind while visiting. No photos of anything. Outside in the sunny, slightly windy day a guide accepted a fee and led a small group of us immediately to the church, a grey structure founded by a Catholic priest in the 1800's. We listened intently as our guide sadly told us that only a handful of inhabitants were on the mesa, losing all the young people to civilization below. And, these older people living still without electricity, water, and sanitation were the last of the Acoma people. They made their living by continuing the practice of pottery making. Hand throwing and decorating pots large and small with the needles of the yucca plant and dyes made from nature, these few people sat in front of their adobe clad homes, hoping for the dollars they'd earn from us. So few houses were on the mesa that we visitors felt we were seeing the decline of an ancient peoples, remnants of the Anazazi. We backtracked down the stone steps to the car and trailer with the several pots we'd bought from one of the old women when she finished decorating them with her needle-like brush.

Now, forty years later Sis and I reached the turnoff at I40, checked into the Sky City Hotel/Casino for a night's rest before visiting the mesa the next morning. This time we followed a paved road, passing several housing projects, two churches, a council building, a Headstart building, two schools, a water tower, electrical lines, and television antennas. Something had been happening all the while my children were growing into adults. Sky City had grown up, too.

We arrived at a cultural center housing a museum, cafe, and gift shop. Our tickets cost us $11 and we were whisked off in a small bus up the mountain. I was aghast at the change from primitive to modern. The first thing we saw as we advanced towards the mesa were the dotting of small shacks in gray, blue and white-- the familiar portable latrines. Now, I call that good progress.

The second surprise was seeing the breath-taking views again. The third was the number of houses on the mesa. Through visitors' fees and pottery purchases, the Acoma had courted their young, building schools and teaching them an almost forgotten culture and language, and employing the young as guides. The housing projects had enticed families to return to their land.

Our guide was Kathleen, attending a local Albuquerque college. The day was dreary, an icy slush was falling, and we skidded and picked our way in the mud that refused to leave our shoes. She said the Acoma population that had moved away now had second homes they'd built in which to reside during sacred ceremonies held several times a year. This accounted for the increase in the number of dwellings on top. Having no building codes, some of the homes were very modern, sitting next door to an ancient structure. Her explanation of mesa life had lengthened to an hour and a half, reminding us of Coronado's twice visit to destroy everything Acoma. Now with progress, permanent residents park their cars and drive to and from stores below. Improved construcion methods are used to ward off deterioration from wind and bad weather. However, there is still no electricity nor running water. No television sets, microwaves, or other modern conveniences. Cisterns are now more available, so no one has to go far to fill a container of water; as of years earlier,when a frail Indian woman slipped deftly down a worn path to the springs below, dipping her pail and picking her way back up to supply the household for the day.

In the final moments she led us to the opposite side of the mesa where we could see below the cultural center, the winding road up to the mesa,and another breath-taking vista. She pointed to hewn rock steps and announced that early visitors had had to clammer to reach the top. My mind hadn't failed me. I looked at the steps and remembered the tough time R and I had maneuvering three kids and ourselves to the top. I smiled. Kathleen said that nowadays visitors no longer use the steps because they are deemed too perilous. Ha! I thought, visitors today are just wimps!

Instead of several older Indian women selling wares, there were a dozen, much younger, the sons and daughters (or maybe grandchildren) from whom we'd bought our pots. I recognized some of the names. They appear on the bottoms of our black and white pots sitting on a table in Madison, MS--still as beautiful as the day so long ago they were bought.

On the Road Again

It's exhilerating being on the open road. Whenever R and I travel, we get to the next state, pull out our wine glasses, open a bottle of our favorite and toast to the words Carman Miranda sang oh so many years ago: "Cuanta le gusta, le gusta, le gusta,(2 more le gustas), cuanta le gusta, le gusta, le gusta. We gotta get goin' where we're goin', what're we gonna do? We're on our way to somewhere, the two of us and you..." So every new exciting landscape promoted this ritual.

This week my sister and I headed for Santa Fe and the prospect of hiking the hills around the area and around Abiquiui. We made it to New Mexico by Thursday night, staying in a casino hotel near the Acoma Reservation. It just happened to be the only place to stay after missing an exit in Albuquerque. However, we were close to the place where we'd tour the Acoma mesa, meaning we could sleep later than usual. When we awoke on Friday morning, we were greeted with a snow slush that had fallen during the night. Quite a foretelling of what to expect on the Acoma reservation.

The tour was under slushy rain that only made the dirt streets a sea of mud, slippery to execute in places, but 15 interested souls got their best walking shoes caked with mud, followed the tour guide, and rejoiced that the Acoma were increasing bringing back their young and building homes to live in during ceremonial days.

And the weather was cold! We wondered if there would be more slush and cold weather, whether the hiking would be limited during our week. After all, this is an Elderhostel trip, and we didn't know the ages or health of our future fellow hikers. That is to be seen on Sunday night in Santa Fe at the Ghost Ranch campus in the heart of town.

A Few Yard Blooms

Garden books lie around the living room for most of the year, inspiring me to dig at the first sign of warm weather. However, these tomes don't push me into the yard, place gloves on my hands and pads on my knees. I'm not a gardener. My yard produces the same flowering trees and shrubs that we planted ten years ago because we had to have something blooming seasonally.

What novices we were the first year we feverishly dug, planted, watered and fertilized! Tomato plants put into the ground at the roots we discovered later should have been planted deep so only the tops show. Our choice spot for a pecan tree became overshadowed by faster growing bushes killing it before we ever saw a nut. The fruit trees refused to grow, despite the book advice for fertilizing. Two hickory trees caught blight and died, their skeletal remains standing 36 months. After a few years of a yard full of pine needles,and the difficulty of raking them from a vast area,the Boss gave the orders to workmen, who felled over 75 pines, their limbs lying in the yard for a year. Trunks went to pulp mill. We couldn't make a dent in clearing the twigs and dead needles. No one would take the job for 24 months, despite decent pay.

We bought the property because of over a hundred trees. During house construction, we dared the contractor cut a single tree! After the Big Cut, our adult kids fumed. We had destroyed the country look of our home, they sobbed. Pleas were ignored. Starting over, we planted one tree or shrub at a time, carefully listening to the nurseryman explain the size of the holes, and how to fertilize and water. Somehow this time around we became wiser to the ways of nature. Today we're proud of our Japanese maples, the two Grandfather Graybeards, a few dogwoods and the azalea bushes that keep blooming, despite our neglect.

When spring arrives and I want cut flowers, I buy them arranged in pots and scatter them in the yard. The fun is in selecting the colors and types of blooms I want to greet every morning when I pick up the morning paper.

Dear Miss Phillipines

Ohh, you naughty girl! You're one of those who loves to shop! But, three hundred dollars of cosmetics and facial creams?? AND tickets via CEBU Air--three thousand dollars worth??

Well, Dear, I hope you enjoyed spending my money. I know, you wouldn't have bought my debit card number and my name and address if I hadn't been a bit smug about using one, saying, "I'm safe. No one will get my number!" I like using a debit card because I know my balance immediately. No invoices to have to check each month. There is such ease with the D/C card! I'm not angry at you. Just at myself for being so stupid.

OK, I've learned my lesson. The card is in six pieces, and your next purchase will be denied. The bank promises me a reimbursement of the entire amount in a few weeks. Not expecting such generosity, I'm not inquisitive as to the method. Thankfully, I've enough in my account to cover this spending spree! Otherwise, I'd been another notch on the handle of identity thievery.

What'd ya pay for this fun--$10?--now you'll hav'ta fork over another 10 bucks to become someone else. You are no longer Vivian Newkirk.

P.S. Dear Reader, if you are as stupid as I've been and still use a debit/credit card, tear it up immediately.

Travel Fever

After reading "Moosehill Journal" recently and reveling with the author's visit to California and Yosemite National Park, I felt the deep down tugging of my travel heart. I, too, was ready for a journey, not necessarily the usual ones taken to see grown children.

It was prophetic that I received a call from Sis telling me SHE was ready for a trip and did I want to hike the trails of Santa Fe? She knows as well and I that we aren't gen-u-wine hikers, but we have been walking a mile a day for the last three weeks to slim our torsos. That very day I checked Elderhostel for their April 15-21 trip to Santa Fe and Abiquiqu and signed up. Now Sis and I are walking four miles a day, hoping to meet the Level 5 guidelines, which seem daunting for novices. We figured we could bluff our way with a hiking stick, backpack with a water pouch, and a floppy hat as part of a hikers uniform.

We are dressing as most catalogs indicate. I remember an event many years ago that still brings smiles to the faces of my husband and me.

I was working with a young man new to my company, and my husband, after my encouragement, asked Joe if he wanted to play golf with him and his friends that Saturday. "You play golf, don't you?" To which Joe responded, "Sure."

The threesome waited that morning for Joe to arrive, two asking R about Joe's handicap. R simply said he didn't know and they'd all have to find out. Just then this figure, decked out in typical English golf fashion--his argyle socks pulled to the knee where they met his knickers, a jaunty knit hat ( with a red ball, no less)askew on his head, looking like a golfer of ages past. Joe didn't know anything about the clubs he owned, how to line up the ball, hit it or retrieve it. His stroke off the tee carried 200 feet rather than 200 yards. An embarrassment for R, who had to endure teasing from his coworkers the following Monday.

Sis and I will have the appropriate gear. Our legs will be in fair shape, our hiking boots will look worn, and although our clothing will appear to have been ordered from the Eddie Bauer catalog, they will not be brand-new. We'll fit in with other hikers discovering what the New Mexico landscape can reveal us in six days of exploration.

Spring Is in the Air

Such beautiful blooms wave at drivers from the dozens and dozens of Bradford Pear trees that Madison residents have planted! Accompanied by warm, sunny days, this is the best time of the year for Mississippians. Soon the dogwoods will show their pink or white dresses. Daffodils have been swaying in the breeze for about two weeks. My one camellia bush, which always flourishes in February, still is laden with pink faces.

I couldn't resist snapping the blooming pear trees lining a cemetery. A quiet scene.

And the Louisiana Strawberry Man is back. Ahh, Spring is wonderful.

Grocery Shopping

Amazon has a new service: grocery shopping.

Where were you, Amazon, when I had three kiddies hanging onto my legs?

Where were you when I was holding down three jobs (well, depending on who's counting: mother, wife, teacher) and hating every minute of Saturdays figuring which hour I'd spend traipsing the hallowed halls of the local grocery?

Now you appear, Amazon, just when I need you less. I hate to shop for groceries. I'll waste precious minutes any day of the week hum-hawing about leaving. I make out a list too long and then leave it still on the table at home. I stop by the library and engage a friend in conversation, watching the minutes tick away as I inwardly fuss at enjoying myself. Then I'm faced with the hanging responsibility. GET THE GROCERIES!! I take a deep breath, enter the car, take an extra few seconds to buckle the seatbelt, slowly turn on the engine, and glide into the grocery's parking lot.

Two hours later (yes, I read labels) I'm home exhausted. What's for dinner, He asks. Check out the bags, I reply.

I know, I got everything I needed except something for dinner.

I'd like to get Amazon to buy and deliver my groceries, but wouldn't that be cheating? Nowadays, I've no responsibilities that matter which warrants my using such service. Perhaps I should let other harried housewives and working women try the new method first.

But that doesn't mean I won't investigate.

Oscar Winning Movies

This is the first year in a long time that I've seen so many good movies. There was a dry spell for over five years that I'd not darken the doorway of a movie theatre. When our little community of Madison finally got its own theatre, located only a few miles from my house, I was estatic. No more going into the capitol city with my eyes darting left and right, expecting to have my purse snatched.

My sister and I have been movie and stage play aficionadas since our pre-teen years. We had a method after attending musicals in our early days: see the movie, buy the music on vinyl records, play repeatedly until we had learned the words, then on Saturday nights during "Hit Parade" sing along with the television music. As a result we can still sing when oldies are played on satellite radio. My sister kept the ball rolling, learning the words and music to Broadway shows that began in the 1970's. I faded then.

Nowadays after each movie we sit in the car or in a cafe and discuss the plot, characters, costumes, and geographical places. We usually agree with few disagreements.

Since January we've seen nearly all the movies nominated for an Oscar, missing seven.

Here are our recommendations if you happen to want a night out or an afternoon treat:

"Babel"(the four plots until the end keep you wondering why so many stories; you are surprised near the end to find the relationship of the characters in the various plots)
"Dreamgirls" (remembering the Supremes with original songs; tremendous casting; excellent acting and singing by JenniferHudson and Eddie Murphy, who should have won an oscar)
"Notes on a Scandal" (J Densch gives searing performance in this British movie)
"Letters from Iwo Jima" (great casting, seeing the other side of the taking of Iwo Jima reveals similarities to American soldiers-- subtitles)
"The Queen" (unbelievable Murren plays Q. Eliz perfectly)
"Volver" (subtitles--glimpse of Spanish customs still prevalent today)
"The Devil Wears Prada" ("Ugly Betty" tv show patterned after this one. Streep superb)

Eventually, if only through Netflix, we'll see the remainders: "Blood Diamond," "The Pursuit of Happyness," "Venus," "Half Nelson," "United 93," "Little Miss Sunshine," and "An Inconvenient Truth," although the latter not worthy of standing alongside the above movies. It should have been in another category.

This week we'll see "Wild Hogs"(old fellas trying to emulate cycle riders), "Black Snake Moon," featuring an old blues singer helping a frightened abused girl-good blues music,"and "Zodiak" about that killer we heard about years ago.

Thank goodness for $5 senior tickets!

Not Much of a TV Fan....But

Only last year around November, when I returned home from the Catskills, did I turn on the television one evening--Tuesday? Wednesday? and got hooked.

I'm talking about "American Idol." As I wait anxiously each week for another segment, I examine my taste in television. I'm a mystery fan, but few of the detective shows interest me. I enjoy the History Channel, Discovery, but why, all of a sudden, am I involved in kids auditioning for a place on Idol? Education...that's the only answer I can think of.

I was a high school teacher for nearly 30 years and traveled with my students of Spanish to Mexico for one or two weeks each year. I loved and appreciated these kids, showing them a different culture, teaching them the history of Mexico. Spain and South America. And I thoroughly enjoyed the new method I used enabling them to speak and understand Spanish within six weeks. I enjoyed seeing them excel in this language, in their lives. I had hoped they'd be travelers in their adult life as a result of classroom learning.

So I think watching "American Idol" allows me to cheer the talented young people who become a part of the show endeavoring to achieve the goals they set for themselves. I'm horrified at the some of the early losers who used profanity to express their idea of the unfairness of the judges decisions and demanded a second chance. Where did these kids grow up? Didn't their parents teach them that losing was a part of life? Who gave them the authority to believe that they're entitled to be the next "American Idol"?

Entitlement is not a part of "American Idol." Entitlement needs to be overhauled and many young people should learn that to get somewhere one has to pick oneself up after being knocked down. It was heartening to see a number of earlier years' losers who were auditioning again, having learned to improve their singing.

School hasn't been a part of my life for over 10 years. I still have a tightening of the throat when I hear a high school band play, see local talent in plays and shows, hear a debate between schools. I see in them the future of my community, my state, my nation.

So if I keep my television set on Fox Tuesday and Wednesday nights, I know I'm seeing a show devoid of crime, sex and vulgarity. Why would I want to change channels?

Impending Appointment

You might say I'm in the last 1/4 of my life. I really want to live to be 120, but I may only get to 100--if I watch my diet, weight, visit my doctor annually, get the necessary bone density and other tests, avoid accidents,I should meet my goal.

I'm preparing for the next doctor's appointment. In order to appear interested in my body, I'm now in a Pace program at the fitness center. Sort of. I've only been in it two weeks. There are only four machines I can exercise on without damaging my arthritic fingers, my miniscus in the left knee, and my body when general fatigue hits me after 30 minutes of work. That is when I feel "OLD". After Pace I hit the water (well, that's too strenuous to state. "Walk into the water" is more like it.) and work steadily for ten minutes, exercise slowly while I catch up on the news of my fellow water sprites, then out of the water in ten more minutes. If I reveal this information to my doctor, it will seem I'm not serious about exercising.

I can hear hear her questions, my answers, and my thoughts at my March appointment:

Do you exercise daily? Yes(when I think of it.)
Are you walking daily? Yes(when I go from one side of the house to the other.)
Are sweets a part of your routine eating? Of course not! (I don't eat candy now, cookie craving is slowing down, and I eat an ice cream sandwich occasionally.)
Do you realize how much weight you are carrying? Yes(But I don't think I'm fat! Just a tad big around the waist, and the hips, and the thighs.)
Do you drink sodas? Rarely (But I have to have a Coke occasionally!)
What size clothes are you wearing? What? That's not a doctor's question! (I hate to admit I used to be a size 8 and now a whopping 14!)
Hmm. I think you underestimate the necessity of eating correctly, exercising at least an hour a day, and going without sweets of any kind. Do you understand the importance? Yes'sum (I solemnly swear to do my exercises at least three times weekly-and drink water every time I crave a sweet.)

I dread the annual doctor's appointment, but if I work hard to have good, solid answers to any question posed, I should get out of the office with little admonition.

It's not my entire fault that I'm bigger around than 50 years ago. It's genetic.(No one will take that as an excuse.) OK, so my waist has an extra fold, my tummy difficult to suck in, my thighs glue to each other in summer heat--I still love me!

Latte, Please

The first time I saw people sitting at a table sipping coffee and reading was in a Boston book store over 20 years ago. I thought to myself then, why don't we have those in my hometown? Can a person bring a book into the shop, open it and read all day? How many coffees or teas must one drink to keep the table?

Next time I saw coffee drinkers not in a restaurant was in Seattle. At that time Starbucks was in its infancy. There were those little shops for take outs only with small tables outside for lingerers.Seattle was also the first place for coffee take outs, too. August being the best month to be outdoors in this city,I saw more folks chatting over their java. I admired them and the time they had to sit, drink, and talk with friends. I know, Europe has had this tradition for eons. But not the South.

I've never sat anywhere chatting over coffee. By the time I married the neighborhood kaffeklatsch was nearly extinct. Coffee and chatting were usually after dinner in a restaurant. However, since lattes have come into existence, I can enjoy a cup here and there. But sit for hours and read or watch the world pass by? Never. Until Saturday night last.

Our oldest son, who is the only unattached male of his community of friends, spends hours on the weekends at a local coffee shop. Since our small community has grown, so has the increase of coffee shops. "Shop" sounds like the old fashioned cafes where one can get a quick breakfast or lunch with one's coffee. "House" may be a substitute.

After a Saturday of errands, we weren't ready to go home. R and I decided to try out the coffee place nearby. New Experience. We called our son and asked him to meet us and instruct us on the modern manner of sitting and drinking.

Luckily, this night a jazz trio played. As I said to R, "This is our music; we can sing along." This was not jazz, our son said, but then again, he doesn't know the jazz his dad and I grew up with. We ordered our drinks and after emptying the cups, we ordered a light supper of sandwiches. As the music drifted in and around the patrons, I relaxed and thought, "This is nice!Maybe we can make this a regular stop." We thought of all our friends who may enjoy accompanying us next time, giving us someone our age with whom to chat.

The three hours we spent at Java and Jazz was quite an introduction. Since Saturday I've tried to figure out when I can drop by with a friend, but other matters seemed more pressing. I just am not one to drop by for a cup of java. Unlike our son, I have to have a reason other than needing a caffeine fix. I refuse consider surfing the web while sipping, or read the latest mystery and slurp. I can do those activities at home (and prop my feet). But come this Saturday, March 3, I'm going to listen again to the jazz trio and order a large latte.

Weather...What Else is There to Talk About?

The central area of Mississippi isn't experiencing snow or weather that is considered "winter". We have lows in the 20's nights and highs daytime in 40's, but inconsistently. I have no idea what really cold weather is like, say in northeast NY, where the snow has compacted house roofs with over 9.5". If bad weather comes here in January or February (maybe every 10 years), it's usually in the form of an ice storm. And the natives in their cars may as well be novices on ice skates.

I'm beginning to believe that this area is quite a comfy place to live. The summers are as hot as those in Manhattan; the fall is warmer; and when cooler weather hits, it's around the time the state fair arrives in town--mid October. Then, like magic, the weather turns warm again, sometimes into December.

We have lots of rain. And unlike what I've seen in upstate NY where I live summers, we have mud puddles, water puddles. In the Catskills, the dirt is similar to loess, and water passes through the soil or runs along the base of trees, taking with it the precious grains that hold up massive pines.

Most of the state has good soil, except around Natchez, along the bluffs, where the loess is sliding into the Mississippi River by the inches. Some of the once beautiful homes, now only housing vagrants, sit perched on the bluffs, waiting for a thunder roll and a hard rain to push them into the river. One has to see the sights of these homes to realize the danger imposed by the soil. It's been said that part of downtown Natchez will eventually dump into Ole' Man River.

Weather used to be the topic for old folks only. Now we have a weather station to keep us appraised of changing climate. Weather used to be more predictable. Remember putting away your winter clothes and bringing out your summer ones? Not now.

There's something beautiful when the warmth surrounds us in the fall and a heavy rain pours out like salt from a shaker. It's a challenge to run into the open, raise your face to the heavens and feel first the sprinkle, then the force of drops, and finally the pouring rain that forces you onto the porch. Even the lightning that streaks across the sky is like a pen of silver ink scribbling warnings.
All this seems friendly, kind...until you're warned of an impending storm, perhaps one of tornadic proportions.

Weather has become a national crisis. How little we onlookers understand the exhaustion and frustration victims go through as result of losing their homes, their personal possessions, their...everything.

Let's not forget all those suffering from weather's torment as we squish through the snow, as we breathe in the freshness of a cold morning, as we run in a pouring rain to shelter. Better yet,read the following blog: http:\\gracedavis.typepad.com/Katrinablog.

One Language I Can't Learn

Trying to conform to the new blogger standards, I run across Template. Shall I replace or keep the old one? I had difficulty with the old one, but, pray tell, what does all the mumbo-jumbo/gobblygook/ mean in the new Template? I can't even copy and paste a section without a warning telling me my HTML cannot be accepted!

Needless to say, I'm not into learning a new language at my age. I had difficulty with the template before a new one was introduced. I guess I'll have to be content with moose hill journal and wildside musings remaining with no blue line underneath. However, I hope you readers are checking those websites weekly.

With my computer tech son now engaged in wooing his girlfriend, setting up appointments with him to relieve my computer anxiety is like getting a date for surgery. So I'll just let Google know how confused a little ole' lady from Mississippi is, and maybe a simpler way of explanation will be printed.

Yahoo! I Created One

Those of you who use Yahoo.com in any of your mailings know there have been some articles on password security. Today I created a new password that(forgive me)passes muster. Suggested was using nine letters, numbers and symbols in some combination. Fifteen was the preferable number, as that would give hackers a bit more challenge in breaking. If my new password will take over 10 years to break, I'm home free.

One interesting read was "Password Recovery Speeds", put out by www.lockdown.co.UK. This article informs the reader how long it takes hackers to break combinations of upper case letters, lower case letters, combinations of upper and lower, using letters and numbers. I think, though, you should read Bruce Schneier's web published articles. Begin with www.schneier.com and check the list at left. I read "Secure Passwords Keep You Safe" followed by the lockdown site mentioned earlier, which is a hyperlink in the article.

I have opted to change my password, which presently are eight differently spelled ones. However, I began looking for a root word to which I could add suffixes and prefixes. When my eyes spied the sentence saying how the hacking machines could rush through the English dictionary and numbering system to eliminate the odds of one's password being broken, I made a decision.

On my bookshelf are numerous foreign language dictionaries. So I plucked one, skimmed through the alphabet glancing quickly at words, and discovered one slightly pronounceable(without ever having heard the word before), saw its apt definition and began to play with the letters.

I tried separating the word and capitalizing a few letters; next, I added a few numbers I thought I could remember, and typed a few symbols. So if the word had been cloisonne I typed thus:

c l o i s o n n e. Then I capitalized a few: cLoiSonNE. Next, I added numbers: cLo3iSon5N9E. But not being finished I added a few symbols: cL[o3iS?o5N9#E. And that became my password. Without realizing it, I had 14 digits.

Next, I typed the final result a dozen times to be sure that I was using my right and left fingers to create the final word.

This, in essence, is how I arrived at my password. The author of the article stated that one would have to have the password in a handy place, and to be sure that a friend/relative/family member could break into your computer, you should put the password in a safety deposit box instead of pasting it on your computer. I will have mine pasted in several hiding spots around the house until I can recite this in my sleep!

Well, I taped my new password above the space on the screen so I could see it as I typed it. I've changed one email address to include this new combination. I doubt any hacker is looking at what he/she can get from my computer, but then again, I do use my credit card numbers when online shopping.

Do you use the same password for all your sign-ins? I've always had a different one. Staying informed as to what to enter when I opened Amazon, my bank, frequent online shops, etc, I kept them all on a list and guarded with my life. Now, if all of them become cL[o3iS?o5N9#E, I should be able to memorize the combo and have no need for a list.

Just in case I've misrepresented Bruce Schneier's suggestions, read the above articles for yourself. Good luck with your new, undecipherable, unbreakable password!

Ready to Sell

I've spent the last 14 years dabbling in a hobby. I never had time for one when I was teaching. All I did for nearly 30 years was grade papers. Oh, yes, I taught lessons and handled discipline and had hall duty. By the time I went to bed nights I was too exhausted to read a few pages from a good book.

When I chose to learn to make jewelry it was partly due to wanting something my husband R and I could do together at retirement. We took lessons in N.Georgia, one week at a time for 4 summers. Later I learned to bead and make silver chains.

Then I made an Episcopalian rosary for my sister. A tourist dropped by the church gift shop, saw my rosaries, bought a few and returned home--to Manhattan. Thus began my association with Trinity Church, located near Wall Street. For over 10 years I've supplied much more than rosaries, eager to add a new piece each year.

My dislike for beading flew out the window. I've learned to use a clay embedded with micrograms of silver flakes, called PMC, precious metal clay. As my bank account began to shrink because I bought beads every week, I realized I had to hit the sidewalks to peddle some jewelry.

The two photos above show my recent work: pendants--wrapping gemstones and glass beads with wire-- and making costume jewelry (I can do this more easily.) My fashion stylist son gave me a hint as to what designers would introduce this spring--purse charms. From a clip I hang chains to which I affix charms and beads. Not only for purse straps, these danglers--which I renamed "Swingers"--can be hooked onto belt loops, giving a smart look to a woman's jeans, shorts or pants. Since designers will be using more expensive materials, I think mine are better priced. I do have other colors. And other Swingers are made with vintage chains and beads.

What you see are in pink, as some of the proceeds will go to cancer research in honor of my sister who finished chemo last year, and for all who face the mountain of emotions upon hearing the dreaded news: You've Got Cancer.

If you are interested in purchasing either from me, drop me a line. The cross is attached for my church orders. I'll send you photos of the other styles and prices. If I receive a mail box full of inquiries, I may have to open a business blog! Now--wouldn't it be lov-a-ly?

Lost and Found

My sister has an automobile you can spot in a Wal Mart parking lot. It's yellow. Like egg yolks. I often remark when I'm with her how easy it is to find her vehicle. However, I warn, you can't just go "anywhere" in this egg crate. Like, spend the night with a secret lover, or park in front of a bank when it is robbed, or drive in an unsavory neighborhood and expect not to be stopped. Still, I like the idea of a vehicle that can be identified easily.

How often I've parked my car, rushed in to make a purchase, then return outside and walk directly to a cream-colored automobile, put the key in the lock, only to peek inside and not recognize the contents. Or, I've rushed out in a hurry with a cart filled to the brim with groceries only to forget the car;s location. Then I have to push the concrete-heavy cart up and down all rows of the lot to find my parking space.

The most embarrassing situation I've recently encountered was leaving a store with a million parking spaces in front, unsure of which row, and walking down the supposed one, stopping to look at other rows approximately where I think I parked, and to have a young woman drive into the adjacent parking space. She rolls down the window and asks if I've lost my car. Sheepishly I admit I have. Describe the color and make, she says smiling. I did, while I was still bobbing my head right and left. "What about that one behind you?" she points-- and sure enough, I was standing on the passenger side of my own car! I had held my head high enough to look over rows of cars not to notice the cars at chin level.

I tell you, the next automobile we buy will NOT be the same color as thousands of others. Or I'll paint a purple stripe at the 4 corners of the bumpers!

Changing in Middle of Stream

Despite careful notes on my accounts and passwords, I blunder constantly. What I've written down and then use somehow doesn't get me to a specific destination. So here I am having to change a previous good password into a new (better?) one to enter this beta blogger site. No previous trouble until Google figured this set up. I spent 10 minutes this afternoon trying to get right where I now am. I hope others of you haven't had the same difficulty.

Now, how am I going to know that the new password (given the "strong" approval) will be remembered by the unseen mechanisms behind my computer? I've written mine down and I better NOT have difficulty again! My brain power is diminishing. Enough said!

Christmas Eve Day

It is quiet here. No presents to wrap for grandkids, since we only have a grandcat. No reason for a tree, for getting into the attic with our arthritic backs seems too much trouble. So what do we do to feel the glow of the season? We buy lots of colored lights. String them across the front porch and around the living room walls. They are turned on all evening and we remember Christmases past...

Our first child, J, on his first Christmas had a shiny new fire engine and a package of Play Do sitting on the fender. On that morning, he ran to the engine, picked up the Play Do and never saw the fire engine. We left it where it was near the small tree until he noticed he had a second gift from Santa a week later.

In my growing up family we opened gifts Christmas Eve, and celebrated the Day preparing the big meal. In my own, only two of the three children wanted to open gifts the night before. So we made a practive of choosing one gift. As they grew we felt less inclined to provide innumerable gifts for the sake of gifting. We usually bought one gift that cost about $25 and a few small ones that were in the $2-$5 range. That was in the 1960's. We attended church Christmas Eve, followed by the opening of one gift.

The practice of a few gifts (because we couldn't afford buying more) gave us a way of teaching our kids that Christmas wasn't receiving as much as giving. We finished projects to give to special neighbors, friends, relatives. I don't know how many enjoyed receiving soap with pictures under wax, hand painted wooden ornaments, tuna cans wrapped in colored cord--but the idea of making and giving was the lesson.

Our middle son was affected the most by not receiving electronic equipment like the other kids in his class...we explained that sometimes the meaning of Christmas was lost on some families, or something like that. But S had so little to tell his classmates when January classes began. Later I found out that he created his gifts to appear "equal" to them.

One Christmas we gave him a watch that costs $25 and came from Sears (we had a standing account there for over 15 years). However, we picked one that had an interesting name other than "Sears". That, along with a few shirts and socks, was all we could give. We had two others to think about. When S returned to school his watch was the hit of the class--it was classy, according to S. We smiled. To this day, unless he reads this, he's never known the origin of his watch.

For several days of Christmas my husband's mother would spend the night and welcome Christmas Day with us. Once we wanted a family picture, so R showed Eliz how to hold the camera. "When I say 1-2-3 Smile, you push the button." He turned to us and said, "Now smile, everyone," and CLICK went the camera. "No, no, Mother, let me say 1-2-3 first, then SMILE before you push the button." Again he said softly to us in front of the tree, "Smile, everyone!" CLICK went the button. By then we were laughing so hard we didn't think a picture would ever be made! A few more tries with Daddy giving us hand signals did Eliz push the button, preserving that moment forever. This is one of our favorite grandmother events.

Funny about this grandmother. She always said she didn't believe in giving gifts. That's ok we said, you don't have to give anything, but accept what we give you. She just couldn't relax when she opened her gifts. Either the powder wasn't her fragrance, or the dish not useful. The key later, I discovered, was to say the gift was from her son, not from the family! When she did give her only grandchildren gifts they were:

chocolate covered cherries to the oldest grandson, her favorite
a bar of soap for the second grandson
a tube of toothpaste to the only granddaughter

You can imagine the reaction of these 8-12 year olds. But Mom and Dad fussed happily over the gifts, later explaining the meaning of receiving. As Grandmother explained, "I like to give useful gifts."

Her gifts continued in the same vein until she died. I have to say as they grew older, their thankfulness to her must have made her feel truly grateful for having selected "useful gifts."

Decorating the tree was a hassle. (Isn't it in any family?) Who did what last year? The oldest just wanted to put the Snoopy ornament on the tree while the sister was hefted up to place the star at the top, and the middle son put on the icicles...

Oldest son J was always the earliest riser Christmas mornings, quietly reviewing the packages and trying to figure out which were his. I wrapped each child's in a different figured paper and they didn't know which was theirs until we were gathered around the tree with our cups of hot apple cider.

Christmas morning breakfast was blueberry pancakes...the early (7 am) snack was our hand-me-down recipe of crackers topped by a slice of cheese with a marshmallow on top, broiled until the cheese melted; this still the ritual today when we gathered, no matter the season...

Those Christmases linger in our memories. Our oldest son lives nearby and continues a few tradtions for us. Daughter lives in Maine and middle son this year is celebrating his birthday and Christmas in Morocco. No grandkids yet...

.

Missing But in Action

I've not added an entry in a month. Too many obstructions, like getting out seasonal cards, making a trip to VA, preparing for the BIG LUNCH on the 25th.

However, my trip to Virginia was a lesson many sons and daughters of aging parents need to heed.

I volunteered to drive my frail cousin to her new home near Leesburg. Her daughter, unable to fly to Mississippi every time her mom needed someone, found an apartment near her home in Vienna, and the dread of leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar was enough to keep my cousin delaying for 12 months.

M's problem is one faced by innumerable older people who have to leave their homes. She had lived in a 4 bedroom, 3 bath home chock-full of furnishings and accessories that took 3 days to pack into the largest van I've ever seen. In the apartment complex, as the men unpacked, M began to fret. Where to put this, that, that over there? What to keep, what to move to daughter's basement? For hours the moving men worked steadily, men with patience and compassion for this little lady, until a path was made from one room to the other.

My job was to help M unpack boxes and make some semblance of a home for her. Be her companion for a week. We talked about family history, rehashing old stories passed down from parent to child, asking and answering questions about each of our parents. Her mother was my dad's oldest sister in a family of seven. We cleared family rumors, recalled visits as children...all those things that cousins talk about.

Within a few days M realized that once I left she had no friends and only her daughter, busy with her own life, to call upon when she needed company. An overwhelming grief and aloneness hit. I promised to call her often, visit her yearly on our way to New York. She may never feel comfortable, and this apartment will serve as a way station, a resting place until she dies. That thought alone made her feel her life shortening, although the average family age for passing is some 10 years away. There, in a strange conglomeration of apartment buildings she felt OLD. Yet, she has been one of the busiest, feisty ladies I know. She could do more in one day than I could accomplish in several.

No son or daughter in his/her prime of life rarely understands that one's own life must be put on hold when parents age. Not wanting to but needing to lean heavily on the only people these elders know, their children, comes unexpectedly. The parent cries out for a companion, listener, cook, traveler, and driver. How difficult it is to recognize that one can no longer do simple tasks without supervision. The stove becomes as dangerous as a loaded pistol; preparing meals alone becomes crackers and cheese one day and soup the next; making up the bed too much trouble, all the while one or more television sets blare in every room to dull the silence. Time is the propeller for accepting this new role in life.

I'm aging now with no need to leave the familiar for the unfamiliar. I hope my own children will find time to be my friend and companion.

More About Rangle

Our newspaper today, this Sunday before Thanksgiving Day, is full of pro and con letters to the editor concerning CR's remarks about our state.

One of our weekly columnist and book author, a chef extrodinaire, wanted to remind this Democrat that despite NYC having a gaggle of chef-driven restaurants, some of the best Southern food can be found in our state. (Has he tried our shrimp and grits?)

Other letters invited CR to visit before ever criticizing a place; declared that his crude remark didn't convince any troubled(by his remarks) Mississippian to think that his beloved New York City was better when pollutants, crowded real estate, high taxes, impossible prices for living quarters plague citizens.

Perhaps our slow speech and laid-back life give a false impression of our abilities and education. Our governor, Haley Barbour, was recently named the nation's most outstanding governor in the November issue and a 2006 Public Official of the Year, by Governing magazine, an independent magazine focusing on coverage of state and local government. The magazine stated this honor was for "being straight about the utter devastation in the area but also for his own demeanor in public appearances that suggested the state would summon the will to rebuild."

The state is full of famous and successful writers, professional football players, actors, businessmen. Ask Morgan Freeman why he's living in Mississippi between movies. Ask Brett Favre why he yearly returns to his home state. Ask any literary buff why Eudora Welty remained in her home state after several awards from the French government and world-wide recognition. These and other greats have found the quiet life of our state far more enticing and inexpensive than any place in the East.

We have cleaner air, lower taxes, reasonable real estate prices, and we are hospitable. We don't constantly say "I hate Democrats(Republicans)!" Hate isn't a part of our disagreement vocabulary. We vote, and if the other party wins, we quietly go about working with that party. "We are brought up to be nice to people like him (CR)" stated one writer. "What he may not know is that we are the first to go anywhere in the world that we are needed."

And to that remark, our helping others, a young woman aiding Katrina victims on the Gulf Coast, related recently on local radio, that volunteers from New York City, which included firemen and policemen, complimented the locals for their willingness to help one another, despite having lost so much themselves. They thought our hospitality overcame any preconceived misgivings the volunteers had before arriving on the Coast.

Another writer from Staten Island, stated "It's absolutely true that New York City sends tons more hard-earned tax dollars to the federal government than it ever gets back, and Mississippians get more back than they pay." How does he come to this conclusion? Wages are high because living there takes a large chunk of earnings. There are probably far more have-nots in the City than in our state, and tax dollars are levied on those who have. True, our tax base isn't as high, but we, too, have a part of our population that doesn't work, depends on the government for existence, lives in poor housing, etc. Our taxes can't begin to help them when our public school education is drowning, populated by those same low economic class folks. We suffer from money problems as does the City, only to a lesser degree.

Everyone has carved a little heaven where (s)he lives and no one should blatantly criticize another's home without first-hand knowledge.

Well, Charlie apologized, but only after pressure was exerted. He will be under scrutiny until he can prove he's a better leader than an extemporaneous speaker.

I Forgive You, Charlie

You probably have never been south of Philadelphia, PA; never eaten soul food; never were interested in American History; never knew the exact location of the state of Mississippi. Well, Charlie, folks like you should never make public a ridiculous remark as you did.("...who'd want to LIVE in Mississippi!")

I forgive your senseless remark. It was made in the heat of the moment. Made without forethought. Made in the ecstasy of your win.

How would you have reacted if at your door a few days later you found a dozen roses, a box of home made fudge, balloons attached to a box of home made cookies, a frozen container of turnip greens with cornbread, a lovely coconut cake made from scratch???

Well, we folks should have killed you with kindness in that manner; however, we dismissed you with a wave of our hand. Perhaps later next year we'll understand your importance in the government. Perhaps you'll have to make a trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to be sure the money being spent there is done wisely. Perhaps you'll discover by talking to our local folk that we are very friendly, show interest in your visit, and perhaps you'll be invited to eat dinner. You'll discover how independent we are, that we know how to pull ourselves up by our bootstrings, rarely complain about what the government isn't giving, yes, GIVING, to us. We don't feel entitled to let the government help us until we've helped ourselves.

One bit of advice, Charlie Boy: Think before you speak. Smile. Speak softly.

Maybe we'll respect you before the next year wanes.