“You’re so lucky! This is the last one of this model on the lot.” He escorts us to the far end of the impressive expanse of asphalt real estate.
Mark registers mock horror as a game show “wrong answer” buzz emanates from his pocket.
“What was THAT?” the car salesman asks.
“Oh, so sorry… that was my ‘Bull-shit detector’ going off.” my husband replies.
Our two daughters and I giggle. It's really funny. I feel for the guy, but I'm only the teeniest bit embarrassed for him.
Undaunted, the salesman walks on, looking from one to the other of us, guffawing in a jovial, good-sport sort of way. Maybe he really believes his is the best dealership in the world.
We look over the Dodge Caravan and decide it really isn’t for us after all.
Next stop is to test drive the new Toyota Van at yet another dealership. In 1983, we've had to put $100 down simply to get an appointment to look at this hot ticket item from Japan, where its prototype has been test driven for a decade or more as a taxi. We like it fine, but Mark balks at the price tag, lack of wiggle room for negotiating, and the arrogance of the individual salesman. Eventually, it will be the car which we buy, after some obligatory haggling. We enjoyed that car for eight years before trading it for a coffee table made by an artist friend.
If you’re in the market to buy a car - new or used, there’s no better companion to bring with you than my husband. He and his inspired questions, choreography, and patented bullshit detector are guaranteed to get you the best deal.
Imagine, then how hard it is for him to sit back on the side-lines and only be an online cheerleader. (Online as in telephone consult, not computer contact... and not in person.) Our daughter is in process of negotiating with various car dealers in the Bay Area. She knows what she wants, and has been doing R & D to narrow the field for the specific details on her wish list, and to find out who is offering the best deal.
I’m so proud of her for standing her ground with several prototypical sleazeball salesmen.
The tricky parental-involvement-dance between gentle encouragement / cheerleading, and sharing just the right amount of information borne of experience deserves careful practice. We want her to feel empowered, and also get the best deal she can.
So far, so good. She’s got the dealership, the salesman, and the car lined up… now it’s a simple waiting game while the details are being ironed out. By tomorrow afternoon, we hope she has a new car! (well, a new for her 2013 car!)
If not, it's back to Research and Development and more kicking of Tires.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Road to Enfeeblement
The Road to Enfeeblement
How does it begin?
The spokes of the wheel on the one-horse-shay never even began to give way.
In this mortal flesh and blood body, is it the subtle increase of arthritic pain, the limitation of range of motion in certain joints, or the increasing awareness that memory and hearing definitely are not what they used to be that signals we’ve just switched over from cruisin’ the highway of life - in relative comfort with good brakes, shock absorbers, and mileage - to the less desirable byway I’ve named The Road to Enfeeblement?
I’m hopeful Enfeeblement is not a destination close at hand, for you or me, but one never knows, do one?
When illness or injury happen, what can we do to find our way back, at least temporarily, to cruise speed on the more desirable highway?
What practices are tried and true?
What’s really working for you?
Yoga’s always been my go-to.
Meditation too.
In a stew? Self-reflective writing will do.
Walking, dancing, following through
On all those lists of things to-do
Hike with a buddy, Epsom soak, massage
Healing with the feeling that illness is a passage
Giving thanks for every bit of function I enjoy
Helps me find compassion for each girl and boy
As we encounter one another on the road
Can we stop and offer help with a heavy load?
Viewing up close and personal the reality of each stage
Of life may help prepare us for the decrepitude of age.
We don’t have to like it, but can we find some grace
To help us on our travels and the pot holes we all face?
Making time for the practices beyond the distractions and resistance is quite a trick, eh?
Maybe our equations need a revamp. If I factor myself into the equation of twenty four hours I’m allotted every day, I hum along so much better than if I drop that factor out.
Jokingly, I’ve been known to say, “If I did everything I want to do first thing in the morning, it would take me until four O’clock in the afternoon!”
Guess what? No joke, I’ve found I must do at least one of those practices each twenty four hours, or else… or else the spokes on the wheel begin to creak, splinter, and give way to enfeeblement.
Busy as I may be with projects for the house, the occasional client, personal care, writing, time with the Grandie, music, friend/family support, socializing, gardening, etc., I have to remember that in my world, I am a hub for my personal wheel. If I’m off balance, it’s a rough ride!
Oh, and coffee helps. I get so much more accomplished on those days I imbibe!
Sleep is a tonic, lest my speed become super-sonic.
Hug a hub central
Let me stay ventral
Like a bubble bursts all at a go
Let me evaporate fast, not slow!
Below is the original poem of inspiration...
“The One Hoss Shay"
by
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858)
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
The deacon inquired of the village folk
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
"Naow she'll dew"
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
"She was a wonder, and nothing less"
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
"Deacons and deaconesses dropped away"
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen-hundred...
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; --it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
and FIFTY-FIVE...
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
Its hundredth year
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra charge.)
"A general flavor of mild decay"
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
"In another hour it will be worn out"
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. - Off went they.
"The parson takes a drive"
The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
"All at once the horse stood still"
- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
"something decidedly like a spill"
-- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
"Just as bubbles do when they burst"
End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
"End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay"
How does it begin?
The spokes of the wheel on the one-horse-shay never even began to give way.
In this mortal flesh and blood body, is it the subtle increase of arthritic pain, the limitation of range of motion in certain joints, or the increasing awareness that memory and hearing definitely are not what they used to be that signals we’ve just switched over from cruisin’ the highway of life - in relative comfort with good brakes, shock absorbers, and mileage - to the less desirable byway I’ve named The Road to Enfeeblement?
I’m hopeful Enfeeblement is not a destination close at hand, for you or me, but one never knows, do one?
When illness or injury happen, what can we do to find our way back, at least temporarily, to cruise speed on the more desirable highway?
What practices are tried and true?
What’s really working for you?
Yoga’s always been my go-to.
Meditation too.
In a stew? Self-reflective writing will do.
Walking, dancing, following through
On all those lists of things to-do
Hike with a buddy, Epsom soak, massage
Healing with the feeling that illness is a passage
Giving thanks for every bit of function I enjoy
Helps me find compassion for each girl and boy
As we encounter one another on the road
Can we stop and offer help with a heavy load?
Viewing up close and personal the reality of each stage
Of life may help prepare us for the decrepitude of age.
We don’t have to like it, but can we find some grace
To help us on our travels and the pot holes we all face?
Making time for the practices beyond the distractions and resistance is quite a trick, eh?
Maybe our equations need a revamp. If I factor myself into the equation of twenty four hours I’m allotted every day, I hum along so much better than if I drop that factor out.
Jokingly, I’ve been known to say, “If I did everything I want to do first thing in the morning, it would take me until four O’clock in the afternoon!”
Guess what? No joke, I’ve found I must do at least one of those practices each twenty four hours, or else… or else the spokes on the wheel begin to creak, splinter, and give way to enfeeblement.
Busy as I may be with projects for the house, the occasional client, personal care, writing, time with the Grandie, music, friend/family support, socializing, gardening, etc., I have to remember that in my world, I am a hub for my personal wheel. If I’m off balance, it’s a rough ride!
Oh, and coffee helps. I get so much more accomplished on those days I imbibe!
Sleep is a tonic, lest my speed become super-sonic.
Hug a hub central
Let me stay ventral
Like a bubble bursts all at a go
Let me evaporate fast, not slow!
Below is the original poem of inspiration...
“The One Hoss Shay"
by
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858)
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
The deacon inquired of the village folk
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
"Naow she'll dew"
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
"She was a wonder, and nothing less"
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
"Deacons and deaconesses dropped away"
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen-hundred...
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; --it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
and FIFTY-FIVE...
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
Its hundredth year
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra charge.)
"A general flavor of mild decay"
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
"In another hour it will be worn out"
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. - Off went they.
"The parson takes a drive"
The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
"All at once the horse stood still"
- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
"something decidedly like a spill"
-- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
"Just as bubbles do when they burst"
End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
"End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay"
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Mom Support
A volunteer spaghetti squash plant is growing in the front yard. At least, I think it volunteered. Perhaps, it was purposefully planted by the former owners of our new home. However it got here, I’m grateful for its golden oval offerings, and a friend taught me how to ensure there will be more.
Donna showed me the difference between the male and female flowers, and taught me how to “tickle” the male stamens with a cotton swab, and drop that golden dust onto the eager and waiting female flower centers. Both are golden, and wide open from early morning through noon. There is a discernible difference! (I’ve just been using my finger, because I don’t carry cotton swabs in my pocket.)
The pollen transfer seems to be working. I’ve harvested three plump beauties so far, and a couple more are growing.
An interesting phenomenon seems to be tipping the balance between male and female flower production, however. Deer have found the squash vine. They must step over the low brick wall enclosing the growing area in order to graze on the large succulent leaves in the pre-dawn hours. I stepped out one morning to admire and water the plant, with my patented “gray water system”, meaning I take a dish tub that happens to be gray, in which I catch the run-off from rinsing dishes or washing hands in the sink, and use that to water the few plants growing through the “brown-is-the-new-green” redwood-bark “lawn”, only to find the twenty foot wide sprawl of the plant transformed into a sea of green but leafless stems. The already fruiting out buds continue to grow into squashes, but I spy no more female flowers with my little eye!
Ain’t Nature wonderful? I believe She is saying, “Well, there isn’t enough photo-synthesis available with so few leaves to nurture new life, so best act hopeful that a buzzing bee will take this male pollen to a nearby female flower in another garden!” There are at least a dozen male flowers - wide open, but not a single female flower since the day of the deer mow-down.
The female of all species needs support to bring forth new life - leaf support for photosynthesis for plants; adequate range, and variety of food for critters, and trust, nurturance, and emotional support for human females mothering their young.
Support a local mom near you today. Cotton swabs for tickling non-essential.
Monday, August 10, 2015
In the wake of a family wedding...
LUV.
Family.
Love ‘em up.
Accept them as they are.
Encourage stepping out into the unknown.
Support brave attempts to make a difference in the world.
Everyday, ordinary conversations can be peppered with loving affirmations.
Boundaries that are resilient but not rigid may morph to maintain sanity for all concerned.
Cradle to crypt is a mighty short trip. Best to let small stuff slide off the back.
Does this one take in love through his eyes, or stomach?
This one feeling unsure, unworthy, unknown?
That one dreaming of love?
Love ‘em up.
Simply.
Love.
Family.
Love ‘em up.
Accept them as they are.
Encourage stepping out into the unknown.
Support brave attempts to make a difference in the world.
Everyday, ordinary conversations can be peppered with loving affirmations.
Boundaries that are resilient but not rigid may morph to maintain sanity for all concerned.
Cradle to crypt is a mighty short trip. Best to let small stuff slide off the back.
Does this one take in love through his eyes, or stomach?
This one feeling unsure, unworthy, unknown?
That one dreaming of love?
Love ‘em up.
Simply.
Love.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Human Doing
Accomplished is how I feel.
The cost of hiring a plumber was averted by fixing the clogged drain in the bathroom sink myself. (Note: Coconut oil used on skin, and washing one’s face with cold water to save the water needed to warm it up, really CLOGS things up very well.) I took apart the drain plug mechanism, used an old toothbrush to scrape out the congealed oil, and poured boiling water down the pipe. Ta Da!
Before that, I figured out how to install and rev-up a new back-up device for my computer. It had been forty days since the old one got too full to handle any more data, so I’m feeling relieved that I’m now relatively “safe” from losing data.
Before that, I installed a new phone system that has better reception and reaches into the farthest flung room of this sprawler of a house.
The above two electronic tasks may not seem like a big deal, but to a Luddite such as I am, and while my much more tech-savvy husband is away, it really felt like a big deal to me!
The garden is a work in progress, but I was able to trim back two of the five oak volunteers on the hillside out back. An arborist told me that hear in Oakland, we’re not allowed to cut back any trunk greater than four inches in diameter. These two inch shoots were cut nicely by using the long-handled lever pruning shears. I wove some of the slenderest lengths into circles. Either they’ll make good kindling - like the rest of the sticks I laid straight (seven, eight….) OR perhaps little tiny baby shields with leather or silk stretched over them, and symbols affixed to them with paint or appliqué. Right now, they look cute as their four to seven inch diameters lay about - drying in the deep pine needles on the patio.
Sunday’s task was vacuuming the refrigerator condenser. A little light came on to say DO IT NOW, so I found the manual and followed directions - trusty Phillips head screwdriver in hand.
Pot-luck supper at the Church of Last Resort, as neighbor Jean calls it, was a lovely venue for socializing. I met a gal who began a grief group for families after her own husband died unexpectedly. She seemed very interested in We Can Have Hope, the camp for families that have lost a child, which takes place twice a year at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. It’s part of We Can - Pediatric Brain Tumor Network.
Networking is gooood.
I feel accomplished.
The cost of hiring a plumber was averted by fixing the clogged drain in the bathroom sink myself. (Note: Coconut oil used on skin, and washing one’s face with cold water to save the water needed to warm it up, really CLOGS things up very well.) I took apart the drain plug mechanism, used an old toothbrush to scrape out the congealed oil, and poured boiling water down the pipe. Ta Da!
Before that, I figured out how to install and rev-up a new back-up device for my computer. It had been forty days since the old one got too full to handle any more data, so I’m feeling relieved that I’m now relatively “safe” from losing data.
Before that, I installed a new phone system that has better reception and reaches into the farthest flung room of this sprawler of a house.
The above two electronic tasks may not seem like a big deal, but to a Luddite such as I am, and while my much more tech-savvy husband is away, it really felt like a big deal to me!
The garden is a work in progress, but I was able to trim back two of the five oak volunteers on the hillside out back. An arborist told me that hear in Oakland, we’re not allowed to cut back any trunk greater than four inches in diameter. These two inch shoots were cut nicely by using the long-handled lever pruning shears. I wove some of the slenderest lengths into circles. Either they’ll make good kindling - like the rest of the sticks I laid straight (seven, eight….) OR perhaps little tiny baby shields with leather or silk stretched over them, and symbols affixed to them with paint or appliqué. Right now, they look cute as their four to seven inch diameters lay about - drying in the deep pine needles on the patio.
Sunday’s task was vacuuming the refrigerator condenser. A little light came on to say DO IT NOW, so I found the manual and followed directions - trusty Phillips head screwdriver in hand.
Pot-luck supper at the Church of Last Resort, as neighbor Jean calls it, was a lovely venue for socializing. I met a gal who began a grief group for families after her own husband died unexpectedly. She seemed very interested in We Can Have Hope, the camp for families that have lost a child, which takes place twice a year at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. It’s part of We Can - Pediatric Brain Tumor Network.
Networking is gooood.
I feel accomplished.
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