Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘humor’

Lively Conversations on a Dead Cell Phone

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 2, 2014| 1 Comment »

Innocence is one of the most exciting things in the world. (Eartha Kitt)

My old cell phone hasn’t had a battery for who-knows-how-long. However, five-year-old Ella picks it up and brings it to life with her imagination. She mimics the motions she has seen in adults, complete with subtle movements and voice tones. When her conversation has ended she closes the flip top slowly, deliberately. I’m the follower in this scenario, the fortunate observer. Ella understands but is not able to fully verbalize what she knows.

I guess the phone has rung again as she says, “hello,” hands the blackened screen to me, and adds, “It’s Dy,” short for Daddy.

She grins when I say that he is playing baseball and not at work. Daddy is working, but explaining an office setting to a five-year-old doesn’t create fun play.

“Should he stop at the store and get bananas on the way home?” I try for mock seriousness and hope she buys it.

“Yes,” she answers.

“What else?”

“A bike,” she adds.

I refrain from laughing. Nothing seems random in a child’s world. After we finish with several quick turns saying hi, bye, and what-are-you-doing-now, we enter a pretend playground where Dora, the Explorer; a tennis ball; and a plush ladybug all take turns going down a plastic slide. Reality is suspended for a while.

And I feel strangely free, privileged, invited to this spot on the floor surrounded by toys on an ordinary Thursday morning.

The folk who read my blog regularly know that my youngest granddaughter has Down syndrome; Down syndrome does not own my granddaughter. She continues to play as I get her ready to leave for the day. I have trouble getting her shoes on properly. They need to give her adequate ankle support. She seems to understand my frailties and doesn’t fuss. I thank her for her patience and wonder how much she intuits. This little blonde with the huge blue eyes is amazingly easy to love.

I envision her at Daycare after school some day as she plays with a toy phone. Does she ever say, “Hi, Mawmaw?” This isn’t the kind of thing I am likely to know. My hearing isn’t that good within the same room, with amplification, much less from one part of town to another. Nevertheless, I smile thinking about it.

She smiles back now. That’s more than good enough.

the world as it should be

Read Full Post »

Where Earthquake, Fire, and Comaraderie Meet

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2014| 2 Comments »

I’ve lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened. (Mark Twain)

In the wee hours of the morning a six-point earthquake hits the Napa Valley; San Francisco responds with some twitches strong enough to sway a skyscraper. Jay and I are on the eleventh floor of a hotel—we sleep through the rocking. We don’t discover what we missed until the next morning at breakfast when the other members of our tour tell us what happened. Many of our fellow travelers wondered if the building was cracking. We haven’t been watching the news, and we don’t plan to follow it; this is our vacation.

However, the wine tasting event, next on the agenda, is canceled. The roads to Sonoma are torn like cheap cardboard. Since I drink un-fermented juice, I’m not as disappointed as some other folk could be. I had planned to celebrate the artistic twist of the vine and the shine of the grape against the sun. Fortunately the wine drinkers have a sense of perspective. They show greater concern for the people affected by the quake. I don’t hear any grumbling.

Our adventure has barely begun. A car fire on the expressway ignites a wildfire that closes a major expressway—the one leading to our next stay.

Our tour director, Craig Cherry, maintains a sense of humor. He and our superb driver, Jeannie Williams, map out another route, hours out of our way.

Then comes strike three, more literal than anyone would like. A rock flies from a truck into the windshield of the bus. Tiny shards fly everywhere. One hits the leg of a front-row passenger. She is too shocked to react. The window crack grows from a small line into a much larger one. The window could shatter at any time.

Jeannie and Craig find a close convenient store large enough for us to wait until a new bus arrives. The wait in ninety-nine-degree Fresno is amazingly short. While our tour guide and bus driver work we build camaraderie: jokes; shared life stories and ice cream; unusual items on the shelves; “Can you believe this gizmo makes popcorn in your car?”

When the remote control to the DVD player is missing batteries, Craig announces, “I’ve got to be on Candid Camera!” We are all old enough to remember the program. Fortunately, someone toward the back of the bus has two double AA’s.

By the time we arrive at our destination we aren’t comfortable. We’re stiff, tired, and a bit dazed. But, chances are that if any one of us are asked if we remember the Globus California  Tour of late August, 2014, we will smile and say, “Oh, yeah!” with a smile the size of the state. Sometimes bad circumstances bring out the best in people. Thanks to Craig for his leadership. A little humor and a lot of patience make all the difference.

(photo taken from the bus of a burned section of forest, fire caused by a lightning strike)

burned forest in California

Read Full Post »

A Dog Named Spike

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014| 2 Comments »

A dog will teach you unconditional love. If you can have that in your life, things won’t be too bad. (Robert Wagner)

I’ve often said that I won’t be allergic to dogs and cats in my next life—as if I had a genuine grasp of what a next life looks like, embraces, or involves. I don’t always know where my cell phone is, much less the substance of the infinite. However, I really would love to squat down and call, “Come here, Spike,” and then let my grand-dog lick my arms, neck, and  face—slobber all over me if he wanted.

Spike is an example of acceptance and unconditional love.

My youngest granddaughter is sick. I’m bringing dinner to her daddy’s house. My visiting time must be limited. I can manage short encounters, but as soon as I feel the slightest chest tightness I need to leave the premises, as in immediately. Itchy eyes would be difficult enough; I need to give up breathing to enjoy the presence of a fur-bearing creature. Fortunately, the weather allows us to eat on the patio. Outside, Spike can shed all he wants and the air absorbs the allergens. And I can appreciate him.

He looks for morsels of dropped food, but doesn’t growl when no one gives him a handout.  He already had dinner.  He stops by my chair and looks up, dark eyes begging to be petted. I smile and congratulate him on his many virtues, but don’t make contact with his soft fur. He moves away, patiently lying close to the table and waits for attention.

I think about how unlike Spike I would be in similar circumstances. So you’re the snooty type. Okay, suit yourself. I don’t need you either. Perhaps my grand-dog sees deeper than I do. He settles next to Ella and her daddy as he cradles the suffering little girl in his lap. Maybe Spike is sending positive vibes.

It’s hard to tell what he understands. I don’t speak dog. The folk who have a loyal pet are both fortunate and blessed.

 

Spike is a tad larger, black with white markings, but his expression is similar to this dog’s.

sleeping dog

Read Full Post »

From the Mouths of Pretending-to-be-babes

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 29, 2014| 4 Comments »

The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination. (Albert Einstein)

While I loved and admired my grandmother, we didn’t share that many secrets and stories. I treasure the few incidents from her life that she did tell me. Her health wasn’t good. She lacked the stamina for running or getting down on the floor with an active child. Moreover, those were formal times. The generations were held together with a love focused on respect instead of interaction. I’m grateful for a break in the generation barrier that allows me to play with my grandchildren—to enter into their imaginative realm.

During an out-of-the-box moment I try to teach pretending-to-be toddlers Kate and Rebe how to say Mama. They refuse. They can speak in full, well expressed sentences. The word, Mama, however, isn’t on their list. They giggle at the absurdity of it, and I roll my eyes.

“You can say paparazzi,” I say with an exaggerated sigh.

“Paparazzi,” they repeat with perfect diction.

Their laughter fills the room.

“But not Mama?” I plead.

They shake their heads.

“What about historiography?”

“Historiography!” the girls say, not missing a syllable.

Then Kate breaks the tone of the game. “What does it mean, Grandma?”

“That’s a college word. It is the study of history and how it is put together from the tellers’ viewpoint. The South would have a completely different way of seeing the Civil War than the North would.”

She nods, appearing to understand.

She runs to get a note card to write down the information. It is storming, so I am glad that I don’t go to the computer for an official definition. Dictionary.com presents a meaning less easy to process—true, but nowhere near as child-friendly.

“More words! More words!” Kate exclaims returning to character.

But Grandpa enters the room. It is time for a different activity.

I hope we play this game again. We reach from the real into the unreal and back again, with elastic minds. Sometimes I learn from my girls; sometimes they learn from me. Our time is always an adventure.

believe in magic

Read Full Post »

The Imagination Masters

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 10, 2014| 3 Comments »

“There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million.” (Walt Streightiff)

Sometimes the imaginative play of my two older grandchildren makes me laugh out loud. I’m their quintessential audience. They know it; so do I.

Rebe’s doll-under-the-T-shirt-motherhood game expands as she decides she is a mama who gives birth to a new baby every day for ten days in a row. Every doll and stuffed animal comes off the toy shelf: dog, rabbit, cow, even Barney the dinosaur. Rebe glories in her perpetual-motion image. Her ten-year-old big sister, Kate, recognizes the impossibility of it all and expands on the scenario. She decides that she is among the newborn lineup. Not only is she the product of a mob birth, she can talk, crawl, and create mischief.

Naturally, Kate notes, this phenomenon would draw the attention of paparazzi. As soon as a fantasy crowd appears she says, “goo.” After they leave, her antics return.

I write fiction and have been publishing frequently with http://pikerpress.com. However, my stories need a basis in reality. Rebe mimics a rooster to announce morning and then moves the day into evening thirty seconds later. Characters change places midstream.

For a child an empty plastic teacup holds coffee, tea, or a magic potion that turns a bird into a frog or a chicken into a dinosaur. Possibilities are endless. A youngster’s chi embraces the sky and has arm room left to grasp more.

I am in no hurry for my granddaughters to grow up. Sure, I’m tired by the end of the day after trying to keep up with individuals who move with hummingbird-wing speed. My own chores remain untouched. I have written nothing. All tasks have been put off for tomorrow, maybe the day after. But, not many people have been in the presence of a woman who gave birth to ten babies—almost simultaneously.

Besides, there’s something priceless about sitting in front of the television between two girls who both want dibs on Grandma. Actually, I’m not owned by either girl, just temporarily transported into their world where anything can happen. A zombie may suddenly appear and eat us alive. Yet, we can laugh through the experience and leap into the next one, without losing any of the fun.

save the kid in you

 

Read Full Post »

A Boat Full of Imaginary Soup—And Pie

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 3, 2014| 2 Comments »

Dare to be naïve. (Richard Buckminster Fuller )

Our youngest granddaughter, four-year-old Ella, sounds out words but doesn’t talk in many sentences yet. Down syndrome has affected her speech. She understands, but is limited in her ability to speak fluently.

I am giving Ella a bubble bath as she plays with water toys. The boat soon becomes a cooking pot where she makes soup.

“What kind is it?” I ask.

“Green.”

As she pours that pot out into the tub, she dips more suds into her boat-pot. “White soup.”

I suspect that she wants to add some dessert to the menu when she says, “pie.”

“What kind?”

She grins—with an energy that reaches across her face, pauses, and then mouths what sounds like flatulence.

That is not the answer I expect. Apparently her interaction with other children at school and daycare has extended her life appreciation in multiple directions. “Fart-sound pie,” I tell the towel rack.

“Fart,” she says, once, the R well-rounded and clear. She giggles. So do I. Fortunately the word does not become a mantra the way it does with most children when they discover minor vulgarity.

She merely laughs, her blue eyes flashing simple delight. After she is dried and dressed she runs holding the boat out in front of her, leading it from one room to the other. She has places to go and is eager to travel—wherever her path leads.

When her older cousins, Kate and Rebe, arrive several days later the first thing they want to know is when they can see Ella next. Since I don’t have a date yet I share the bathtub story. Ella’s sense of humor can be present anyway.

Kate and Rebe repeat the tale as if they are putting it into a mini-drama and need to memorize every detail. It will grow stale, in time, replaced by another incident. But I hope the three girls are always eager to see one another, to celebrate the freshness of who-they-are. May their naivety remain intact for many years. And may they continue sharing it with Grandma.

After all, Ella’s first full sentence was, “I love you.”

 

bath toys

 

 

Read Full Post »

Sound, Hearing, Listening

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on June 20, 2014| 5 Comments »

You are imperfect, permanently, and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful. (Amy Bloom)

After nine years my hearing aids gave out. The parts are no longer made, something like finding a replacement carburetor for a 1948 Chevy at the corner auto repair shop.  New hearing aids cost as much as a private jet and I have put off the purchase a tad too long. Of course I have joked that what I hear can be a lot more interesting than what someone actually said. Sometimes what I catch makes no sense at all. At other times it is best-not-repeated in a PG-oriented setting.

My new set is nothing like my old pair. Unfortunately, the left side of my mouth just happens to be bleeding from an archeological dig made to fit a replacement crown and my neighboring audio canal is responding with intense sympathy. The ear doesn’t want to be bothered with a microphone and wire. The right side decides to play ally and balk against foreign materials as well.

Fortunately my audiologist knows some tricks. She suggests a gel as well as a wiggling motion to get the gosh-darned-thing into place. She says that everyone has different ear canal shapes. I’m amazed. I know mine are slender, unlike the rest of me. (I don’t need two airplane seats, but I’m not a model’s size either.) While I’m not comfortable I hold onto the hope that tension and repeated in-and-out-of-foreign-objects-into-my-ears is making this situation difficult.

Now, days later, I stand in my living room at six in the morning and listen to the birds, singing in stereo outside the front and side windows. I revel in the fact that I hear, and that I can adjust the level of that sound—although I’m a bit clumsy with the buttons. The house grows silent and I suddenly wonder if my sound-wonder tools have fallen out. No. I hear a slight rustling as my finger touches the surface. This is a good sign.

I’m a bit clumsy with anything new. I claim both imperfection and permanent flaws. The journey would be downright boring if I already knew everything.

In this picture my hearing aids suggest the beginning of a fantasy song—in the key of C, adjustable, flowing, imperfect maybe, but full of possibilities.

hearing06192014_0000

Read Full Post »

Under the Sink, Open and Flowing

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2014| 2 Comments »

If you don’t know where you’re going, how will you know when you get there? (Casey Stengel)

When is this sink ever going to drain? I ask myself. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes not. With or without an oath. The plunger is my friend, but sometimes it gets lazy and refuses to let the water move no matter how much energy I put into my part of the job. After all, I have not dropped crud or grease down the pipes. Sure, the man who put in my new dishwasher said I should have one of my old pipes replaced, relatively soon. It looks like it came from Rome’s original system. But, if it has lasted this long, and all I have is a few occasional drips easily captured in an aluminum pan, what should it matter? Someone is coming next week to look at the problem.

“Sure, I can handle it,” that man says as he squats under the sink. Then comes the uh oh. The piece breaks off in his hands. I suppose I should have taken a picture of the rotted, clogged, rusted pipe that has been living under our sink since the house was built in 1957—but it wouldn’t have drawn many people back for a second look. If this piece of pipe had been living tissue it would have needed emergency bypass surgery. The medical team would have wondered how the patient had managed to stay alive.

Nothing short of a miracle has kept water flowing through galvanized metal blocked so thoroughly acid would need to fight to pass through. And yet, this old hunk of metal has done the best it could until the end. Sorry I made you work so hard, I tell the severed piece lying on my kitchen floor. Although I’m not really talking to an inanimate object. I’m telling myself to pay more attention to those aspects of the ordinary that give me clues I ignore, generally because I’m busy with so-called more important matters.

Sure I know where I’m going. Sort of. On a spiritual plane anyway. But since I happen to live on this existential planet it might be a good idea to recognize where I am, every step, stone, and pipe along the way.

tomorrow year not specified06092014_0000

Read Full Post »

The Profound, The Banal, and A Flying Toyota

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 24, 2014| 2 Comments »

 Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion. (Rumi)

When I create characters and put them on a page they take more space than I give them. They woo me as if they were real, and I begin to resent time spent on the mundane got-to-do tasks. When the phone rings I am grateful to see on Caller-ID an out-of-state number I don’t recognize. After all, I don’t need a condo in Outer Mongolia; free offers rarely are. Let the ring come to a natural end.

However, sometimes the interruption is my work.

Yesterday I planned to finish the final edits on a novel. It didn’t happen. I needed to babysit for my two younger grandchildren. Six-year-old Rebecca and I turned my ’97 Toyota into a taxi while she presented plans for the afternoon with her younger cousin, Ella. I listened. Miss Rebecca’s enthusiasm is contagious. It fills in the creases in my marionette-lined face and lets me know I’m alive—outside the margins of a printed page. I can easily become a hermit. Heaven to me means hours creating fiction or editing real life into my own point of view. Actually, heaven and earth, also known as the profound and the banal, or the uplifting and the detrimental, live together somehow.

Grandma’s taxi turned into a plane. We flew into a cloudless sky while the trees budded within view. We belonged to the universe, and I realized my metaphorical cave, even if it had a hundred windows, could soon grow dark and shrink into light and shadow.

“Where should we go next?” I asked my granddaughter.

“To the park.”

“By taxi or plane?” I ask.

It isn’t very far. She decides we can go by car as we join the universe in ecstatic motion.

a smile from God

 

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

Wrapped in Blessings

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 28, 2014| 2 Comments »

The most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers. (Thich Nhat Hanh)

I am enjoying time with friends and listening to what they have to say, to who they are. But I am distracted by a tickling in the back of my throat and ask Marie to reread an inspirational passage she has just read. I’d been coughing and all I heard was the cadence of her voice.

As I open a cough drop and lay the wrapper in my lap I notice something I’ve never seen before. Sure I’ve soothed my throat with Hall’s Drops for years, but I never paid a second’s notice to the paper. All I cared about was easing the irritation. Messages appear on the wrapper: Push on. Don’t give up on yourself. You can do it. I laugh and then read them aloud.

All four of us have never noticed the words tucked around that promise of relief. Pat gets up to ask her husband if he has ever seen the tiny printed words. He has. I gather the rest of us have been too busy, focused only on a task—or worse on the end product, not the blessings inherent in the moment. Since the purpose of our gathering is spiritual, I get the clue: life is in the now, every minute aspect of it.

Two days later, after I’ve taken a picture of the wrappers that didn’t get blown away by an unexpected wind that reached into my pocket, something else unexpected happens. I haven’t had breakfast but feel as if my stomach is full, or as if something very heavy is weighing it down. Nevertheless, I manage to sample two free cookies and my usual coffee with another group of friends. Within an hour I’m desperately sorry. Everything comes up much faster than it went down.

Since my husband continues to recover from fractured ribs this is not a good time to be relegated to the couch—inches from a plastic bucket. However, like the unexpected blessings printed into the wrapper, surprises appear.

“What can I get for you?” my husband asks. True, my gut hasn’t yet recovered from my last upchuck, but it doesn’t matter. Jay doesn’t want me to get dehydrated. “I need to try to do a little more anyway.” The graciousness in his voice is transparent. This is good. It’s what real-life love is all about.

cough drop wrapper

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »