When the going gets tough

I borrowed this from Roger @ his blog "There's Always Something"


When the Going Gets Tough...


"A parable is told of a farmer who owned an old mule. The mule fell into the farmer's well. The farmer heard the mule 'braying' or whatever mules do when they fall into wells. After carefully assessing the situation, the farmer sympathized with the mule, but decided that neither the mule nor the well was worth the trouble of saving. Instead, he called his neighbors together and told them what had happened, and enlisted them to help haul dirt to bury the old mule in the well and put him out of his misery. Initially, the old mule was hysterical! But as the farmer and his neighbors continued shoveling and the dirt hit his back, a thought struck the mule. It suddenly dawned on him that every time a shovel load of dirt landed on his back, he should shake it off and step up! This he did, blow after blow. "Shake it off and step up...shake it off and step up...shake it off and step up!" he repeated to encourage himself. No matter how painful the blows, or distressing the situation seemed, the old mule fought "panic" and just kept right on shaking off the dirt and stepping up. It wasn't long before the old mule, battered and exhausted, stepped triumphantly over the wall of that well. What seemed like it would bury him, actually blessed him, all because of the manner in which he handled his adversity.

That's life. If we face our problems and respond to them positively, and refuse to give in to panic, bitterness, or self-pity, the adversities that come along to bury us usually have within them the potential to benefit and bless us. Remember that forgiveness, faith, prayer, praise and hope are all excellent ways to "shake it off and step up" out of the wells in which we find ourselves."

-- Father Joe Sica


click on title of post to visit Roger's blog "There's Always Something

Autumn Nostalgia

Fall is in the air. Today is a beautiful sunny day. Slight breeze, mild temperature. Autumn always makes me nostalgic. I remember when my children were small and this was the time of year to buy new clothes and send them off to school again. And then the leaves would begin to turn lovely colors and before we knew it they covered the ground to be raked up or blown away.


Autumn Memories.

Remember the pure joy of a beautiful, sun kissed fall day when you raked the leaves
And your small children watched in delight as the pile of leaves grew to tower height .

They ran down the slope as fast as they could, squealing and jumping into the big leaf pile
Burrowing deep into the brown, red and golden days of autumn.



What are some of your favorite Autumn memories

Joke Time

A little levity is in order. Enjoy.

GOTTA LOVE THE DRUNK

A man and his wife are awakened at 3 o'clock in the morning by a loud
pounding on the door.
The man gets up and goes to the door where a drunken stranger, standing
in the pouring rain, is asking for a push.
'Not a chance,' says the husband. 'It is 3 o'clock in the morning'. He
slams the door and returns to bed.
'Who was that?' asked his wife. 'Just some drunk guy asking for a push!'
'Did you help him?' she asks.
'No. I did not. It is 3 o'clock in the morning and it is pouring rain
outside!'
His wife said, 'Can't you remember about three months ago when we broke
down and those two guys helped us? You should be ashamed of yourself!'
The man dutifully shamed, gets dressed and goes out into the pouring
rain.
He calls out into the dark, 'Hello. Are you still there?'
'Yes,' comes back the answer.
'You still need a push?' calls out the husband.
'Yes! Please!' comes the reply from the darkness.
'Where are you?' asks the husband.
'Over here on the swing!' replies the drunk.

In Concert

It was 1979, and I had never heard of Luciano Pavarotti when my classmate at Georgia State University, Julius, asked me if my husband liked music. I was trying to think of something special for my husband, Sam, for his 50th birthday. I casually mentioned the occasion to Julius, a delightful and. friendly fellow who was himself a vibrant 70 year old student auditing the Philosophy class under a program of free classes for those over 65 years of age. I was nearing 50 at the time myself and was delighted to find another wise head in the sea of 19 to 25 year olds which surrounded us.

I told Julius that my husband adored music, had an excellent tenor voice himself and sang in the church choir. Julius then suggested a fine idea for a birthday surprise.

"Luciano Pavarotti is in concert at the Fox Theater here in Atlanta on this coming Saturday night. Why don't you get tickets and take your husband to hear him. Pavarotti has one of the finest tenor voices of the century and is quite a showman."

I always enjoy any concert at the Fox Theater which was built in 1929 and is one of the last remaining "grand old theaters " remaining in the US. The acoustics there are the best anywhere providing near perfect sound for any musical concert.

I decided to take a chance on the suggestion Julius made and I ordered tickets to the Pavorotti concert.

Sam and I were overwhelmed and overjoyed to be in the audience at the Fox Theater that night.There is no way to adequately describe Pavarotti's voice and stage presence and pure joy of singing and sharing of his rare talent.

We were blessed.

We ran into Julius, my classmate, in the lobby of the Fox as we were leaving the concert. Julius took me my the arm and said.
"Don't leave yet!! Pavarotti always comes back on stage and sings many, many encores."

We rushed back to our seats and basked in the wonder of Pavarotti singing, among other numbers, " Ave Maria."

The memory of that night lingers on....We ARE blessed.

But now that magnificent voice is stilled and silent.

Goodnight Sweet Prince. Sing with the Angels.

CLICK ON TITLE OF THIS POST FOR LINK TO YOUTUBE AND PAVAROTTI SINGING.

Music, the common denominator

I got a kick out of this from today's New York Times "Metropolitian Diary". I think you might like it too.



September 3, 2007
Metropolitan Diary

DEAR DIARY:

"I had on my iPod when I entered Dan’s Key Food supermarket in Riverdale several weeks ago, bopping as I grabbed a food cart.

A woman who looked to be around 70 years old, also with an iPod, tapped my shoulder. Smiling at me, she asked: “What are you listening to? I see you bopping and it makes me want to bop too.”

I told her that I was listening to the Black Eyed Peas.

She said, “I love them.”

I asked her, “And you?”

“The Gipsy Kings.”

She took off an earpiece and passed it to me, and I took of one of my earpieces and passed it to her. Smiling with nods of approval, we then switched iPods and shopped together. When we got to the cash register, we returned our respective iPods. She told me that she had enjoyed my music, and I said that I had also enjoyed hers and would look to pick up a CD. She made a few suggestions.

I hope to be as spry as this woman when I am 70, as she gave “elderly” new meaning. Age is just a number."

Marie Torrisi

Old age is a gift

This was emailed to me recently and I agree:

"The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being old. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, she was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was an interesting question, and I would ponder it, and let her know.


Old Age, I decided, is a gift.


I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!), but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend.


I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.


I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.


Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon?


I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60&70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love ... I will.


I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set.


They, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I eventually remember the important things.


Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.


I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.


As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.


So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it)"

Author Unknown

Another Time, another place.

The Front Porch

The house was built about 1919, a classic, small, one story Victorian with a half wrap around porch. The balusters and railings were painted a light grey and the porch floor was a darker shade of grey.


Steep concrete steps rose up the front yard bank then wooden steps led onto the porch itself which provided a birds eye view of the street and the houses across the way.

A porch swing suspended by chains from the ceiling seated two and squeaked gently as it swung back and forth. There were two wooden rocking chairs on the porch but the swing was the favorite spot for daydreaming

The air was fresh and warm, sweet smelling, clear of toxins and gas fumes. Not many people owned cars. No jets flew over . Many peaceful hours could be spent sitting on the porch steps or on the concrete steps where the walkway ended at the street. There was no air conditioning back then so the porch breezes were a welcome respite from the summer heat.

You could sit on the steps at night with your brown and white beagle mix dog and count the stars and see the big dipper and the milky way. In the summer night time you could catch lightening bugs and put them in a glass jar. Or you could simply get up and you and your dog could walk up the sidewalk and enjoy the evening. No crime to worry about. No one locked their doors. No one used a key to the house. Did a key even exist ?

Your childhood friend might come sit with you on the porch steps, then the two of you, barefoot and skipping over the hot sidewalk pavement, would run down the street to her house and play Monopoly. Later she would show you the souvenirs her parents had brought back from the 1939 World’s Fair.

Neighbors would look up and call to you on the porch as they walked by headed for the market or up the street to a friend’s house or to the Baptist Church about a half mile up on the nearby main street, or perhaps they were walking to the down town picture show.


You might sit in the swing with your white haired grand daddy who talked with you as he whittled a stick into a whistle.

Years earlier grand daddy had sat in the swing with his hand resting on his chin watching silently as you had your 4 month old baby picture made. In the photo your older brother was in the yard below the porch holding you gingerly and looking down at you. You had a fat faced look of contentment as you gazed directly at the old box camera. Your chubby little cheeks and your dark fuzz of hair showed up really well in the photograph which would gradually fade with time but would remain viewable..

You were born in the bedroom to the left of the front porch. Babies were born at home in those days and not in the hospital. You were the last of 10 children but all but 3 had grown up and left home before your birth. You were the caboose.


Sitting on the porch was the perfect place to listen out for the bell of the ice cream truck as it made its’ way slowly down the street. When it got nearer you could run down the porch steps and stand on the side walk and gaze longingly down the street as you decided how you would spend the Buffalo nickel you mother had given you.


The handsome dark haired postman who sang bass in the church choir walked up the porch steps with his extra large well worn brown leather mail satchel to place letters in the small metal mailbox attached to the porch wall at the front door



You walked down the front porch steps and walked to school when you began kindergarten. And up again when the school day was over with much to tell mother about your school day.


You drank lemonade and ate cookies while sitting in the porch swing. Your brother taught you songs like “My Darling Clementine” there. This was before he went off to the US Navy after the beginning of World War 2. He came home safely, thank God so no bad news telegram was delivered to the front door.


After your dog followed you to town and got run over, the lady who hit him drove you home with your dying dog in the back seat and gently placed his lifeless body on the front porch by the door. You cried when the truck came to carry his sweet body away.

To get away from the sadness of the afternoon you and your mother walked down the porch steps to the end of the street.The two of you stepped onto the city bus and rode and rode and talked about your dog and how sad you were. You reminded her the dog first belonged to your brother before he went off to war and you were sad you did not take good care and let him get run over. Mother said it was not your fault. Your brother would understand. She said there will be other dogs but this one was special.


You grew up, finished high school and moved away. Saying good bye to the porch and swing, you tucked your treasured memories away and walked down the front porch steps for the last time, glancing back with longing and regret that the tender simple pleasures of porch days were over.

Hot as Hell

I am not kidding. It is hot here. Temps have been hovering around 100 degrees for about a week now with the heat index at around 106 some days.

And guess what? Guess what our UPSTAIRS air conditioner decided to do last Saturday in 100 degree heat. Well it froze up and died. The AC's passing was not entirely unexpected as it was original equipment and our town house which we bought 4 years ago is about 20 years old.We replaced one AC at that time and crossed our fingers on the other.

So the service guy from the AC company came out on Saturday afternoon, (bless his little pea picking heart). He worked and worked trying to correct the problem but to no avail. It was terminal and he had to pull the plug.

Our bedrooms are upstairs so of course hubby and I had to make other plans for sleeping. The temp upstairs was reading out 93 and up and we did not relish being fried in our sleep. I chose the den sofa and Sam chose the sofa bed in the downstairs playroom.We managed remarkably well and even felt like real troopers. Almost like camping out. At least we were cool.

So then,today, the AC company came to install the new equipment. They worked and worked and demolished the old furnace in the upstairs attic and carted off the old outside unit and installed the new stuff.

But UH OH. The new outside Carrier AC had a "defective coil: The servicemen went to pick up a replacement coil to reinstall on the brand new unit. While they were gone Sam and I confered and decided we do NOT want an expensive air conditioner right out of the box with a defective part. After some tough talk with the salesman who sold us the equipment we got the promise of a brand new unit ASAP.

In the meanwhile, the serviceman comes back with the new replacement coil (made in Mexico), installs it and then discovers it was not the coil after all but somehow the compressor had overheated and shut off. He fixed the problem and now it is getting cooler upstairs where I am now sitting at my computer venting.

Why oh why does nothing work right the first time anymore?



Don't get me wrong,I am extremely thankful for the cool air that is wafting down from the overhead register but I just wonder whatever happened to good old Yankee know how and ingenuity.

I read this when I googled AC in the South and I agree 100%

"I am not the least bit sentimental about my un-air-conditioned Georgia childhood, especially my nocturnal summertime tossing and turning at the foot of the bed, praying to catch a breeze through the nearby window before the rooster started sounding off. Suffice it to say, if cranking up the A/C constitutes an unnatural act, put me down as a habitual and unrepentant offender."

and this

As air-conditioning was reshaping the way we lived, it was also helping to change the way we made our living. Without it, most of our bigger, heavier, and more complex industries would surely have never headed South after World War II, nor would many of the people who worked in and managed them, or the retirees who jumped at the chance to luxuriate in air-conditioned comfort while telling us how they used to do it in Ohio. Overall, the air-conditioner was crucial to reversing the South's historic pattern of out-migration and to the explosive growth of the "Sunbelt" in the 1970s."

http://www.uga.edu/gm/902/FeatBack.html


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I want to be six again

I thought that now in the miserable dog days of summer we might want to consider this:


To Whom it May Concern

"I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6 year old. The tax base is lower. I want to be six again.

I want to go to McDonald’s and think it’s the best place in the world to eat.

I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make waves with rocks.

I want to think M&Ms are better than money, because you can eat them.

I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.

I long for the days when life was simple. When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn’t bother you, because you didn’t know what you didn’t know and you didn’t care.

I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.

I want to be happy, because I don’t know what should make me upset.

I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good. I want to believe that anything is possible.

Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much. I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.

I want to be six again.

I want to think that everyone, including myself, will live forever, because I don’t know the concept of death.

I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and be overly excited by the little things again.

I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.

I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.

I want to be six again.

I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.

I want to be naive enough to think that if I’m happy, so is everyone else.

I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I’m looking for.

I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the old car.

I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up and what I’ll be, who I’ll be and not worry about what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out.

I want that time back.

I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes, or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together and what I can possibly use for the snowman’s mouth.

I want to be six again."
Author Unknown

Millie on ABC

Hooray for our Millie Garfield. She and her blog were just on ABC evening news segment about elder bloggers. Run on over to Millie's blog and congratulate her.

Click on title of this post to be linked to

http://mymomsblog.blogspot.com/

My desk

The black and white framed photograph sits on my desk and leans against the green wall beside my computer.

The background of the photograph is stark black. A marbled, swirling image of planet earth as seen from deep space centers the image.

I had clipped this picture from The National Geographic in the 1960s after the first moon landing.

The poem that accompnies the photograph calls out to a troubled world.

"To see the earth as it truly is, small and blue in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see riders on the earth together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the eternal cold - brothers who know now they are truly brothers." -

Archibald MacLeish

Telemarketers

The phone rings and I answer it noticing that there is no number in the caller ID window area. Just "Out of area."

A recording begins. It claims to offer me 6 % interest on "all my credit card accounts" If I am interested in this offer press 9, and I will be directed to a LIVE representative. If I want to be permanently deleted from the calling list, Press 8. Of course I press 8 (do they think I just fell off the turnip truck?) When I press 8 I hear a buzz and the prerecorded voice says. "Sorry, That is NOT a valid entry"

This same call keeps on and on as weeks pass and I get tired of going to answer the phone, or ignore it when I see the incomplete caller ID. I have no way to report the calling number as it is not listed on caller ID. I get more irritated and decide one day after another month of at least biweekly calls from these nit wits that I WILL go ahead and press 9 and get to speak to a "live representative and try to get their phone number.

I press 9..."Hello" she says. "this is Michelle. Are you calling about getting 6 % interest on your credit cards?"
I tell her NO. but you MUST take me off your calling list.

Wham! She hangs up.

I keep getting the calls at least twice a week. I finally decide that I will speak to a "live representative again" I press 9

"Hello, This is Fran, are you calling about getting 6% interest on your credit cards.

Yes I am, How does this work? Do I give you my credit card numbers?

"Oh no,not at all. You simply give us the numbers of at least one Visa and one Master card."

Well, I say, it will take me awhile to locate my credit cards. Give me YOUR number and I will call YOU back.

WHAM..Fran hangs up.

The calls continue. One day I decide I will try a new approach. I press 9 and get a live rep.

"Hello, this is Debra. Are you calling about 6 % interest on your credit cards?"

Well, yes I am but also I am just SOOO lonely with no body around here to talk to and I just wondered if you would talk to me awhile?
( I use my best creaky and confused voice imitation)

"Well sure I will," Debra replies"

I say, thank you so very very much . You just don't know how lonely it can get living alone with just my 12 year old cat, Maybelle, to talk to all day.

Debra says "I bet that is lonely"

That's the god's truth, I say. And especially since I am down with my back after having my gall bladder out. The doctor said it was big as a melon. I been having some stomach upset and having to take too much Maalox for the pain and all the burping.

Debra said "Well I hope you get better soon"

Well bless your heart Debra. You are such a nice girl. But I have to tell you this Debra.,I am talking to you when I should not and I don't know what to do. what do you think I should do? . (My voice quivers)

Debra says" I don't know"

Well you see honey, I just haven't been right ever since Frank Junior run off with the Coke cans, newspapers and string I had been saving up for about 6 years. That boy has a mean streak he got from his Daddy.

"Oh," says Debra.

I just have to fess up and tell you, Debra, that I told you a little white lie because I just wanted somebody to talk to and all. You see I don't have any credit cards anymore and....



WHAM!!!!! Debra hangs up on me?

I wonder what I said?


(they don't call; they don't write anymore)

Summer memories.

The summer is slowly slipping away and I find myself remembering childhood summers of long, long ago.

What a treat it was to shuck my shoes and go barefoot all summer, mindless of the heat from the sidewalks and the rough stones and briars from the nearby empty lots and fields.

Going barefoot translated into FREEDOM for me and I loved every minute of it.

I do not understand how my feet could have survived the heat and the many cuts and bruises that occured as I ran and played and climbed the chinaberry tree in the front yard and the peach tree in the back yard, skipped down the hot sidewalks to my friends house, made mud pies and toad frog houses in her sandbox,then later walked a few blocks to the small store that sold penny candy.

With no such thing as air conditioning, the summer heat of Georgia was not as oppressive then as it seems now.

Back then I was young.

Now I am old and too tender to go barefoot in the summer.

Everyday memories are the best and most precious of childhood.

(What are some of your everyday memories of childhood?)

Laughing Baby

This video has been on YouTube for awhile but it is so sweet and funny it is worth a second look.

Click on the title of this post for link

ENJOY

More rules for writng real good

The rest of Graham Hicks

SUMMER SCHOOL DAY 2

More rules for writing real good.

1. Resist Unnecessary Capitalization.

2. Avoid mispellings.

3. One-word sentences? Never.

4. Never, ever use repetitive redundancies.

5. Who needs rhetorical questions?

6. And don't start sentences with conjunctions.

7. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

8. Never use a big word when you can utilize a diminutive word.

9. Profanity sucks.

10. Last but not least, even if you have to bend over backward, avoid cliches like the plague.

"Rules for Writng Good"

I ran across these valuable rules that should be helpful to all of us as we compose our blogs.
They are from a newspaper column by Graham Hicks of the Edmonton Sun.


GRAHAM HICKS

SUMMER SCHOOL

"Rules for writing good.

1. A writer should avoid sexist pronouns in his writing.

2. Never use no double negatives.

3. Don't use commas, that aren't necessary.

4. "Don't overuse 'quotation marks.' "

5. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are (if the truth be told) superfluous.

6. Contractions won't, don't, and can't help your writing voice.

7. Don't forget to use end punctuation

8. Its important to use apostrophe's in the right places.

9. Don't abbrev.

10. Don't overuse exclamation marks!!! "

The "Bee's Knees"

I was just reading Tracy's blog "Traces of Me" and she wrote about all her research in preparation for her upcoming knee surgery. I sent her well wishes and said I hoped her new knees turned out to be "the Bee's Knees". Then I thought, "What in the world does that phrase Bee's Knees mean and how did the phrase come about?'

So of course I Googled it and

VOILA !!!




"A bee's "corbiculae", or pollen-baskets, are located on its
tibiae (midsegments of its legs). The phrase "the bee's knees",
meaning "the height of excellence", became popular in the U.S. in
the 1920s, along with "the cat's whiskers" (possibly from the use
of these in radio crystal sets), "the cat's pajamas" (pyjamas were
still new enough to be daring), and similar phrases which made less
sense and didn't endure: "the eel's ankle", "the elephant's
instep", "the snake's hip". Stories in circulation about the
phrase's origin include: "b's and e's", short for "be-alls and
end-alls"; and a corruption of "business".

Another Test

If this posts then I guess it is finally working. I had to delete something on the post template (removed it altogether) whatever that means) I was afraid I would delete my entire blog but evidently so far so good but my fingers are still crossed.
Blogger support is no good at all. But. Hey, it's free.:(

Cheers
Chancy

None

Hi All

I am just testing to see if Blogger will let me post.

I have been having problems with it.

Have a Happy tuesday if this works.

Cya

Chancy

Test

Test