Fog

According to Dictionary.com this is the definition for the word-

"fog   /fɒg, fɔg/ Show Spelled [fog, fawg] 

noun

1.

a cloud-like mass or layer of minute water droplets or ice crystals near the surface of the earth, appreciably reducing visibility. "

 

Today in my city, the main weather topic was fog.  In some areas it was very, very

bad.  Schools are running late, in some cases the districts have decided to close

instead.  Because the weather conditions have been bitterly cold for over a week, this morning's fog has called for icy conditions in a four county area.  Bad fog, bad, bad fog.

 

Reality is most people don't like fog.  It causes accidents, closes schools, makes people slip, slide and take nasty falls, and generally makes people frightened.  Yes, thanks to horror movies who's staple is having awful things happen to people in the misty, wispy, stuff; often in the dark, fog terrifies some folks.

 

I'm frightened of many things myself.  Water, bridges, Halloween, and falling for examples.  However, fog does not cause me to be fearful. 

 

Fact it, I like the mysteriousness of it.  I enjoy seeing it envelop and blanket the tops of the Douglas Firs of my neighborhood.  There is something magical about the scene.  I especially like when it reaches the ground, so that I cannot see beyond the houses and trees across the street and everything is in various shades of silhouette.  I'm fascinated how quiet the atmosphere gets, I can't hear the freeway traffic, but I can hear the 'plops' of huge water drops as they occasionally fall from eaves of houses to the ground.

 

But, what I love most about fog is that I get to walk in the clouds, and I'm enveloped in that heavenly blanket.  It's mysterious, mystical, and oh, so comforting.  Have you ever gone for a walk in the fog?  Not those instances when you dash from your car to the mall front door, I mean, walking in the fog just for the sake of walking in the fog?  I'm betting you never have.

 

I'm telling you, it is a beautiful, glorious adventure.  Suddenly you are in your own tiny world, its boundaries the distance of the only things you visually see.  Gone are the cares of the un-fogged world, do they even exist?  Maybe not.  For the moment, it's just you, your dogs, your puffs of steamy breath, and the crunch of icy ground beneath your feet.

 

I have a picture on a cemetery in fog, it's one of my favorites.  In the picture, the trees are barren of leaf, and the darkest part of the picture, while the tomb stones are various shades of grey.  The scene is soft, quiet, peaceful.  One day I found an inscription that fits the scene to perfection and I've added beneath the picture.  It says "Once in a while everyone should take a walk through a cemetery, softly."  I love that.  I've never had the opportunity to do that, yet every time I look at that picture, I'm mentally transported there.

 

So, you see, I have no fear of fog, because, God in his glory has given me a cloud.

 

 

 

Going Bald

A friend and I were having a discussion this morning, brought about as a result of a Christmas note she got from a mutual friend.

The mutual friend turned 91 this year, and her letter was filled with all sorts of adventures she has had this year.  First, I'm astonished at her stamina and fortitude, and second, boy, I'd love to be her. 

She lives in one of those wonderful places where she has her own apartment where just about everything is taken care of for her.  On top of that there are all sorts of activities, and fieldtrips to take.  Geeze, what the heck did I do wrong, I ain't living like that?  My caller friend wondered the same thing about her life.

When we were younger, we would always joke about when we were widows, oh, the fun stuff we were going to do together.  Hello??????????  That sure didn't happen.  She's still married, I've been widowed quite a while...where the heck are all those adventures, and how come I don't give a 'fig' about adventures anymore, anyhow.

Rather, we're just getting older, more tired, and more concerned whether we will out live our finances, or if they will out live us.  (So much for our children's inheritances.)

Then our conversation turned really dark, and we went through the long list of things we wish we had been told before we got old.  Like fear of falling and breaking something, wrinkles, body fat, and facial hair.  And...finally that brought us around to going bald.  Yes, we are going bald.  Well, at the moment our hair is thinning.   Actually, mine is thinning, plus, my forehead is hurriedly, frighteningly moving backward toward the crown of my head.

I told her I'm balding just like my father, who didn't so much get those two semi-circles at his sides of his head, but rather went bald strait across his forehead.  I swear, I'm doing the same thing. 

My friend and I agreed, it is harder and harder to style our hair, because (certainly for me) what can you do when there is more scalp than hair, except a 'combed-over'? 

(Insert shuddering here.)

I told her in reality, I'm looking forward to wigs, and I'm intending to have one for every day of the week, in all sorts of colors and styles, with a pink one for holidays.
Won't I be a big hit when I show up at a Christmas Party in my pink cowboy boots and matching pink wig.  Baaaaaaa, haaaaaaa, haaaaa, haaaaa, haaaaaa.

We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

She mentioned how expensive 'real hair' wigs are, and I have to agree, but explained there are some pretty good looking synthetic wigs out there, and at my age I don't give a crap mine won't be 'real hair'.  At least I won't be bald, and my head will be warm.

So.  After my conversation with my friend this morning, I sat down and wrote a letter to Santa.

Dear Santa.

(Please, if it would not be too much trouble, I would like to get the following for Christmas.)

One beautifully furnished apartment in a complex some place where my meals will be cooked, there will be entertainment to enjoy, field trips for exploring, and activities to keep me busy every day.

Eight beautifully coiffured wigs, one for every day of the week, and the pink one, too.

A lifetime membership to a Senior Exercise Center (which of course I will never use).

A brand new wardrobe, to go with my brand new wigs.

And boxes of Chocolate Covered Cherries, and enough Jim Beam to keep me chubby and warm for the rest of my days.

Okay, okay,  I'll settle for my balding head, the roof over my head, my flabby, un-exercised body, and my wardrobe of sweats, slacks, and a suit that makes me look like an un-cooked turkey.

But, I would enjoy a box of Chocolate Covered Cherries and a bottle of Jim Beam if it wouldn't be too much trouble.

Thanks, big guy in the red suit with white fur trim.

"S"

Time passed, and

Brunie sat patiently by the blazing fireplace in the center of the lobby at the Elf Health and Wellness Hospital.  She was waiting for Santa who had promised to pick her up and assign her to a new job in his vast Work Shop. 

When she saw the Jolly Old Elf step through the revolving glass door, she jumped out of her chair and hugged him in greeting.

Riding in the One Reindeer Open Sleigh, Santa explained she would be going to work in the Sewing Department and would be working on "Christmas Stockings", the kind "hung by the chimney with care".  He sternly reminded her, this job had an annual deadline, and the stockings had to be ready for shipment to all the Malls around the world by the first of November.  Brunie assured him she could handle the job.

Things went swimmingly for a very, very long time.  Year after year the "Christmas Stockings" section of the Sewing Department excelled, production exceeded all expectations.  Until, the year, everyone would like to forget, and nobody really cares to talk about.  Poor Brunie.  Some wise-cracking, shyster of a salesman, sold her some holiday fabrics 'on the cheap' promising she would be saving Santa loads and loads of money.

Eager to please, Brunie accepted the shyster's 'bill of goods' and soon the warehouse was filled with bolts and bolts of holiday fabrics.  Problem was all the fabrics were for Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Easter, Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving Day.

By the time 'the fiasco', as the incident became know, and was only whispered
about, was corrected, the Christmas Stockings section was months and months behind schedule.  Brunie though in the best interest of her section she had no choice but to go to Santa and hand in her resignation.  Santa Agreed.  He reassigned her to the T-shirt, sweat shirt, hoodies department.  Her job was to press the logos of sport franchises from around the world onto the shirts.  Easy, peasy.

Brunie had to admit this was a pretty good gig. She got to sit all day in front of a huge machine, where she'd place a shirt under a press, apply an iron-on logo front and center, and push a lever. With a whoosh, and puff of steam the operation was complete.  She would hand the completed shirt to an elf who would neatly fold it and add it to the stack of other completed shirts.

Life was good.  Sigh!  Of course, by now we all know, repetition can lead to boredom, and boredom can lead to a wandering mind...and that Brunie's mind was very good at that.  So, when the logos began to appear crooked, and upside down on the shirts, Santa knew it was time for Brunie to move on.

Off to the crocheting section she went.  BEST JOB EVER.  She got her very own rocking chair, and skeins and skeins, skeins and skeins of yarn.  Her job; to make scarves.  Yes, all she had to do was watch soap operas and games shows on television while her nimble fingers and crochet hooks made scarf after scarf.  She was thrilled, Santa was thrilled.  Could this be Brunie's calling?

Well, maybe not.  I mentioned long ago, nobody knows the ages of elves, and how long they live, but eventually they do begin to slow down, sometimes forget, and even tend to doze off for an unexpected nap from time to time.  So it was with Brunie.
But her downfall came the year her mind wandered and her scarves were either so long they dragged on the floor, or were so short they would hardly wrap around the skinniest of necks.  Santa knew he was going to have to intervene.

But, what was Santa to do?

Chapter four to follow.

Sometimes I crack myself up.

This morning was one of those times.  Matter of fact I'm still giggling. 

Over the last several days, because of the cold, I've been keeping the sliding door of the morning room closed, locked, and draped at all times.  As a result Zorro had been doing his bath room duties out front.  This has been working great.  I stand just inside the storm door, and watch him like a hawk because I know the law says dogs have to be leashed, or fenced and never left alone just in case they might come in contact with the public and bite someone.  (Since I never know when Bird Lady might be walking her dog, I'm very careful to make sure Zorro behaves himself.)

Anyway, this morning, I go round the house turning on the heat, then proceed to feed my furry friends.  Next on the agenda is to put Zorro out.  It's cold, still bitter, bitter cold and there's a dusting of snow.  I wonder if Zorro will even venture out.  I'm pleased he does.

Click.

I expected him to do his duty quickly and make a mad dash back to the house.  Instead, he doddle's.  I'm standing just inside the storm door, admiring my white neighborhood.  My hand is on the metal of the door, it's cold, so is the glass.  I like the feel of it, it isn't like holding an ice cube, that cold hurts, this is different, almost medicinal.  If I had a headache I think this kind of cold would be very soothing.

Anyway...Zorro finally decides he wants to come in.  I turn the handle downward, to open the door.  It does not budge.  Zorro, being used to the door swinging open, dang near had no time to stop himself and almost crashed into the closed door.  He starts to dance around, he wants in.  Badly.

I try the latch again. Nothing. 

I try again, and then again.  Nothing.

By now Zorro panics.  Boy, does he want in.

My mind is racing.  I lean over and blow on the handle, thinking maybe my warm breath will melt the cold handle enough for me to be able to open the door.  The latch would still not budge.

Maybe I should get some warm water to run down the side of the door.  Of course I thought better of that immediately.  I didn't want to clean up a stream of water.  I'm not dressed yet, but that is my next thought.  Dress, un-do my blocked off slider, go round the house, open the gate, call Zorro to me, so together we can come back to the house. 

Yeah, that's the ticket.

Frankie appears.  She sees frantic Zorro. she sees frantic me, then pushes me out of the way.......

.....and, unlocks the door.  It opens in a flash and Zorro comes charging inside.

Frankie loves these moments. 

I double over in laughter, damn, Frankie's right, I'm one stupid old woman.  Here was one more instance I made a mountain out of a mole hill.

And, of course, she's right.

Frankie:  (Walking away.)  Idiot.

It's funny,

how we take things for granted.

For instance, yesterday, I happened to be watching TV, and on two different shows, on two different channels the subject of the "Northern Lights" came up.  One was from a scientific aspect, and showed clips of the beautiful arrays of this natural
phenomena. The other was from actor Ben Stiller, who had the opportunity to see them first hand when he was on location in Iceland, making a film.

The host of the show he was on brought up the subject, asking if Ben had the opportunity to see the "Northern Lights" while he was there, and said how much, he (the host) would like to see them in person himself.

I got to thinking about having had the opportunity to see Aurora Borealis just about every summer, while growing up in Pennsylvania.  And, I guess I assumed everybody got to see this beautiful display of color dancing against the velvet black curtain of the August sky. 

Generally, we could see them between ten and eleven o'clock.  One minute the sky was dark, stars twinkling the way stars do, then magically, the fingers of light would appear in the northern sky. Brilliant colors, yellow, pink, creamy white, and red, constantly moving and changing shape, fingers stretching southward, retracting back, fanning out like an Oriental fan.  Delicate and mystical. 

Then, just as quickly at they had appeared, they would be gone.  I remember standing in our open field watching, waiting for them to return, even though I knew they would not.

What other things have I seen that others have never had the opportunity to observe? What magical delights?  Fireflies come to mind.  Tiny green frogs.  Bright red cardinals.  Huckleberries sweet and blue-violet growing by the side of the road. 

How often do we not appreciate the little treasures that come our way by happenstance?  Frankly, Over the years, I've given very little thought to the "Northern Lights", they come, they go...so what.  It suddenly occurred to me it's been over 50 years since I've seen them with my own eyes.  What a fantastic gift it was to reminded of them yesterday, I so enjoyed their dances in the clips I saw.  I'm glad Ben Stiller had the chance to see them for real, I'm blessed I had the opportunity to see them so many times for real, myself.  I wish everybody could.

        How sad.

We look, but do not see.
We hear, but do not listen.
We touch, but do not feel.
We taste, but do not savor.
We breathe, but do not smell.

Let's stop taking things for granted.

Yesterday was just so...

...busy.

 It was chilly in the house so while waiting for my fingers, and the rest of my body to warm up I checked Facebook, my e-mail, my store and then set about making invitations for the holiday pot luck we're having here in the neighborhood.  We started having one every year for us ladies that used to go out on occasion, for lunch.  I wanted to get them in the mail right away so that the ladies will have time to change schedules, decline, or whatever they so choose.

Where is the dang heat?

After the invitations were done, I made a Christmas card to give the girls at the 'pot luck', and it's ready to print out and put in an envelop come the day of the gathering.

By now I was feeling just a tad of warmth in the house and I began decorating the back rooms of the house.  I didn't do as much back there, mostly because this time of year those two back rooms are blocked off (I don't use them much) so why spend money trying to keep them warm, and who the heck is going to go back there anyway? 

The rest of the morning and some of the afternoon I was a busy little bee decorating, decorating, decorating the front of the house.   Full jingling boxes came off shelves, empty, plastic bag filled ones went back on them.  After a bit of carpet sweeping, I collapsed onto to sofa.

Perhaps I could finish studying for my Bible Study on the morrow.  Oh, that's right, I did some on-line research for that but never printed it out, so back to my computer I go.  It is now pretty late in the afternoon.  I'm tired, maybe I should fix myself a glass of wine, or maybe have one of my Porter beers.  Ah, what the heck.  Business before pleasure.

Well sir, my little printer is humming along.  You know how you know the 'sounds' of your printer, and when it's doing its job in a proper manner?  And, when it's not? 

Mine started making that awful noise that a piece of paper is getting....getting...
stuck.  No problem, this has happened before, I know exactly what to do.  I remove the paper tray, grab the tail end of the wrinkled paper and pull it out.

Uh-oh.

There is no tail end to grab, the paper was gone, vanished, disappeared into the bowels of my printer.  Well, this had never happened before.  Perhaps I can see it from the back, 'vertical feed' if I remove that tray.  Any other time that dang thing would pop up and out into my fingers.  Today, right now, that I need it...it refused to extricate itself.

Damn, dang, son of a sea cook.

(Have you noticed you no longer get 'manuals' with your electronics, that showed nice pictures of how to repair your gadgets?  I have, and I could sure use one now.)

I was in serious trouble.  I hate dealing with Customer Service, mostly because I don't want to appear stupid, but, it's mostly because I hate, hate, hate admitting I need help.  So, I begin by getting my flashlight, and screwdriver.  I'm going to disassemble this damn thing.  As soon as I unscrew the back, my printer begins to tell me 'the back of my printer' is open.

Ya think?

Why don't you tell me where the damn piece of paper is.  I push, "finish printing", Now there's a little yellow light flashing at me.  Shoot, that's annoying.  Wait.  Isn't there the 'troubleshooting' thing on my computer.  Yeah, that's the ticket, that will tell me what to do.

Well, first it tells me what the problem is.  "Paper Jam".

Dah!

Then it tells me what to do "If you see the paper...."

Sadly, I cannot.

Then it tells me what to do "If you can't see the paper..."

Hallelujah!

I can see by the illustration I should have not removed the back, so I screw it back into place.  The printer still says the back is open...I tell it to shut up.

There is a picture of what piece I should remove in order to retrieve the paper, but not exactly how to do that.  It looks simple, and I follow the instructions, but my piece simply will not budge.

Panic swells, am I going to have to call Customer Service after all?

No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I take my flashlight and move in close for a better look.  What the heck is that red stuff?  That looks like a strip of tape.  It is, and it is holding the piece I have to remove firmly in place.  Hurriedly, I rip off the tape, follow the instructions on my computer screen and there...is my crumpled up piece of paper.  Which I remove.

I then put the printer back together, say thanks to God, and turn off the printer so the dang thing would stop telling me the back was open, the paper was jammed and the yellow light would stop glaring at me.

I was exhausted.  Only one thing left to do.  I had to run a test to make sure I had done things correctly. 

I turn the printer back on.  The messages are gone, and there is no yellow light.  I put a single piece of paper back into the paper tray, read and follow the instructions on my computer screen telling me to "print a test page".  My printer flings to life,  I hear the ink cartridges being cleaned, I hear the paper being moved into proper position.

Will it,

will it,

will it print, or

will it jam?

I can hear the paper begin to move.  Seconds later, a neatly printed page comes out telling me no error had occurred.  I was one happy camper.  Again, I thanked the Lord.

I finished the job I had started in the first place, put my computer on stand by, and walked away.

I was worn out, frazzled, limp as a daisy, and good for nothing. 

It's dark out, well after six.  I should fix myself something to eat.  And, where's that glass of wine or Porter beer? 

Frankie.  Frankie!!!!

I laid down on the couch.

I guess I can't do trauma anymore...but, on the up side, at least I didn't have to call no dang Customer Service.  I dislike them even more than solicitation phone calls.

I promptly fell asleep.

Left-overs

I have a confession to make.

My Thanksgiving feast was delicious.  Yeah, this year I forgot to buy a cornbread stuffing mix, surprisingly I got along fine without it.  Everything else was fantastic.  I did as I was told from my Yahoo News Feed and ate breakfast, because that would 'tide me over' until it was time for dinner...and...I would not feel the need to 'stuff myself' at meal time.

By golly that worked.

What I did discover however, is, I liked Friday's left-overs better than the feast.  No joke!  Friday morning I fixed myself something called a "Norman Rockwell" sandwich.  If you've never had on you should give it a try.

The first "Norman Rockwell" I ever had I bought at the food court in my city center mall, at a sandwich shop that sold nothing but sandwiches made with turkey.  In it were tomatoes, lettuce, turkey, cranberry sauce, and cheese with the bread slathered with mayonnaise.   Deee-lic-ious.  For several years I would buy one of these sandwiches, sit in the food court and participate in one of my favorite activities,   people watching.

Then, one day my turkey sandwich place disappeared.  So, I began the ritual of fixing myself a "Norman Rockwell" at home.  And, that's what I had for breakfast Friday morning, minus the lettuce, which I also forgot to purchase.  The missing lettuce didn't matter, the sandwich was great.  The tomato was quite juicy, it dripped out of the edge of the sandwich and into the palm of my hand.  In a very unladylike fashion, I took to licking the juice off my hand. Mmmmmm.  On the side I had some potato chips, the kind with sea salt and vinegar.  Now you had to admit that's a dang good breakfast.

So, over the last couple of days, I've been munching left-overs (thank you microwave oven).  Just about everything is gone.  A smidgen of cranberry sauce, and a few mashed potatoes are left, but there's no more gravy.  As a result, this evening I'm going to mix them with a little flour and egg and make myself some potato pancakes, cranberry sauce for a side.  The perfect way to put my Thanksgiving feast to bed.

Wow, can't wait for my Christmas feast and all those wonderful, wonderful left-over meals.