Blog hog gives it a rest

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The blog hog will not be hogging all of the space on Ajax Rock for the next five or six days, having other, admittedly less important, duties to attend to. So while my universe is closed, do as the sign says and slide down your rainbow right onto the magical rock.

Tell us your stories, sisters and brothers. Record your memories. Tell a tall tale. Dare us to believe you! Rise up and lift your voices! Write, I implore you!

In fact, now is the time for all of you closet conservatives (you know who you are) to take the floor. The blog hog is out of the room. The left lane is closed.

Cast of characters: Louie

I'm crazy about this little blind Shih Tzu! Nutso about him! :) He's my buddy! I'm a better person because I have him and he just tickles me regularly with his winsome personality which he won't show for the camera -- he's a proud little Lion dog, after all!
Louie is my first dog of my very own. When the kids were small, Jim brought home an older German short-haired pointer, Sandy, who was kept outdoors. She was a good dog, but more Jim's dog than mine. I just had had it in my head that I needed a DOG so two years ago I found him on petfinder.com after obsessively searching. When I saw the photo of his cute little proud face with his nose in the air, I fell for him and Walt humored me and we drove 5 hours to the Key Largo shelter where, when they opened his cage and I called his name, he lunged for me and showered me with kisses -- which he hasn't done since, the rascal! ;) The shelter director said, "Is he the size you're looking for?" and I gulped and lied, "Yes," knowing he was too big for in-cabin on planes but also unable to not take him home. Oh, everyone said, it'll all work out!

So I've driven over 15,000 miles during the last year or so when normal non-dog people would be flying. I used to make fun of people like me, I'll admit. That's what the growth experience is. Don't knock it til you've tried it. I tear up whole raw chickens with my bare hands to feed this little big guy REAL raw food which he dearly loves. I feed him from my plate when he sits politely and expectantly by my side, and carefully takes nibbles from my fingers without biting me.

His vet here in Merida thinks if I give him Optimmune ointment in his eyes daily forever, he will regain some of the vision he's lost. That would be great and it's worth the try! But In the meantime, he's spunky and charges around, and knows from the feel of changes in the pavement or the number of steps he's taken where the curbs are. (I always warn him "Step!" just in case!) Everyone says very seriously that a bling dog does fine if you never change the furniture or his routine. Ha! Lou Boo does just fine wherever I take him and is happy and content and confident as long as he's with me. Shih Tzus weren't bred to be hunters or herders. They were bred to be companions (to Chinese royalty no less!) and a bit of a guard dog so he's doing his job when he's keeping me company and barks a big dog bark when anyone comes to the door, and we must all take him seriously.

He accepts Walt as the "big dog," and he accepts walks and baths from Sergio, who is crazy about him, but he's just what I wanted - a doggie who likes me best!! :)

Country mouse goes to the city

Kick off the grass-stained shoes, pack up the fancy duds, sneak in a few packs of weeds and a carton of diet Coke and head to the so-called "Big Apple." This country mouse is going undercover into the heart of Manhattan to do a sociological experiment on what makes the spending class tick.

On Friday I'll be in a room something like this one in "the Pierre" on Fifth Avenue and Central Park, more as an observer than a participant at an event. I'll sneak my digital camera into my purse and bring back photos of some of the things the media don't show you, like just where do people in a city that's gone smoke-free go to take their drags, and where can you buy a diet Coke for under five bucks, where do people take their dogs to do their business, and do they really scoop -- or just pretend to?

The highlight will be time spent with Jennefer in her Bronx apartment, where she's promised I'll finally see her without makeup and her hair in spongy, pink curlers. And we're going to a place called City Island that looks like an actual beach town, and I'll get to meet her lifelong best friend Laura. Maybe there will be time for the Botanical Gardens in the Bronx and a good, old-fashioned gabfest with the girls.

My fearless prediction for the Pajama Program Annual Charity Luncheon (at which they expect to raise the "modest" sum of $200,000) is that the "Father of the Year" award-winner, Al Roker, will discover me and give me my 15 minutes of fame that I so richly deserve. He might even invite me to make a guest appearance on "Today" so that I can wave at all of you "little people" out there.

Whaddya' say, Al? Have I got what it takes?

A Don story

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At the considerable risk of getting some of the details wrong and not being able to convey the humor and tone of brother Don's outrageous stories, I feel compelled to share them anyway. He hasn't made an appearance on Ajax Rock to talk about his own adventures, but some of them are too good -- too "Don" -- not to share.

One of the last times I saw him, he rolled up the sleeve on his arm, the one with the black panther tattoo, and commanded me to look at a small scar. Like everything else about Don, the scar had a story behind it. It was neatly stitched about two-thirds of the way across, then abruptly ended in a small mass of scar tissue.

Turns out that he had had a cyst removed and had negotiated the price with a "Jew doctor" to do the work, paying the fee in installments. When he saw how simple the surgery was and how little time it took the doctor to do it, he hollered that "If that's all there is to it, I'm not paying you the rest of what I owe you" -- to which the doctor replied, "Then I'm not going to finish stitching you up!" And he didn't. The last part of the incision was left to heal itself.

Don carries his scar as a badge of honor now, a visible sign that his daddy didn't make no fools.

Cecilia and Kate visit Granny

Cecilia and her best friend Kate, sharing iPod earbuds so they can listen to a favorite song together, are inseparable, as you can see from these pictures taken in my living room earlier this week.

We've written about how best friends can lift us up, make us laugh, complete us in a way nobody else can. And just a day with these two lifted my own gloom and gave me hope for the future. Adorable, smart, polite and agreeable, they are also far from the "duh" image teen-agers have. They are close to their families, considerate, funny and perceptive.

Being New Hampshire girls, they don't take things for granted, and they know about long winters and hard work. If these are the faces of our future, take heart: We're in good hands here.

Today they are on their way home, probably landing in Manchester about the time I post this entry. Thank you both -- and Beth, too -- for being exactly who you are.

Cast of characters: Audrey

Meet my Audrey. When I first met her, we were both well past high school. I was 10 years past, to be exact. We met in Sebring while working together at the Work Evaluation Center at a job well below both of our abilities (my first job after my kids were in school) and thus, were able to spend time together laughing and generally yukking it up. If we'd passed each other daily in the grocery store, we would never have guessed we would be best friends! Audrey is a few years older than me, and when we first met is the only time she pulled rank on me, sitting me down and explaining to me how "work" goes -- don't go over your supervisor's head even though you're on first name basis with the superintendent, etc. And I didn't resent it -- I was grateful! It goes against my grain to be anyone's employee (and anyone's boss!) but I worked at it and learned the ropes of the workplace.

Basically, Audrey saved my life. She reminded me how to have fun! Just being with her was fun! :) She helped me find the "real me," and to this day I can't be near her, even when life seems grim, without bursting into a smile at how GOOD life can be. I was never bored with Audrey in my life! When we weren't making fun projects out of the most boring of work like copying one zillion copies of instruction sheets (which we duplicated in jewel colors, giggling over each color choice)we were meeting at Sebring's all-night diner at 1:00 a.m. when the kids and husbands were asleep, just for a chance to chat and laugh.

One of our best memories is the day she turned 40. She was bored, feeling "been there done that." I asked her what she would REALLY like to do and she looked at me and said, "Fly!" Fly? (Oh, yes! She had been a stewardess with Eastern back when they were called "stewardess" and wore high heels and served champagne on flights between NY and Miami). Of course I thought flying was associated with fear but if she wanted to fly, I said, "Do it!" So we drove up to the Avon Park Flying Service to talk about flying lessons. She came out to the car and said, "They'd take me up for an intro lesson right now but I've got these heels on." (She was always dressed and made up like...well, like she is in this photo taken just last month!) So I reached downd pulled off my Chinese laundry mary jane's, two sizes to big for her, and said, "put these on and GO!" And fly she did! And she continued until she got her pilot's license, and I went up with her in the Cessna 150 the first week she had her license! I clung tightly to a Pepsi bottle, but forgot to fasten my seat belt, which made us giggle like crazy -- but then, nearly everything made us laugh. :) Walt says he couldn't believe, when he met me, that I was zipping around the Florida skies with this woman while claiming to fear flying. (I couldn't stand to be left behind!)

Since those days, life has moved on. Audrey ended up getting jobs as marketing director of various life care faciilities around the country -- and even that had it's beginnings in our relationship. As a member of the Sebring Zoning Board, I had written the code interpretation that allowed The Palms of Sebring to be built downtown, and after a few months there as asst. marketing director, she said, "Pah! I can do his job!" and began applying for director jobs. She landed a big one when she'd given Walt and me as a reference (Pelican Post Motel) and the guy called and got Walt on a day when he was grumpy, but he lit up when asked about Audrey, lauding her talents, thus sealing the deal on her job offer.

Eventually she pooped out on working and settled back "home" in Panama City Beach. She now lives in Navarre, a tiny strip of land on the northern Gulf coast near Pensacola, married to Paul and keeping close watch on her 5 grandsons and her parents, and flying back and forth to Colorado to help her older daughter Tess with her ranch and horse business. We rarely see each other, but try to stay in touch. And when anyone says, "Remember a time when you were having the best time," it's always a time with Audrey that comes to my mind. :)

Social occasions, fashion and high anxiety

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Do we know anybody who would wear shoes like these? And where would they wear them? Or buy them?

A week from tomorrow, I'll be attending a New York charity's annual awards luncheon as a guest of my dear friend Jennefer, a slim and beautiful and fashionable woman who works in the field of public relations and who is the chairwoman of the event.

It will be wonderful to stay with Jennefer for 2 1/2 days, and I'm looking forward to it. In fact, I was an early supporter of the charity, the Pajama Program, and thought it would be fun. But the Pajama Program went from a one-woman mission to provide pajamas to needy kids to an Oprah-supported organization with chapters opening everywhere. Still, a luncheon on a Friday in Manhattan was something I thought I could deal with.

That's before the anxiety about a high-calilber social event with the beautiful people set in and sent me on a search for appropriate attire. My hostess is being dressed by a famous designer, one of the guests of honor is a multi-millionaire, the other is Al Roker. The media will be everywhere, and somewhere I'll be caught on camera or tape. Oh, the horror of it!

I have now ordered (and returned) two dresses, one jacket and four pairs of shoes. Nothing I put on changes me into Cinderella. Nothing works. If I were to be dressed by a designer, I'm sure he or she would throw hands up in despair and wrap me up like Christo wrapped the Reichstag in Germany with miles of fabric.

My nails are too torn for a proper manicure; my hair is unruly; my moustache should be waxed; my sense of fashion is non-existent; I haven't had a botox injection; I don't wear jewelry; and I am undeniably frumpy. Usually totally unconcerned about such things, I have worked my way into a tizzy.

Yesterday I took to the dry cleaners the same silk shantung pale gray suit I have worn to almost every dress-up function during the last eight years. It fits. It's comfortable. It's plain. And I bought it at the Liz Claiborne outlet for 70% off. It's going to be pressed into service again.

And then I remembered how Dad insisted that he had a perfectly good suit to wear to the rehearsal dinner for Alison's wedding some years ago, when Mom was fretting over his old clothes not being good enough. Turns out he was right. It was upstairs in the closet and still fit, needing only one tiny moth hole repaired inside the cuff. And Mom found a picture of him wearing that same suit when John was a baby, making it about 60 years old!

Reinforced by Dad's example, Thoreau's admonition to "Beware of any enterprise requiring new clothes," and Popeye's saying, "I 'yam what I 'yam," I'm now saying, "Bring it on!"

Sir Knight of the Knights Templar: Peck

When I was writing Dad's obituary, I was reminded that, in addition to earning and keeping current his steam engineer's license, our dad was proud of being a 65-year member of the Paramuthia Lodge 25 Free and Accepted Masons and a Sir Knight of the Knights Templar.

This picture was taken in our house on Woodward Avenue, so it was before 1957, but I don't know just how old Dad was here.

Admittedly, I know very little about the Masons, but it still surprises me that Peck belonged, not because of anything I know or don't know about the organization, but because he just wasn't a joiner. He was a natural-born leader, and I can't quite picture what went on in the meetings and organization that required a uniform like this. I would be grateful for any explanations the rest of you have.

Maybe it's because I'm the youngest and don't remember the young Peck as well as the rest of you, but I can't reconcile the daddy I knew with this photograph. There's some meaning there I can't get at. But I know it was a big deal to him, even though I never once remember him actually going to a meeting at all.

But in our dad's honor, I post this entry, actually enjoying the mystery of it a little.

Paradise, Pennsylvania: Amish country

A poem written sometime in the 1980s when I often went to Lancaster Co.







Cows, black-and-white,
Spill from the barn
Into an early morning rain

Then scatter like confetti
Over patchwork fields
Lying fallow and brown.

A more recent poem: Hope

A poem I wrote about three years ago

Alone, I hear my mother's voice,
Admonishing me to retrace my steps.
It's not lost, she tells me --
Just misplaced.

Slowly at first,
Then more urgently I search,
Emptying whole cupboards
Of my heart.

Then, like a mother
Whose child's hand slips from hers
Before he disappears into a crowd,
I panic, my heart racing,

Searching frantically now,
As if my very life depends on finding it --
A scrap of hope
To feed me for another day.

Poem written for my mother

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Since April is Poetry Month, I dug out some old poems I had written. This is one I wrote sometime in the 1970s, after I had finally gotten a dryer. I came from my memories of Woodward Avenue.





Sometimes
When I'm folding clothes
Still soft and warm
From the dryer's heat

I see my mother's hands
From long ago
Cracked and red
The squared-off nails blue

Hanging sodden sheets
And underthings
Outside to dry
In a raw November wind.

Finding Lost Cove

Walt told me a story of his last night that I'd never heard! Amazing after being married 25+ years! It just came up over a casual discussion of receiving $10 checks for his savings account for his birthdays.

OK. There's a ghost town in North Carolina called Lost Cove. Lost Cove is located along the Nolichucky River in Western North Carolina. (Surveyors weren't sure whether it belonged to Tennessee or North Carolina and that's how it got its name.) It was reportedly settled shortly before the Civil War and was a thriving Appalachian logging and farming community for about 100 years. There is no road access to it and never was. The location and terrain of the community were difficult to navigate and when the railroad stopped making stops there, residents eventually had to leave Lost Cove and the last residents left in the 1957.

In the summer of 1954, Walt and his sister, ages 13 and 14, boarded the bus in Sarasota bound for North Carolina and their summer camp -- where he slept all summer in a tent on an island in the middle of the river, not far from Cherokee. (This delicious camp was where he and Brooks spent every summer of their junior high and high school years.) But this particular year Brooks had schemed, after reading about Lost Cove, that they should take a week out all on their own to find it.

First Brooks had to fudge the camp starting dates on the letter from the director to their parents. Then she convinced Walter to take $50 from his savings account and she would do the same to cover them for this extra week of exploring before they actually arrived at their camp. So these two young teens boarded the Trailways bus in Sarasota, bound for North Carolina, as usual, but with a secret plan of their own.The bus must have 
made a stop in Greensboro because Walt remembersthat their best friend, 
Diane,
went with them. So with Brook's map as their only guide, the three of them took the bus as far as they could, and then hopped mail trucks and slept in homes where they saw "Rooms for rent" signs.

The closer they got to Lost Cove, the more worrisome became people's comments. "You're going where??? The people there are a bad bunch!" Well, Walt, deciding they need some protection since he felt responsible for the girls bought so he bought a little "Saturday night special" along the way and stuck the loaded pistol in his belt. He said he was sure glad he had it when they started hearing comments about the huge razorback hogs in the woods.

Moving right along, they made it to Relief, North Carolina (still on the map but with no population statistics) where they were to leave roads and pick up the railroad tracks to Lost Cove. As they left Relief, they were warned to be careful because the sound of the river running alongside the tracks muffled the sound of trains!



They walked the tracks 2 1/2 miles and sure enough, there was Lost Cove! And not a soul around. They actually camped out in an abandoned house for 3 or 4 days. (After a couple of days, Walt walked back along the tracks to Relief to buy more supplies -- he says the girls ate up days' days supplies in two!) His clear memory as he went into the country store is of an older girl, probably 18, who came into the store looking so thin and malnourished that he was shocked -- and then he was dumbfounded when the storekeeper shoo'd her out and apologized saying, "We don't get many of them types in here anymore."

Finally deciding they'd better get on their way to camp, they walked, took mail trucks again, and finally caught the bus to Cherokee. Finding they'd arrived a day too early for pick up by Mr. Barry, their beloved camp director (grade school principal in Charleston who liked to jump the girls at camp each night -- yes, you read that right), to go into their campsite. So they looked up some Cherokee Indian friends who were campmates and spent the night with them. And there they were, ready and waiting when Mr. Barry showed up with his pick up to take them to their summer "home," their big adventure behind them!

phone numbers.

hello!
i happen to be in the need of dos numeros.
anyone want to send me Aunt Beth and Daddy's phone numbers?
thanks!

Cast of characters: Stewart

Proclaimed a "cool cousin" by Libby, Johnny, Mitch, Beth, et. al., youngest cousin Stewart inherited his reddish hair and un-Simpkins coloring from his mom, Anita, but he's undeniably Don's kid, and our side gets to take a chunk of credit for his many talents.

Stewart is his dad's pride and joy. Don came rather late to the role of father, but when he finally got around to it, he has been dad extraordinaire to Stewart, a super and very talented guy! The basement of their house became Stewart's music studio, and even when he was just a kid, Don took Stewart's guitar playing as seriously as he took his own interests -- which is saying a lot!

See, you don't know Stewart until you've heard him play guitar. And I mean PLAY GUITAR! He's not just another kid who wanted to be in a band, but a true guitar virtuoso. He's all over the neck of that thing. I wish I could include an audiofile of his playing because you have to hear it to believe it! Until he gets discovered, he's living near his parents in Georgia, where he's bought himself a house and teaches high school chemistry.

The youngest of the grandsons, he was a frequent visitor at Mom's and Dad's, much to their delight. Mom always marveled at the way Stewart would just make himself at home and fend for himself. He's probably the most self-contained, talented member of the Simpkins clan, come to think of it. And although his accent is pure Georgia-southern, it would be hard to call Stewart a Southern "bubba" or lay any stereotype on him. He's just the real deal! :)

(Edited by the Blog Queen, LoPo.)

Right on cue

Cecilia will arrive here the day after tomorrow, leaving behind the late New Hampshire "spring," which at this point consists of melting piles of snow and brown earth and trees that won't bloom until May. I told her that her cherry tree might be flowering by the time she gets here.

It bloomed today, after two days of 80-degree weather, so I took a picture of it to prove to her that it is, indeed, spring in West Virginia.

It's her tree because she discovered it the first spring we lived here when she visited in April. She would have been 7 years old at the time, and I didn't know that I had a cherry tree until she brought me some flowers she picked from it. I guess the two acres of land were so huge to me that I hadn't sufficiently explored the "back forty," where it's on the side of the house away from the doors. She thought it was funny that I didn't know there was such a beautiful tree right in my side yard, so right then and there it became "Cecilia's tree."

And now, in anticipation of her visit, it has bloomed right on cue. We're waiting for you, girl!

What's a "potato drop"?

It was last year around this time that two tractor-trailers dumped giant mounds of sweet potatoes in the middle of Shepherdstown, where crowds of people were gathered with their mesh bags in hand, waiting to bag the potatoes as fast as they could, reload them on the trucks and get them to local food pantries.

Ready, set, go! Children scrambled to the top of the piles, sending potatoes tumbling down to the eager hands three-deep around the edges of the potato mountains. The goal was to be done by 2:00 p.m, but so many helping hands showed up -- students, families, everyday people -- that the goal was met by 11:00 a.m. The street was swept clean, and the potatoes were in the food banks within a few hours.

It was a fun-filled free-for-all and a demonstration of how many hands make light work.

There's an organization called the Society of St. Andrew (www.endhunger.org) that sponsors gleaning projects, using volunteers to go in to fields after machines have finished harvesting to gather the edible but not-often-pretty food. With world hunger peaking and so much food going to waste, it is a way for communities to come together to do something about the problem.

And I just got word that another potato drop is coming to town soon. I'll be there.

Cast of characters: Debbie's family

Mike, Debbie, Jackie and Tyler (with Kristi hidden in the background and Rita with grandaugher Sarah)

The only picture I have of Debbie and her family is nearly six years old, because it was taken the last time I saw them at Mom's and Dad's 70th anniversary. Jackie is now a college student, and Tyler has long hair and is a full-blown teen-ager.

Debbie was always an animal-lover, and Rita tells me that Jackie is too -- and that she is an aspiring writer! So maybe we can prod her into contributing to our blog so we can get to know her better.

I remember that when my cat Spike died, about 12 years ago now, Jackie sent me the sweetest letter and a kitty-cat Beanie Baby. It really touched my heart that she reached out to her unknown great-aunt to give me sympathy.

Mostly I hear about this family second-hand, so I'm inviting the rest of you to paint a better portrait of who they are. Pictures don't quite do the job, do they?

Jim and Sheli get hitched

Last September, George and I went to Cape Cod to witness Jim's wedding to Sheli. Since none of the rest of the Simpkins family could go, I felt an awesome responsibility to represent Mom and Dad and the rest of us. And I'll always be glad we were there.

Sheli, pictured with her mother before the ceremony, is a stunning woman, tall and shapely and beautiful. I guess we all knew that Jim would wait for the perfect woman, and he found her.

These photos were trapped inside my digital camera, which had been misplaced all these months, so I'm glad to be able to share the candid photos with the family.

Of course, being Jim, the wedding wouldn't be "traditional," so it was held on the tidal flats on Cape Cod Bay on a humid and overcast day. A big basket of thongs was provided for guests so that we wouldn't get our fancy shoes wet or cut our feet on something the tide washed in. And this young woman had a big crowd of friends and family from her Connecticut hometown who drove to witness the ceremony and who obviously adored her.

Here's a shot of the two of them after the dinner and a few glasses of wine.


I confess to leaving when the young 'uns kicked off their shoes and the dancing and revelry began. But it was a lovely wedding in a beautiful setting, and I've never seen Jim look happier.

Here's to a long marriage and a lifetime of happiness, Jim. You deserve it.

"I Am the Ocean"

Long Nook Beach, Truro, Mass.

In an effort last night to still the turmoil in my head, let go of my anger and forgive myself and others for who and what we are, my mind drifted back to the Cape and the refuge I found there in the wide expanse of dunes and ocean, of marshes and birds, where without humans around to alter things, the geography was much the same as it was from the beginning of time. Storms come, and the coastline alters, the tides rise and ebb, but there is a spareness about the place that strips away the cares of the world.

And then I thought about part of a radio program I heard last Sunday morning, "Speaking of Faith." The guest that week was a Buddhist monk named Thich Nhat Hanh, and he was taking listeners on a radio pilgrimage at a Christian conference center in rural Wisconsin. Talking about "walking meditation" and the inner peace it brings, he offered gentle wisdom for living in an angry and violent world and the importance of becoming mindful and at peace to combat it.

When the question was asked, "What difference does it make in the larger world if just a handful of people like yourself go to a retreat and practice peace and mercy? Aren't you just a drop in the ocean?" he replied with a phrase that is too wise for most of us to grasp.

The monk said, "Yes, it is true that I am a drop in the ocean. But I am the ocean. I am one American, but I am America."


Maybe each one of us makes a difference -- or not. But do we need to add to the balance of anger in the world? I'm trying my best to be one drop of peace in an ocean of violence. And if enough of us do that, we can at least create a river of peace that flows into that ocean.

My lot in life

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It's time for a pity party, and you're invited, unless you are a princess or a man who has a little woman who waits on you hand and foot.

You know the story of the little red hen, right? Well, that is the story of my life -- or at least the story of my life since I left home and married at 21. I thresh the grain, make the flour and bake the bread while everyone around me is oblivious to the need for a freshly baked loaf or bread or anything else, for that matter. Trying to get anyone around me to help -- to do something, anything -- is like pulling teeth. It is more effort than just doing it myself. And therein lies the problem.

When something breaks or needs to be cooked, cleaned, washed, emptied, refilled, mended, carted in or carried out, I look around and see: nobody. Not a single soul who is there to pitch in. Gutters full? Grass growing like a jungle? Trash pickup day? Car broken down? Out of milk or bananas or toilet paper? Gee, what a surprise. Guess it's time to prod the old red hen to get up and take care of it.

My husband is 77 and about as handy as an unsharpened pencil. Two weeks ago, he announced that the wastebasket in the bathroom he uses was full. I suggested he empty it, and he went blank. He didn't know what to do with it. Pathetic.

Zach doesn't even see what needs to be done and has no motivation whatsoever, because of his mental illness, to take care of the smallest things like feeding his cat or carrying out his trash. His washer overflowed and soaked his carpet, and he just sloshed through it for three days until I came to the rescue with a shop vac. Who struggled to suck up the water? I'll let you figure that one out.

If George gets up and his newspapers aren't on the kitchen counter or --egads! -- even worse, we are out of bananas for his cereal, the world may as well be coming to an end. Or if I'm napping on the sofa and it's getting close to dinner time, he'll nudge me awake or clear his throat until I jump to my feet and start to prepare his dinner. There's a reason I don't keep weapons in the house.

Today the leaf blower didn't work, the new lawn tractor's battery was dead, the fence needed to be mended because the dog keeps getting out, Zach's truck needed to be repaired and picked up at the shop, and George's son decided to arrive not at 10:00 tonight, as planned, but at dinner time. So I was "reminded" that he would be expecting dinner when he gets here. No problem, right?

Excuse me while I let out a primal scream. Do I have a sign on my back that says "LITTLE RED HEN" or what? Is there any way out of this? Does anyone have a badly needed word of sympathy for me, or have I brought this on myself?

Thanks for coming to my pity party. Do you mind cleaning up before you leave?

An Addendum...

I have been plagued with anxiety the last couple of weeks since I made my first post to ye ole Blog and wish to make a clarification. This statement:

As I like to keep abreast with world events, I check cnn.com every day. I
figure if it isn't important enough to make it onto CNN, it isn't likely to
affect me. And why would I care about stuff which doesn't affect me
directly?

was made entirely tongue in cheek. I have feared that perhaps my esteemed relatives may have taken it seriously and found me to be self-centered and small minded. Which I am not, usually. My hippie at heart mother would just die if I was determined to be non-worldly and uncaring to the needy masses.

As a side note, CNN is now warning that vitamins may lead to premature death. So I am just going to eat Skittles and Diet Coke until they come up with a pill that will leech all of these dangerous vitamins from my system.

Kind of a hybrid between the Red Dot and Peck's Potato Chips

When I was browsing for a good picture of potato chips, I came across this unlikely and ironic picture -- not good ole' Peck's Potato Chips but darn close. I just had to share it, since it is a hybrid of two of Dad's Athens businesses.

Ah, yes, the potato chip company. The one enterprise that single-handedly turned me from a slightly overweight teen-ager into a blimp. Who could resist the warm, bubbled chips, shiny with lard and freshly salted? And I had the job of sacking and weighing the chips, but any that fell out of the bin were fair game. Clearly, there were plenty that ended up on my hips, thighs and belly. Funny thing is, I worked side-by-side with Paula, my girlfriend who is tiny, and she also ate the spilled chips and gained nothing. Metabolism. The answer must be metabolism.

I can clearly remember Evelyn, the toothless country woman who stirred the chips in the bubbling lard and cooked them to perfection. Once or twice I drove her home after a shift. She was one hard-working woman, though she didn't say much. And Don K. delivered the chips all over the county. I wonder if anyone ever tried to hijack the truck to get at those wonderful potato chips!

Who else worked at Peck's Potato Chips? Who else got fat from eating them?

The Virginia bluebells are in bloom all along the C&O canal towpath where I walk each morning. They are shades of pink and purple until they open up into a wondrous blue. For some reason, my dog Fiona is attracted to them and loves to push her nose into the clumps along the path.

My other favorite wildflower is called Dutchman's breeches, for reasons that will be obvious when you look at them close-up. There's a bumper crop of them along the river this spring, grabbing their brief chance to bloom, along with the other wildflowers, before the leaf canopy steals all of the sunglight. Don't they just look like pantaloons hanging out to dry?

I'm trying hard to shed my winter blahs, to embrace the short spring season before the heat and humidity come to stay like unwelcome guests. And nature is trying its best to seduce me. This morning when I was meandering along the path, a pileated woodpecker called and flew right past me, then landed on a big branch. I don't know why there's such a fuss about the all-but-gone ivory-billed woodpecker when the pileated looks almost the same, except for the color of its bill. I still get a thrill when I see one.

When you spend a good chunk of your day working on the computer, as I've been doing, there's nothing better than going for a walk, especially if you're lucky enough to have the Potomac River and C&O Canal only a few miles away. Sure beats getting out the mower or doing yard work.

Good-bye, winter.

the perfect quote

isn't that perfect?

Congratulations, Cecilia!

We've always known we have a winner in young Cecilia, but today's news from New Hampshire confirms what the rest of us have long known: She's the cats pajamas, the best, the big door prize.

All year, Cecilia has worked hundreds of hours learning how to do stage managing for her school's theater group. It became her passion, her obsession. And yesterday, her group won the New Hampshire state contest in theater production, and she and her cast and crew get to go to the New England winner's circle in Vermont where just a handful of plays are showcased.

Last Sunday, she was down in the dumps, but today she is flying high! She'll even get to miss school to participate, and as soon as the big event is over, she and her joined-at-the-hip, best friend Kate will still fly high -- all the way to BWI where Aunt Beth will meet them and kick off their vacation in Virginia, West Virginia and D.C.

In lesser news, she reported today that there are a few places where grass is actually visible under the snow, but in just a week, they will be in a fairyland of flowering trees, daffodils and grass as green as Ireland. We've got a warm and sunny welcome waiting for our winner, but we'd do the same, even if she had lost. She's the sun in our family solar system.

We're all proud and happy for you. The sky's the limit for this girl, and that's not just your granny talkin' trash.

The Class Prophecy of The Class of 1931 for Roena Shafer

"While I was at the hotel I received a telegram from the former Roena Shafer telling me she was planning to have a reunion for the class of '31, at her home in Flint Michigan. And that we would be welcome to stay as long as we liked. How like the old Roena. We are all very proud of Roena, she has the distinction of having been granted more degrees than any other woman. She can write AB, MA, PHD, LLD, BA, and others after her name."

Projected date of this prophecy was the spring of 1941, while "Pete" was vacationing in Maine. Pete thanked Morpheus for what he revealed to her in a short dream she experiened.

A Treasured Discovery For the Simpkins Five!

As I was going through Mom's and Dad's things; which is the hardest thing I've ever done; I came across a yellowed paper containing this treasured memory, entitled simply, VALEDICTORY.

Gentlemen of the Board of Education, Members of the faculty, Classmates, Ladies and Gentleman:

Tonight, for the last time, this class of '31 is assembled here in dear old Chauncey-Dover High School; tomorrow, we begin our new life.

We used to think, in days gone by, that our Commencement would be the end; but now, we have come to realize that it is--Only a Commencement.

We realize that on such an occasion as this it is but natural for us to look not only over the past but also into the future.

We look back upon the past with its years of strenuous study, constant association with teachers and students, and hours of play.  We see things which can never be again, but things which will live forever in our memories.

Now we must turn our minds towards the future with its possibilities. We do not know exactly what the future holds in store for us, but we do know that there will be opportunities and disappointments.  We hope there will not be many of the latter, but we must expect them, for life would not be life without both joy and sorrow.

If we hope to gain much progress in the future, we must be willing to give to the world the best we have.  In this way we will gain the best for ourselves.  Success awaits us at Labor's gate, but that success is too dearly bought which is purchased at the expense of others.

When we reach the period of old age, we will find that we care less for many things which gave us pleasure in our youth.

If our time has been well used, if we have warmed both hands wisely "before the fire of life", we may gain even more than we lose.  Hope is gradually replaced by memory; and whether this adds to our happiness or not depends on what our life has been.

To make our life one that we would like to remember, we should labor hard and willingly, keep smiling, and always be fair and square with ourselves and others.

We have endeavored to qualify, to measure to the more important duties entrusted to us.  We have tried to acquire knowledge, a large fund of patience, a smile that will not rub off, and a better understanding of human nature, and we hope that these attributes will continue with us as we enter upon the bigger field of life.

We pride ourselves in the fact that we are now graduating from Chauncey-Dover High School, but we are already wishing that we could come back again next year to the dear old school we love so well.

Classmates! The hour has struck.  The time for parting has arrived.  Though we must separate, let us not separate in spirit.  Let us often think of these high school days, and, while passing out into the world, face our duties with hope and courage.

To you all, our beloved friends, the Class of 1931 bids a last farewell, with our best wishes for your future, and sincere regrets that our high school days have gone forever.  With grateful hearts, we pass out, greeting cheerfully to those who are to follow on tomorrow, and with a last lingering look into each other's eyes, we say farewell!

Roena Shafer

*I will remember that this is our legacy from "Our Mother", who was so very wise at the age of 17; and hold her memories in my heart forever.

   

Cast of characters: Amazing Walt

Where in the world do I start in describing my husband? "Amazing" goes without saying!

Walt pretty much lives in his head which, I should to add, is a very busy head. One never knows what he is thinking until, bingo, you mention something, and somehow, in way the rest of us would never guess, he will relate it to one of the very complex concepts his mind has been working on.

Basically laid-back, he does have his strong opinions about a certain few things, and a lot of knowledge about a lot of other stuff. He seems detached from the immediate world around him. Yeah. He's a lot like Einstein except he says his best idea to date, other than marrying me, seems to have been buying the Pelican Post, rather than E=mc2. Oh, well. How much use, really, was Einstein's theory in my life? ;) And I have been, as Einstein's wife was, the one who reminds him "where he is and what he's about." :)

Walt is pretty much unstoppable, and that, plus the fact that his head is often in the clouds, is the probably the reason that he's broken his neck, both legs, both ankles, and has had a severely burned foot. But he bounces back from his injuries with incredible determination! He could very well be Ripley's Believe It or Not material. He's spent nearly 50 years in a wheelchair and been to more places during those years than anyone else in the family. He speaks Spanish fluently, and understands the financial markets better than anyone I know although never ever as much as he wants to!

Walt has decided that he wants to be buried (he believes every person is entitled to his own little share of the Earth) in Hilltop Cemetery because he says, "Peck was the best dad I ever had and I think I'd like to be buried next to him." Wow. That is huge to me. Dad really admired Walt, and so did Mom, and considering how different he is from anyone in our family, that has always said a lot to me not only about Walt, but about Mom's and Dad's open minds, too.

We might at times feel like Walt is looking right through us, but he's not. He's pretty much a live-and-let-live guy. And I do believe, despite coming from "lofty" Harvard genes, that he appreciates the down-to-earth goodness and gentleness, as he says, of the Simpkins clan. After 25 years in our family, he is a true "character" in our cast, and the only person I've ever been able to be my complete and true self with, and felt loved by anyway! :)

Girlfriends' week-end

www.flickr.com

Today is a good day. Suzi is coming to visit, and for the next several days, we'll look a lot like these two best friends.

How many times have we asked each other what we would do without the other one? How many times have we pulled each other out of the deep, dark place only other depressed people know about? And how many times have we celebrated our small victories and special times in our lives?

The last two times I saw Suz were at Mom's funeral and at Dad's. She has lost her husband and her father, so she knew how hard this was for me. She always knows.

Suz is one of the wisest people I know, and she is the best listener I've ever found. She will also do the hard things best friends are called upon to do: Tell the truth. Just be there, no matter what.

So there will be lots of talking, lots of ranting, lots of remembering when while she's here. But most important of all, we will just have a chance to be together, strengthening the bond we have so that whichever one of us has to hold on to the other the next time, she'll be strong enough to pull her through whatever life throws her way.

The old John Deere

www.flickr.com

I can actually watch the grass growing. In a matter of days, it will be time for many of us to get out the mowers and "start your engines."

In the last years of his life, Dad spent a lot of time with his John Deere, trying to coax it to mow one more time, then again, one more time.

In the end it gave out, and I was somehow able to convince him that it was not unmanly to let somebody else cut the grass. For him, though, it was one more loss, one less thing he had to do. And Daddy needed things to do.

When I was back at the house for the funeral, the thing that made me break down and cry was that old John Deere lawn tractor, put away in its space in the back of the house. I knew he had spent so many hundreds of hours on it that they had formed a bond -- man and machine. It represented a contest of wills, I think, and for season after season, Dad won the battle. He sure got his money's worth out of the 1980-something mower, keeping it going for nearly 20 years.

When I'm tempted to complain about my two acres of land and the attendant mowing duties, I'll remember Dad and how important it is to have something to do. And I'll try to be thankful that I'm still able to get out there and do battle with the grass.

Momma's family

I need my mom this morning.

The family is scattered, and I can't keep track of everyone. I want to call Mom and find out what's going on, where everyone is, what they're all doing.

John told me yesterday that he was on his way down to see Rita and Don, and I didn't even know they were back in the family home. Heck, I hadn't even heard from John for weeks.

Where is Stewart? What's he doing? And what about Don and Regi and their plans to move and for Don to start law school?

I know Lois is flying back to Merida from San Diego today, but I seem to have trouble keeping the pieces of the family together in my mind.

Most important is the issue of who will now tend the sheep, gather in the brood, keep stitching the pieces of our lives together?

I feel lost. I need my momma.

Mining tragedies, yesterday and today

Mom and Dad often talked about the Sunday Creek mine disaster in Millfield, an explosion that caused the worst mine disaster in Ohio. It happened in 1930 when Mom was 17 and Dad just 18. Momma said she remembered everyone running to the mine, fearing the worst. And the worst is just what happened. There were 191 miners working that day, and 82 lost their lives, either in the explosion or from the deadly gases that filled the chamber. Nine hours later, 19 miners were discovered alive nearly three miles from the main mine in an air shaft they constructed by blocking themselves off from the main chamber. Eight officials of the Sunday Creek Coal Company died that day, including the president. Ironically, they were in the mine to inspect new safety equipment.

The governor of Ohio ordered in the National Guard to keep order, and a train carrying two rescue cars traveled 91 miles in 93 minutes, breaking all speed records. But for most, it was too late.

Imagine the size of Millfield and the scale of a tragedy like this. It would be worse than 9/11 was for New Yorkers. All of those families with dead to bury. At 11:00 that morning of November 5, the first body was brought to the surface. Fifty-nine women became widows that day, and 154 children lost their fathers. Nearly every family in Millfield was affected.

Photo of Millfield High Hill, above the mine.
I wonder what it was like for Dad, knowing his father worked the mines. And Dad himself had worked for a while with Grandad, probably not too long before the explosion happened, though he was probably in Michigan at the time.

Miners have always been considered expendable by the mine owners -- and it's not a whole lot better today. Only now, it's the land itself and the communities around the mines that are expendable.

Here in West Virginia and in parts of Kentucky, the coal barons have a new, diabolical way of causing destruction. It's called mountaintop removal mining.


Photo of mourners (the Athens Messenger) at the disaster site

Now they just cut off the top of the mountains and take out seams of the best coal, then dump the waste in to the valleys and streams below.


This mining practice is a travesty perpetrated by greedy companies like Massey Energy, and it doesn't even promise to employ many people, since massive machines do the mining. It goes on 365 days a year, with the stated goal of flattening all of the mountains and many of the people who get in the way. Here's what it looks like down in those peaceful little valleys now. Miles and miles of streams are being choked off by debris left in the valleys, and "black water" runs down through the land of the people who live there. This should give us all something to think about with Earth Day coming soon.

Yes, miners and mining communities have always had it hard. But miners are proud people, and many of them have no other trades to ply.

Kind of makes me want to turn out all of my lights and light a candle for all of those who have died for the sake of a lump of coal.

Spring flowers bring memories

All photos from flickr.com

This could be a picture of my yard. I always remember how much Mom wanted a forsythia bush, so much so that I tried several times to find one for her and plant it. One year I took canes from my bushes and put special grow-stuff on the tips, wrapping them in wet newspaper so that Mom and Dad could take them home and plant them. There are so many around here that they seem to grow wild. But either Dad never got them planted or they didn't grow, so now whenever I see a forsythia in bloom, I think of Mom and how much she enjoyed that first burst of spring color -- and how much I wish I'd gotten those forsythia bushes planted for her while she was still with us.

Red bud is my favorite flowering tree, and it was always Gramp's favorite too, I think. Or else I'm recalling that he called Grammie "bud" and confusing it with his love of the red bud. Last year, Beth was describing her favorite tree to me, and guess what it is? The beautiful red bud tree, of course!
I think it's because the delicate flowers seem to sprout right out of that black bark, making a contrast that looks like delicate lace.

And, speaking of Beth, she loves hyacinths too. And blue hydrangeas. So this one is for you, daughter-girl.
I've always loved the simple, ordinary daffodil. I used to tell my kids that I wanted my ashes scattered in a bed of daffodils so that the bone meal would nourish them, literally making me live again. I told them that every time they saw a daffodil after I was gone, they would know that it was their mom, watching (over) them. They are the most lovely when they grow in clumps, bravely showing their faces long before the last frost.

Do you have a favorite flower? For those of you who haven't experienced Spring in the mid-Atlantic area, I send you this bouquet of spring flowers and wish you were here to see the slow unfolding of what looks a lot like hope to me.

A whole lotta' hair goin' on

Left to right: John, Rita, Dad, Mom, Nan and Don

A quarter of a century ago, this is how six of the seven of us in the Simpkins family looked. Holy hair! Don looks like he is in the witness protection program or trying out for a bit part in "Deliverance," and I clearly was trying for the country-western singer look. I think Lois was bushy-haired then, even though she was missing in this picture.

This was taken at Mom's and Dad's 50th wedding anniversary in 1982, and notice how dark and bushy Peck's hair still was when he was almost 70 years old.

John, of course, always looks the very same, and Rita hasn't changed much either.

This one is posted for fun, just so we can remember "when."

Biting the big one

Well, I am pretty sure we are all about to bite the big one. As I like to keep abreast with world events, I check cnn.com every day. I figure if it isn't important enough to make it onto CNN, it isn't likely to affect me. And why would I care about stuff which doesn't affect me directly?

So, imagine my horror when today I saw the headline "Blogging May Pose Health Risks". Immediately I became aware of my symptoms - blurred vision, sore fingers, chocolate cravings, a fat butt. Now, admittedly, I did not watch the video segment on the topic. I mean, between my RLS, SAD and HASD I just can't take much more. I will just wait for the cure to come out in pill form. It will be called Nexablog. It makes your hands fall off, so you can no longer blog. Thank you Glaxo-Smith-Kline!

As worried as I am about my own health, I am far more worried about my mommy's. I think she has a pretty advanced case. I advise her to speak to her doctor to see if this medication is right for her.

As a side note, the photo I chose to illustrate the gravity of this medical condition came from a blog. I suspect the photo is of the blogger himself. it was too late to save him...

Cast of characters: George

I cannot deny it. This is the man I married nearly 13 years ago: George Victor Whalen. See, he would want me to use the most ridiculous picture of him that I have, because he is a clown, a goofball, an extrovert who loves attention.

In part, that's why I married him. I figured that nobody would notice me when George hogged the limelight, that I could hide successfully behind the potted plants. And I admit that he can make me laugh -- when he isn't infuriating me.

He sort of slipped out of the closet when I posted my angry blog, and all of you who know him understand that he can drive me crazy. But he's not all bad, really. He's unabashedly authentic, corny and old-fashioned. He always has a clean handkerchief to give me when I'm teary-eyed. He's straight as an arrow and predictable as they come. He's a big talker but also a doer. He loves money and makes sure I don't spend myself into the poorhouse.

And he helps me understand the world that I mostly hide from. In type-speak, he's an ESTJ, representing about 50% of the population and nearly all of the people who lead us where fools fear to tread. It helps to have someone to blame for everything that goes wrong. Zach wisely pointed out when we were first married that George is a Roman and I'm a Greek. That sort of explains it all.

When we are not engaged in royal battle, we complement each other. I'm the thinker, he's the action figure. I'm the intuitive where he's the "one and one is two" guy who doesn't look beyond the facts as he sees them.

Yeah, we fight. We disagree. We butt heads. But in a perverse way, we're good for each other. And sometimes, like in the photo below, he is nice to my friends. That's Jennefer with George about five years ago.