Painesville, Ohio...and my life there

After grade school, about which I wrote in my last posting, I attended Riverside High School. This stately school educated grades 7-12. We were carefully separated by grade so the seventh graders were not exposed to the more mature, and therefore worldly, juniors and seniors. I spent six years in this building.

The football field was in the back and every Friday night I either marched with the band on the field here or boarded the band bus for away games. Band buses have a reputation all their own. Within the band, each section of the band has its own reputation. The percussionists, or drummers, were the bad boys of the group. the woodwinds were the goody-goodies.

A few miles to the east nestled the village of Perry, Ohio. That's where my mother grew up and my grand parents lived until their deaths. In this house. I remember the front walk being longer and the side yard wider filled with hollyhocks and flowering bushes. In the back my grandfather had a stump with two nails hammered into it about an inch apart. One axe blow and we were well on our way to chicken dinner.

Beyond the back yard on either side of a pathway were chicken coops, one for the hens and the other for...well, I don't remember what the second one was for. It had chickens in it too but we only got the eggs from the coop on the left. Perhaps those chickens in the right side coop were dinner in the making.

Beyond the coops was the corn field and beyond that the railroad tracks that marked the boundary of my grand parents' land.

Grandpa Means was Mayor of Perry, Ohio for as long as I could remember growing up but in reality only for nine years. It seems no one would run against him in which case he would have gladly given up the post to farm and write poetry. When he wasn't mayor he was a village councilman. His weekly column for the local paper consisted of one of his poems. He liked Edgar Guest and Will Rogers, Jr. who never met a man he didn't like. I think my grandfather might have been like that as long as you were in the same political party as he was. Here is the first verse of his poem titled Perry Village:

Just a quiet little village
Beside the railroad track,
Just a quiet little village
That has what cities lack.
A friendly peaceful village
With pleasant shady streets,
Where any time from morn till night
Friendly people you will meet. 

Down the dirt lane from my grand parents' grave site is my parents'. My sister and I were surprised to see a marker placed by the Veterans of Foreign Wars for World War II in front of my father's name for he never served. If memory is correct, after Pearl Harbor in 1941, he tried to enlist. I was two months old. I had three older siblings. Dad worked in a factory that was needed for the war effort. He was rejected for service. I think he must have been very disappointed, more so especially since his brother and three brothers-in-law did serve in various branches of the military.The next summer he was reclassified to an upper grade. Still he sat out the war on the home front.

 












An interesting, to me, sidenote: on the "Notice of Classification" card my dad signed his name, two years after I was born as Laurie John Wilpakka.  I wonder what my real last name was.

These pictures are my attempt to get one shot of my sister, my niece and myself in one frame. Failing miserably, I'll just put them all here and you can kind of squint your eyes together until they all blend into one.

       

Later, after I had moved away, the Federal Government built a nuclear plant in Perry, Ohio. That's when the big bucks rolled in and the school got upgraded and relocated. The locals, including my parents, were somewhat leery about what would happen in a nuclear accident like Three Mile Island. The populous did not want a nuclear plant in their backyard and a hue and cry went up. The government countered in two ways: first, they encouraged locals to tour the nuclear plant, carefully guided by employees of the plant who assured us that they themselves lived, with their families, within a few miles of the plant. The second reassuring thing was that each household was given a specific-to-them evacuation plan. My parents' included the site where they should go immediately upon hearing of an accident at the plant. There they would be picked up and evacuated from the area. It was perfect. Their pick up point was the bowling alley they were already at two or three days a week. We all felt better. 

Why do some of these things that happened so very long ago seem like they happened last year? That's what I'm thinking about.

On the Street Where I Lived

This is the street I grew up on in Painesville Township, Ohio. I'm guessing the road is three miles long from Route 20 to Madison Avenue. I recently had the opportunity to visit my sister who lives in the area and we drove around finding remnants of my youth.

Here is the house about a half mile from Route 20 on Bowhall Road that I grew up in.

The house is painted now. It was plain weathered boards as I remember. One beautiful catalpa and one flowing mulberry tree have been removed from the side yard and the blackberry bushes removed from the other side. Huge eight foot white spirea bushes as well have been dug out and taken away.

The front porch has been enclosed. It used to have a swing on it and front steps that were shaky and held one only if one trod carefully up, or down, one side of the steps. If you look closely you can see the coal chute leading into the basement. Once you've heard the sound of coal being funneled into your basement, it's a sound you can still hear in your ear's memories.

One thing remains the same. The dirt driveway has the same ruts in it that it did so many decades ago, still catching the rain and making puddles to delight the young at heart.

Thanks to modern health regulations I imagine the house now has indoor plumbing and hot and cold running water.

Regularly, trains ran on a track only six houses from ours. Loose window panes gently rattled as trains regularly ran. As kids, we would put pennies on the tracks because we had been told that a penny on a track could derail a train. It never happened, thank goodness, and we had no thoughts about the consequences of our little experiment had it worked.

Beside the track, around some neighborhood houses, was what we called the gravel pit. At the time it was a steep descent into a flat dirt bottom that abutted the tracks. From the gravel pit we could see no houses and could hear nothing of the real world. When a train was heard coming down the track we scrambled to the top of the steep dirt cliff to get out of the way. Of what, we were not sure.

Today the gravel pit has been filled in. When my sister and I drove by the steep dirt cliff was no higher than ten grassy feet, sloping gentle to a grassy plain. Major disappointment.

Across a side street from our house was a cement block garage that my dad and his brother built. It, along with everything I saw that day, is much smaller than I remember.

For six years I went to this school. The flagpole you see in the front became the May Pole every Spring. I remember that only sixth graders could dance the May Pole dance which I did as a sixth grader. Pastel dresses were a must and mine was a pink organza one with tiny white dots. Dancing a May Pole dance requires weaving the streamers in and out until braided ribbons cover the pole. On one pass, I lost my white flat shoe. On the way back around I stepped into it and kept on dancing. Story of my life.

My memories of grade school are very positive. Spelling bee success, vocal music success, winning at jacks during recess, these were good years.  I remember one huge frustration, attempting to make a paper mache giraffe. The paper kept breaking apart. I never finished that project and have stayed away from major art projects since.

There was one not-so-positive time, though, when I got into a fight with another girl on the playground and we both ended up in the Principal's office. He said that if we didn't straighten up and become friends...yes, he said that...he would make us stand in front of the whole school with our arms around each other. With that hanging over us, we became good friends.

Funny what one remembers.  And that's what I think about it.

A Soup Kind of Day

A perfectly chilled day made for steaming soup. A refrigerator filled with leftovers. How to throw it all together into something hot and hearty?

Like any good non-cook I started with a bag of diced frozen potatoes. Dumped in a half cup of diced onion and several chopped stalks of celery. A half stick of butter sounded like a good addition. And it was.

Then some salt and pepper. Left over chicken stock...in a box....along with water and three more chicken bouillon cubes. Tossed in almost the last of the Thanksgiving ham.

Let's back up a bit here, lest you think I diced and minced onion and celery. These products come that way in little hermetically sealed bags in the produce department of the local grocery store. A pair of scissors is all one needs to cut open the bags.

While that was cooking (and thawing) I tossed in a bay leaf. I don't know why. I had them. I tossed one in. I pondered what bay leaves were for.  I pondered further why I had a little jar of bay leaves in the cupboard and had I brought them with me when I moved from Ohio a decade ago? Yes, probably. I pondered the shelf life of the bay leaf. I did not google this question, not really caring about, yet in some way fearing, the answer.

Then some milk and flour for thickening and a half hour of simmering.

Probably the best thing that ever came out of my kitchen, ever. One of the few next-day food items that I'll eat.

There never has been a reasonable reason to write down anything I put together in the kitchen so now I have no record of how this tasty meal was made and could not duplicate it. This one time it would have been a good thing and not a laughable thing. But alas! The recipe is lost to eternity.

But the memories...ah, the memories.

And that's what I think about it. 

And yes, I remembered to fish out the bay leaf before serving.

A Most Sad Thing

While watching TV last evening I came across an animal show that captivated me. It was about big cats. A journalist was traveling with a couple living in Africa who had devoted their lives the preservation of lions and tigers.She was out in the bush with them.

If you follow this blog you know I am most impressed with the National Tiger Sanctuary in Missouri. That's probably what made me pause at this TV program.

During the program one of the lion's gave birth to triplets. Lions and tigers make very good parents, playing with their offspring, making sure they are fed and kept clean and learn the things important to survival.

Unfortunately one of these curious small cubs wandered into a small stream and was immediately grabbed by a huge crocodile. The circle of life.

If that weren't bad enough a second cub got into the way of a gnu stampede and got stepped on. His back legs were crushed. For a few days he dragged himself along with his front paws but did not have the strength to sustain that movement. His mother tried to pick him up in her mouth and carry him along but the cub could not assist her in any way and the mother was forced to place him back on the ground.

They were both helpless.

For a long time the mother tiger looked down at her cub, leaned down and  licked the top of his head. The cub mewed a hopeless moan. The mother paused then took a few steps away from the cub and sat down facing away. She looked back over her shoulder at her cub and back toward the camera. She blinked a long, slow blink and swallowed hard. She arose and slowly walked away never looking back. You could hear the cub mewing in the background.

I was in tears.

And that's what I think about it.

Fall Break - Part 4 - Adventure on the Way Home

 Headed toward Meramec Caverns. Tourist season was past and we got a personal tour, the two of us and guide. An easy hour walk through amazing formations with a light and sound show to cap the tour.

 As we sat in tiered bleacher built into the rock we heard Kate Smith (yes, the one from the 50s) belt out her signature piece "God Bless America." As her last note echoed throughout the caverns this image was projected on the stalactite stone curtain. I thought I was still in Branson.

Choosing not to drive through St. Louis but needing, at some point, to cross the river from Missouri into Illinois, we drove south along the river to a lesser known and traveled bridge. We headed toward the one indicated on the map only to find that the bridge was closed. A car ferry was the only transportation across the river at that point. For $12 one-way we drove onto the ferry. Chatting with the young man on the raft-like ferry it was discovered that this was his first day on the job.

Sadly, Purina Farms was closed the day we were there. Looked like a fun tour. We may have to return.

On the highway was a sign for the local attractions and we headed toward it. The Largest Rocking Chair in the World. You don't see this kind of tourist site on groups tours.

Another sign offered puzzles. Who among us would not be curious about this commercial venture? Fifteen rows of floor to ceiling shelves of puzzles. One had 24,000 pieces and came in a box the size of a large TV.

Hungry for lunch we found the charming little town of Chester, IL, home of Popeye....and his friends.

 
We detoured to Carbondale to see the university from which our son-in-law graduated. We drove around campus envisioning him walking to class and studying in the library. Unfortunately, we found out later, he hadn't graduated from here but from the Edwardsville campus.

That's the kind of vacation we sometimes like to take. Just start off and see where the road takes us. And that's what I think about it. 

Fall Break - Part 3 - The Tigers, Etc.

We left Fort Leonard Wood with the feeling that the country, and by extension the world, was in good hands and drove northeast.

We passed Skagg's Memorial Hospital and the Rotton Surgical Group. We were happy to be healthy.

When we stopped for breakfast we listened in to the conversation at the next table and heard, "The Louvre didn't do much for me." The woman speaking had just come from a "memorable, exciting" trip to Branson. Go figure!

The night before I had mentioned on Facebook where we were and a colleague at the seminary, where we are both students, messaged me that his dad lived in the area we were headed for and why didn't we stop in and see him. As if! I come from a long line of folks who would never impose like that and never, never 'drop in' on someone unannounced and uninvited. Like we would do that. But to be polite I asked for his dad's phone number....just in case. When we got near Rollo, MO I called the dad on my cell. He was waiting for the call. Yes, he sure could meet us at Steak n Shake and 20 minutes later he pulled in with a great big Missouri welcome. He had lived in the area all his life and knew the history and the current events. What a pleasant and unexpected pleasure it was to spend time with him. I could see his son in him but he absolutely could not be tempted  to give me any anecdotal stories about any trouble his son had ever been in. We now have a delightful friend in Missouri.

In this area of Missouri, according to the local paper, the local community was having a "Dodge Brawl" tournament, The Leach Theatre was offering "Deer Camp: The Musical" and Meramec Bison farm was selling "American's Original Red Meat." The local animal shelter was asking for a forever home for Jackson, a Rottweiler who had been turned back into the shelter for, "eating the family's dinner right off the table. But who among us is perfect?" The recipe for the day was Tortellini with Pumpkin Sage Sauce. 

A small billboard on the highway announced the exit for the National Tiger Sanctuary. Intrigued, we spent a couple of hours at this fascinating place. The sanctuary is an educational facility that "provides a safe, stress-free forever home for the animals."

A few of these animals had been owned by private families who thought it would be cool to raise a tiger or lion. From cute five-pounders, in a few years the cats had grown to 1100 pounds...quite impossible to house and feed for a private family. And no, I don't think people should be able to buy these animals as pets. Anyway, families would call the sanctuary or local zoo to come get the cat which at some point became capable of devouring the family. Some zoos called the sanctuary to see if they could provide a safe old-age type facility for animals no longer able to live in a zoo. From circuses and other entertainment venues owners would call to see if their animals could live out their lives at the sanctuary.

During the tours one is only four feet from a man-eating tiger, protected by two 12-foot fences. The guide, very knowledgeable about animals and college-educated in biology, walked between the fences carrying a bucket of turkey legs.

Once you've heard it you do not forget the sound of a 1700 pound tiger chomping down on a turkey leg, the bone snapping in two, sounding like the sound of a Kit Kat bar being snapped apart in an echo chamber. One big guy took the turkey leg from the guide and there was silence. The guide put her hands on her hips and said, "Hey, you'd didn't even chew that up. You just swallowed it whole." It gives one a new perspective on the power of these big cats.

To access more pictures and information about this very important sanctuary please go to:
www.nationaltigersanctuary.org.

We are not close to home yet and there were several more exciting local stops on our meandering trip before returning home to Indiana but this is enough for now.

And that's what I think about it.

Fall Break - Part 2 - Ft. Leonard Wood, MO

After a couple of days in Jefferson City we continued driving southwest into the Ozark Mountains.

Several years ago I had determined that there were several signs of Old Age that were indisputable. Things like having padded toilet seats, thermostats set at 78 degrees, and bus trips to Branson, Missouri. I had told the daughters, only partly in jest, that if we ever went to Branson they should just shoot us and put us out of our misery, that when that trip happened the end of meaningful life had passed on. We didn't tell anyone, especially the daughters, but Jim had made reservations at the Savannah Inn in Branson for three nights. To this day we are not sure why.

We checked in, put our suitcases in the room and went out for steak dinner.

 After dinner we drove down the main street, slowly, taking in every hotel, restaurant, souvenir store, theater and busload of 'seniors.' We drove back to the hotel, spent the night and sped out of town the next morning. There was not one reason to spend any time there, according to our interests. Too many people in too small a space. Too many old people impersonating singing stars of the 50s and 60s. Too  many stuffed Triggers.  Brady lunch with Greg Brady; Sons of the Pioneers; Hughes Brothers; Roy Clark; The Texas Tenors, and on and on, and of course, what center of entertainment would be complete without the Dixie Stampede. Oh yes, I could hardly wait to drive away. We breathed a sigh of relief as we drove back into the Ozarks.

This is the lovely entrance to our hotel in Branson.

Our next stop was Fort Leonard Wood, the largest military base in the state. I like military bases. They are sprawling affairs, miles and miles of barracks and parade grounds, museums and varying levels of residential areas. One of my friends who lived there a time while her husband was in the service said the nickname for the place was Fort Lost-in-the-Woods.

Call me strange but I am fascinated by military installations.

This is a portable bridge.

Jim had a flashback at the grouping of World War II-era barracks (see photo). He chuckled when he realized that there were about half the number of bunk bed cots in the barracks museum that he remembered although he had a little room to himself right inside the door so I'm not sure what his complaint was. The barracks of the modern military look more like college dorms. Brick, multi-storied, without the common sleeping areas the buildings make a grand impression on the visitor.

Visitors are welcome. Drive around until 9PM after which you have to have military personnel with you. We didn't plan to stay that long. At the edge of the public areas we were stopped by a sign with read, "NO POV BEYOND THIS POINT." It took me a few minutes to figure out that the sign meant no personally owned vehicles. Which meant us. Beyond the sign and the very high, razor-covered fence we heard the sound of gunfire. Or thought we did. On a military base the imagination runs wild.

While we were there the fort newspaper noted that Dutchman's Liquidators and Daisy's Health Spa were off-limits for military personnel. Also, in the complaint section, was a note that parking was nearly impossible to procure at the base library for story-time. It's just like life anywhere in the country, I mused.

On the map an arrow pointed to the "Outdoor Adventure Center" which I'm sure gave many enlisted personnel pause. 

Around the museum area are memorials to Ft. Leonard Wood soldiers who had died in battle from each of the branches of the service. Listed on bronze plaques the names seem to go on and on. At each memorial I walked slowly around stopping at each list of names and reading each one of them silently to myself. It seemed like the least I could do for a soldier who gave his life for the country. I thought about the family and friends each had left behind and who stilled grieved for them.

Fort Leonard Wood trains in the area of chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear warfare. Pretty bad stuff. Anyway, I always feel proud to be an American when I'm on a military base.

And so we left FLW...as I've affectionately come to refer to it. And that's what I think about it.

Fall Break - Part 1

A few years ago, after moving to Indiana, we followed the advice on the license plates that read, "Wander Indiana." That roaming made us somewhat familiar with our new state of residence. Recently we realized that we knew the geography of the country to the east, southeast, north, northeast and a little south but had skipped over going near-west (young man that we weren't) and had hopped over to the west coast, missing a large portion of the country in-between.

Upon further discussion, we realized that we had seen more foreign capitals than we had the capitals of our own 50 states. Memory served that we had been in the large metropolitan area of many states but not so the political centers. To remedy this lapse in our education we headed to the closest capital west, Jefferson City, Missouri.

There was no agenda just a slow meandering west around St. Louis and into the heartland of Missouri where the leaves were at their Fall-color finest.

Jefferson City, a city of 43,000on the Missouri River, was named after Thomas Jefferson. The Osage Indians met the pioneers as the pioneers were heading west. We all know how that turned out for the Osage.

Some pretty important people have come from Jefferson City: football and baseball players, Nobel Laureates, poets. Seven colleges and universities have branches there.

Our stay included two-nights at the circular hotel downtown. Choosing the up-charge, we had a view of the capital. And the state parking deck. The police station and the jail. Because the hotel was not square, all the rooms were shaped like parallelograms. A lamp was required to navigate the angles with shins intact.The restaurant at the top of the hotel, accessible by key-card only, was quite nice. I don't know how far the calamari had to travel to get to the mid-west but it was delicious.


We were excited to find a community theater that had a performance while we were there and ordered tickets over the internet by simply typing in our name and the number 2. No pre-payment required. The Stained Glass Theatre of Mid-Missouri is, as you might have guessed, a Christian-based group. The play being offered while we were there was, "Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch..." set in the courtyard of a "small, flourishing Koffee Shoppe, which is cloistered among other businesses along a cobbled stone lane in a small villa in Little Italy, USA." The 150 seats were mostly filled. The director proudly introduced herself before Act 1.We didn't see her again. And then the emoting began. Over the top gestures, shrill voices, it was a sight to behold and hear. We stayed for all three acts because, well...it was the only thing to do in Jefferson City that evening. Great potential with the theater itself; some work needed to be done with the troupe. And yet, the crowd loved it. Were they all relatives, I wondered?

The next day we spent at the capital, a lovely building and grounds that appropriately reflect and honor the people of the state of Missouri. Around the perimeter of the capital are memorials to all those Missourians who served in wars, even the War Between the States, which split families apart as sons chose different sides of the battle. Inside there were murals and photos and hands-on exhibits for kids...and husbands. One alcove presented the history of women from Missouri who had become famous: actors, aviators, educators, writers. I thought the alcove was a little far away from the rotunda but was pleased that these women had been honored.
 

And in every direction ran warrens of long marble hallways with ten-foot doors leading off into offices of the inter sanctum of state government.

It reminded me that my own father's photo hangs in the state house in Columbus, Ohio, albeit a group shot of the pages working in the senate. Still there he is, a fresh-faced teenager with big plans for his life.

Jefferson City was a good start to our meandering through Missouri. And that's what I think about it.

The Kohl's Saga Continues

Not one of the nice people at Kohl's really wants to deal with my concern....er, complaint. I've been kicked all the way up the ladder to the Executive Office. This response was received:

"Response From Kohl's // Patricia Thomas

Discussion Thread

Response Via Email (Bethany W.)

10/08/2012 04:40 PM

Dear Ms. Thomas, Your e-mail was forwarded to my attention in the Executive Office of Kohl's for follow up and resolution. As it is my intent to provide our customers with quality service, I appreciate the opportunity to review your concerns. Kohl’s offers promotional events designed to provide our customers with exceptional value, and we pride ourselves on the incredible savings we offer. Decisions with respect to the establishment of prices for Kohl’s merchandise are made by Kohl’s merchandise buyers from corporate headquarters in Wisconsin. Prices are established on a chain-wide basis. Each Kohl’s buyer is responsible for a very narrow range of merchandise, which allows them to be experts in their product categories. When determining pricing, including any necessary price changes, the buyers consider a number of factors, including the regular prices of Kohl’s competitors for similar merchandise as well as Kohl’s costs for the goods being sold. As is common in the retail industry, from time-to-time, product prices are increased due to production, cotton and other raw material cost increases. When these types of price increases are implemented, it is not possible for our point of sale systems to reflect both the old and the new price. As such, our stores are instructed to re-ticket all items currently in our inventory to match the prices on the tags for all incoming merchandise. New receipts are correctly priced in accordance with our instructions to our vendor, so no re-ticketing of that merchandise is necessary. Changes to Kohl’s "off-sale" prices are infrequently made. While the percentage discount may vary from sale event to sale event, Kohl’s does not raise “Regular” or “Original” prices on a short term basis just for purposes of offering deeper discounts during a future sales event. After receiving your inquiry, I contacted our buying personnel to investigate the pricing of the Rosetti Belinda Belted Braided Tote. They advised that the Tote did go through a price change earlier this year. It is obvious that this particular item's ticket was not correctly reticketed in this price change. Kohl's regrets your frustration and disappointment that resulted from our processing of this item. Pricing accuracy is very important to us, and every effort is made to ensure that all merchandise that is put on the floor and shipped to our customers is correctly labeled. Please also be assured that based on our competitors' pricing for similar products, we are confident that our pricing remains appropriate and consistent with others' pricing. Ms. Thomas, you are a valued customer, and we appreciate you reaching-out to us and raising this issue. We are happy to inform you that you actually received a better discount at the store when they deducted $10.00 versus taking 40% off of the $69.00 price. We hope that you are enjoying your Tote, but in accordance with Kohl's standard practices, and our desire to keep our loyal customers completely satisfied with their shopping experiences, I would be more than happy to facilitate a return and refund if you are not completely satisfied with any of your purchases. Please contact me at 1-262-704-9557 with any further concerns. Sincerely, Bethany Williams Executive Correspondence Advisor"

After several days of pondering what, if any, response I might send along, I returned the email to your right. This should be the last I hear from Kohl's...until they tell me my charge card is no longer welcome there.

Your email is one of the more excellent examples of corporate double-speak that I have ever read.   The purse in question was made and ticketed for Kohl's. To suggest that you have buyers who are experts in their field and know what items should cost doesn't ring true. If that were true, they would simply call China and have them correctly price the merchandise in the first place. That would save Kohl's money by not having to remove tags and re-tag at a higher price...and then give a discount.   Last week I shopped at Kohl's for a pair of jeans because jeans were on sale. Again, the perforated price tags were removed and price stickers affixed. I just smiled.   Mostly I object to your thinking that you have pulled the wool over my eyes and that I am ignorant enough not to notice. I am not. And I do.   Patricia Thomas   My friends laugh at this kind of corporate shenanigan, but they are more alert now also.

Soccer

Safe to say that 18 years ago I knew very little about soccer. Now, four grand daughters, several teams later, our college senior has two more games to go before it all ends. Today was the last game for the high school twin seniors. The oldest sister coached this year. Soon the whole soccer thing  will be history.

Their careers started in southern Indiana. My husband and I were living in Ohio, seven hours away but yet we were able to see a game here or there before we finally moved here ourselves. We made it to a majority of games through the years.

Five-year-olds play a different kind of soccer as they begin to learn the game. A squirrel, butterfly, or long blade of grass can distract a five-year-old even as the ball is careening toward her although in reality, balls at this level do not careen, they roll slowly to a halt. Eleven players on a team, 22 players gathered around the ball. For the first season, we called the game Bunch Ball.

When there was a throw-in girls would turn the other way as if to say, "Don't throw that thing at me." Usually it was no problem as the ball would drop out of their hands maybe a foot inside the playing field, which is called the Pitch.

All that changed with good coaching, encouragement from parents, pixie sticks. Elite travel teams gave all four of the girls an expanding view of the world. Bad coaching helped them grow backbones; wins and losses assisted in building character. Ten other girls helped them learn the principle of  teamwork. Off-season training quickly was understood to have an impact on in-season success.

I estimate that we have watched grand daughters play in 500 games over the years.Rain, snow, heat, and more than a few perfect soccer days - only lightening kept the game from being played.

They quickly became skilled at the game and have been delights to watch. Win or lose, soccer is a game that takes stamina, skill, and teamwork.

Kind of like life. They have learned the basics for being successful in this lifetime. Keep at it, learn all you can about it, and play nice with other people...or play with nice other people (there were some 'take-downs' over the years that brought some wimpy parents on other teams to their feet in protest, but only yellow cards were given).

I will miss almost everything about watching these games. Not the cold for sure (this morning it was freezing); not the losses, but the thrill of seeing the possibilities of youth on the right track. I am so proud of 'my' girls. And I will miss the hot dogs at the concession stand. They were the best.

Parenting 101

Recently our local paper reprinted a column from The Washington Post titled "How parents can really help students" by Mari-Jane Williams.

I have put her suggestions in bold below while my thoughts about her thoughts follow.

1. Let Your Child See You Making Mistakes.
She quotes a kindergarten teacher who suggests that parents let their children see them laugh about mistakes, not taking themselves too seriously. Is that like laughing at the State Trooper who wants to see your license, insurance and registration? Or like laughing off forgetting to feed the pet snake and turtle while the kids were at camp and trying to replace them with exact replicas before the kids get home? Or by laughing off the failure of one more round of rehab.

2. Don't Tell Your Child You Weren't Good at Math.
They will figure this out soon enough on their own, when you divide five M & Ms four ways and you get two. Or when you suggest they save their .25 a week allowance for that $350 bike in the catalog. Or when you give them your monthly bank statement along with your check book to reconcile? Or when a note comes home from the math teacher telling you to 'bug off' from your kid's homework.

3. Check Their Homework and Then Have Them Explain it to You.
Absolutely the most boring of all the suggestions, this means that you as parent must sit through one more go-around of the Gettysburg Address, the Constitution of the United States, the flora and fauna of all 50 states plus the history of Warrick County, Indiana. About fifth or sixth grade, the work gets harder and more complex, leaving many parents in the dust. Ms. Williams writes, "Even if the parents don't understand quite what the student has done, it lets you know that the child has completed the task." Actually it lets the parent know that the child has completed some task, perhaps the same task completed last week or by their best friend. This is the point at which a hired tutor is helpful.

4. Help Your Child Make Connections to Literature.
For example, when you spend all the Christmas money on redecorating the master bath room she can relate that to the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. When she complains about the three-times-a-week cereal for dinner she can remember Oliver Twist who only wanted, "More, please," which is also a wonderful reminder of his good manners.

5. But Don't Do Everything.
Okay !

And that's what I think about it.
 

Today's Kohl's Shopping Experience: Not Their Finest Hour

Wandering through the store my nose caught the whiff of a new purse in the air. Just in time for Fall and a trip east to see a grand daughter, a new handbag was just what was needed.

Rifling through display after display of purses, most of them on sale, I settled on a style and a color. What made me look at every single one of the exact same purse still evades me, but I did...enough said.

All these purses had their perforated tags removed and Kohl's price stickers affixed....except one. All the other bags were sticker priced $79 with 40% discount. But the one bag with the original price from the manufacturer was marked $69 with 40% off.

So the manufacturer set the price at $69; Kohl's reset the price at $79.

Taking the originally-priced bag through check-out, it rang up at $79! That's when I was met with clerk-attitude. I showed her the original price tag from the manufacturer still on the bag and asked her to re-check the price. The computer, not surprisingly, again choked out $79.

Unhappily for her, I asked her to call a manager. Whatever the phone conversation was between the two of them the purse ended up costing me what I had happily agreed to pay: $69 minus 40%. (You do the math if you want, just know it was less).

Unfortunately for the clerk, my purchase came up with the request to participate in a Kohl's survey regarding this very visit to their store. As soon as I post this that is exactly what I'm going to do.

And that's what I think about it.

Randomness

The baby bunny hopped by my window yesterday. He would fit with room to spare in the palm of my hand. So cute. The birds in the feeder are all bigger than he is. His little ears look like tiny, individual Tootsie-Rolls.
He would make a tasty treat for the local hawk.

The rose bushes that I so carefully pruned (twice) during the summer are once again growing at odd askew angles. The good news is they are still blooming and look lovely.

The mums arrived today. I picked up our six pots, one of every color.

Two months from now all the political ads will be removed from TV. All the political pundits on the news stations will be on to other news of the day. A president will be elected and life will go on as usual. Or not.

My husband's 70th birthday was last month. We went out to dinner with the family. I bought him a remote-controlled police helicopter. I have seen him look longingly at little kids in the neighborhood who have these so I thought he might want to go out and find some playmates.

I also paid for breakfast for him and his cronies on Wednesday morning. They call themselves the ROMEOs, which can be translated either Rich Old Men Eating Out or Retired Old Men Eating Out.

--------------------------------------------
Now it is a few weeks later. Every day I hear the helicopter taking off from the floor, the hassock, the coffee table, and hover around the furniture and if I'm not careful, my head. Jim is not yet skilled enough to land on my hand.

Soccer season is in full swing. The twins are playing varsity; Brittany is coaching junior varsity.

I spend four or five hours a day writing on my dissertation; some days are more productive than others.

The pulley rope on our 80-inch accordion blind broke a few days ago. The blind is stuck open two feet up from the window sill. If I'm sitting in front of the window I can see out. If I stand up, the view is blocked. When it gets dark we have to get into another room and turn the lights off in the great room. Jim was not pleased, at all, when the blind man (as in the shade man) told him what it would cost to come out and take the blind down and back to his shop to re-string. Not happy at all!

Thanks to a niece near Boston I have discovered that Cadbury is making a Halloween Cadbury egg. The yolk is green. I do like green eggs, Dr. Seuss. 

There is a huge, visible streak on the outside of our big window. Unfortunately, the stuck blind does not cover it up. I noticed it...well, in June.  Every time I sit and watch TV I look out into the back yard through the window and see the streak. It's rained since then but the streak remains. I think the snow may cover the streak come December.

I read three books last week. The first "City of Women" was a memoir about living in Berlin during WWII. The second was a memoir, "January First," about a four-year old with schizophrenia and the parents' struggle to find treatment for their little girl. The child has an IQ of way-off-the-scale (she knew the Periodic Table of Elements at the age of 4, for example). The third book was "Gold" by the author of "Little Bee." "Gold" is about Olympic cyclists. Right now I'm reading Elie Wiesel's newest "Hostage." Four very diverse books. All worthy of a second-look.

Well, there you have it, snippets of life in southern Indiana. And that's what I think about it.

a small car repair

This morning we, meaning my husband, discovered that one of the front low-beam headlights on the car was out, as in not lighting up.

If I had been home alone and discovered this, I would have called the dealer and made an appointment. Or I would have stopped in at the local auto parts to see if they sold, and then installed, whatever it was I needed.In the meantime I would have driven only during the daylight hours.

However, our handy glove box contained our car manual which, on page 83, showed in less than detailed detail, how to change this bulb at home, by yourself, without the added cost of labor. That appealed to my husband.

That would not have bothered me, paying the labor, having someone else under the hood, but my husband bless his heart, decided to purchase the bulb and change it himself. Please remember that my husband can write an iron-clad Will but missed out on the auto-mechanic class in high school.

He went out and bought two bulbs, with the thought that the second would soon be needed on the passenger side of the car and why not anticipate the need. He planned to replace both bulbs.

We have a foreign car; a foreign car built by nationals traditionally small in statue. And so when the manual called for my husband to reach in and release the dead bulb, by first grabbing both ends of the thingie and then pushing on the release button he ran into his first dilemma. Doing the math, that procedure would require three hands. That's where I came in, or out..to the garage.

First, I followed his instructions about how it should come apart. Then, after failing at that, I looked at the diagram in the manual. It was easier after that since I now knew what to push on to release the bulb which was not part of the oral instructions I was given.

After the bulbs were replaced came something called putting the panel back on with eight little black plastic thingies with came with a new set of instructions. One was supposed to squeeze the base, twist the inside, and the little plug would pop up. There was a video on this procedure which my husband had watched but I didn't want to get up from where I was watching "Undercover Boss" on TV to walk into the den to watch the video. I figured I could conquer this little implement. I turned the little thingie over and over in my hand, pushed, prodded, stretched and pondered. How would I work if I were this, I asked myself? By putting myself into the head of the little black thingie I was able to, quite by accident the first time, figure it out. My husband was happy.

He said that the whole procedure of changing the bulbs took him three hours. He guessed it should have been about a 45 minute job which included driving to Ace Hardware to get the bulbs. He thought that without my help it would have taken him four hours. To myself, I added two days to that estimate. If it had been me, I would have been at the Toyota dealer with my checkbook.

And that's what I think about it.

Farewell to Past Olympic Events

Even with the dozens of events at this year's summer Olympics, some events have not been offered in competition for decades. What ever happened to:

Solo Synchronized Swimming? From 1985 to 1992, this event featured one swimmer in sync with her music performing what could only be viewed as a lonely ballet in the pool.

Club Swinging? Clubs resembling bowling pins were used in a twisting, twirling kind of routine, the harder and more intricate the better. This was the precursor of the rhythmic hoops and ribbons. Club swinging ended as an event in 1932.

Live Pigeon Shooting? The 1900 Olympics in Paris had the great distinction of being the first Games where women competed. It also wore the ignoble badge for this sport, where athletes aimed to bring down as many pigeons as possible.  Nearly 300 birds were slain, historians say, leaving a bloody, feathery mess. The winner shot down 21 pigeons.

Swimming Obstacle Course? The venue was the Seine river, where swimmers had to dodge obstacles floating in the river and even climb a pole at one point. They climbed over and swam under boats and other flotsam placed there for the enjoyment of the spectators.

La Canne? Same as fencing but using a cane, yes the very type of cane used to steady one's wobbly legs as one ages.

Trampoline and Rope Climbing? Not anymore. Gym teachers took over these events and moved them into high school Physical Education classes.

How about long jump and high jump...for horses?

Only women could compete in croquet. This event garnered so little interest that only one spectator ticket was sold and the event was canceled in subsequent Olympics.


(thanks to CNN and npr on-line for most of the above information)

And that's what I think about it.

Olympics from the Couch

It's that time again. Every two years, first in the summer and then in mid-winter, sports figures fill the TV screen, and the phone screen, and the IPad, some streaming live feeds, others playbacks of events of the 30th Summer Olympiad.

Where my mind might never bring to mind rowing, badminton, boxing, archery or beach volleyball (to name a few) during the four years between summer games, suddenly I am not only watching these sports but am becoming an expert in their history, the players' bios, and receiving a renewed education of the ever-changing geography of the world.

Some countries have hundreds of athletes; others a few; a few just one. 

Some parade around the Opening Ceremonies in native dress of their countries. Others in designer duds, but all in the colors of their countries' flag.

I am again, as I am nearly every two years, appalled and incredulous regarding the commentaries that accompanying the games and even more so with the interviews of the athletes. One commentator asked an athlete who had just won a silver medal why she thought she hadn't gotten gold. An interview with a boxer offered this snippet, "Well, I just trained hard and kept hitting him until I found my pace."  Another boxer who "came to the ring through thunderous applause" was soon seen kissing the mat.

Another asked an obviously stunned loser what had happened. What had happened was that he lost. (I suppose I would not make a very good interviewee. I would be using the "Doh!" word way too often).

Another asked a swimmer what it would take for her to take home the gold. Doh! It would take her to swim faster than anyone else in the pool at that time.

I watched the road race (biking) like I watch NASCAR; it became interesting only when there was a spill and bikes and riders slid across the road knocking down everything in their path like bowling pins. Now that was worth watching. I was interested in seeing the women's road race because there was a horrific storm coming at them and I figured good TV was about to happen, but I had to get to church so I missed all the fun of the rain and wind.

That's enough for now about the games. Tonight there will be more foil (fencing) replays, men's soccer (although I already know the outcome since I have three apps on my phone for Olympic results and live streaming), and ping pong. I wonder what might have happened if my parents had purchased me a javelin instead of a clarinet.

We'll never know.

And that's what I think about it.

Arts Smarts Camp - 2012

Arts Smarts Camp was held last week. I may have written about it in years past but I am so impressed with this fun-filled creative arts offering for kids from preschool to grade five.

I was helping in Graffiti Art. Graffiti is best done outdoors, away from cars and buildings. It takes lots of spray paint and sturdy walls and a wide expanse of lawn. Dry weather helps. Last week the temperatures hovered around 100 degrees each day.

I mean, kids and aerosol spray paint cans. What could go wrong?

I asked the campers if anyone had ever had the opportunity to use spray paint. Not one hand was raised. Hmmmmm! A clue there somewhere.

Forty-seven campers, out of a total camp of 775 signed up for this graffiti. Some had to be turned away and the class enrollment reached its limit quickly during the registration period. First come, first served had to be the motto.

One day, toward Thursday, a very dark rain cloud crept closer to the graffiti boards. Since the geographical area is in a severe drought it was not appropriate to pray that the cloud would move on. But it did. Thank you.

Thirty-one different classes were offered to the kids during the week. The campers chose their top five and were assured of three of those. If kids liked music they could sign up for drumming, bells, keyboard, guitar, bass or signing. Teachers were skilled at what they were teaching including a certified American Sign Language instructor.

Perhaps quieter endeavors were needed. Kids could learn to knit, write short stories, publish a newspaper, build a board game, find and write to a pen pal, or learn to script in calligraphy.

Kids who like drama had the options of learning set production, acting, filming a movie, producing a daily news TV new report, dancing. or running the TV cameras.

Regular art offerings included: make-up (my personal least favorite), carpentry, drawing, duct tape art, graffiti, sewing, cooking, painting, scrap-book making, photography, cake decorating, jewelry making, pottery...well, you get the idea.

Kids' classes were in storerooms, coat closets, hallways; there was not a corner of the building which was not used for creativity.

What's the point of having this kind of activity in a church? Doesn't it abuse the building? What does it have to do with what churches are supposed to be doing. Doesn't it make it difficult for the staff? Don't parents just want their kids out of their hair for the morning?

Perhaps some of the above is true.

The point - and there is one - is that God has given talents to each person. He (God) would love for those talents to be used to bring him joy and praise. We try to encourage kids to use their talents for good, for God. It may not be the church you grew up in, but it is the church that values kids like God does.

And that's what I think about it.

Busyness and Angst

This is a summary of a daily column by BreakPoint the writings of the late Chuck Colson now written by an outstanding team of thoughtful journalists...and moralists.

People, they write, are anxious, not about how they will make ends meet or put food on the table or the problem with some disorder that requires medical help. The anxiety is almost always self-imposed. Classes, lessons, volunteerism,..."It's the busyness of people who 'feel anxious and guilty when they aren't either working or doing something to promote their work.'"

Busyness, writes Tim Kreider in "The Busyness Trap" is our way of telling ourselves that "our lives cannot possible be trivial or silly or meaningless if we are in demand every minute of the day."

Jesus said we could come to him and we could find rest.

But rest is exactly what we don't want others to see us doing.

The article makes the point that when the New York Times wrote its continuing series on anxiety, faith was left out of the remedies The author then ponders whether that omission was because so few examples of faith making a difference exist in the faith community, that Christians are just as busy as everyone else.

That should leave us, well....anxious...

And that's what I think about it.

Life Lessons from the Cleveland Plain Dealer

Here is a shortened list of lessons life taught Regina Brett, reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer:

-Don't compare your life to others'. You have no idea what their journey is all about.
-If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.
-Over prepare, then go with the flow.
-Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age...
-Frame every so-called disaster with these words, "In five years, will this matter?"
-What other people think of you is none of your business.
-Time heals almost everything. Give time time.
-However good or bad a situation is, it will change.
-Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
-Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.
-God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do.

And that's what I think of it.

Summer

Have I gotten so used to air conditioning that I have forgotten what it is like to swelter in the heat of summer?

For over a week, the temperatures have been just under 110 degrees, hot by any standards, and no, it's not a dry heat. It's humid and drippy. Excessive heat warnings have been posted for the area, most of the mid-west if truth be told. So even packing a bag and getting out of  town is not an option since everywhere within driving distance is under the weather channel's red warning map (not to mention what it would cost in gas to get away). And the cat no longer runs to escape outside when the back door is opened.

Growing up on the shores (inland a little) of Lake Erie the temperatures got to 90. The highest temperature before this summer was 104, recorded in 1988, but I was long gone by then. On the side of our house we had a mulberry tree whose branches made a graceful arch up from the trunk to sweep down to the ground creating a perfect hidden, cool respite from the weather. Well, truth again, it wasn't really perfect since the mulberries acted like Ritz dye when sat upon creating a challenge for who ever was on laundry duty that week. It was never me.

But back to the present. Walking to the mailbox or the newspaper box becomes a waiting game with my husband. Who wants the paper more, me or him? This is the only time I have regretted getting him an IPad for now he can find all the news he needs or wants without our daily morning paper. Truth again, the news in the paper, especially the global news, is old by two, sometimes three, days. A whole war could be started and won (or lost) in the time it takes the local press to get the news out. Celebrities marry, divorce, and remarry all in the time it takes me to find out they are an item. But I digress.

We are wusses.

And that's what I think about it.

Deceased I Wish I had Known

Today in the paper I happened to take some time reading the obituaries. Some might think this a macabre pastime and if I hadn't been looking for the name of a neighbor I would not have scanned this list of the recently deceased. However, little did I know of the entertainment value of the local obituaries. With names omitted, I submit these gems to you, my readers:

"(name) was a damn good lawyer. Just ask him. (Oops, too late.)...He survived (until now) liver cancer and transplant...He could nap on command...He was never far from a Vienna finger or an Oreo (or a moon pie)...Sticking around to pick up the crumbs are his daughter....and her husband (who he actually came to love)...Taking off before him, his wife of 46 years...."

"(name) grew up in a Democratic home and married a Republican..."

"(name) was religious about donating to charities especially in his community."

"(name) collected/loved stuff...had a green thumb....single-handedly kept Goop, Gorilla Glue, duct tape manuafacturers and the "fart card" division of the greeting card industry in business."

The local paper writes, "Paid obituaries are written and provided by the families and loved ones of the deceased and the content reflects the thoughts and values of the bereaved."

I find these more amusing than the comics and probably will become somewhat of a stalker of the dead.

And that's what I think about it. 

A Dad by any other Name

Tonight we celebrated Father's Day with the family. After dinner and gifts, my husband Jim rose to "tell a short story."

He related a time at Ohio State when his parents unexpectedly showed up on campus. In the evening of their visit the three of them, along with 200 others, attended an annual dinner for Baker Hall, the dorm where Jim lived. During the program two residents of the hall came up behind Jim and escorted him to the stage. Unbeknownst to him he was being inducted into the Baker Hall Honor Society and would now be known as Sir James Thomas. His parents had been alerted that this honor was to be bestowed and drove to campus for the ceremony.

A few years later, Jim was in the army. Receiving his third stripe he now had the new designation of Sergeant. Another title by which to be known.

A few years later, he was awarded the Juris Doctorate degree which came with the title Esquire.

Lots of titles; lots of awards.

But at dinner last night, Jim stood in front of the family to state that on April 7, 1972, he received the title that he most cherishes and is most proud of when two little girls after marrying their mother begin to call him Dad.

Nothing has been more fulfilling.

There wasn't a dry eye.

And that's what I think about it. 

Bunny Buffet

The bunnies are back. Skinny little things, these wild furries romp through the back yard chasing one another but lose focus easily. They run like being chased and then stop abruptly to nibble a leaf of clover forgetting the former game of catch-me-if-you-can.

Sitting inside looking outside one afternoon, I noticed one of them in the middle of the yard, seemingly pulling up grass. When she had a mouthful she hopped over to the jumble of leaves and other vegetation of sunflowers, clematis, morning glories, rose bushes and wild daisies. Large tufts of grass stuck out from both sides of her mouth. She deposited the grass and went back to the yard, returning with another mouthful, five or six times. It didn't take long to guess that she was making a nest and that she would probably soon have a litter of bunnies (it crossed my mind to wonder how much I could make selling the little darlings but I was ahead of myself since they were yet in utero).

But I did have the wherewithal to have my husband purchase a big bag of carrots for the little mother-to-be. I broke one in half and put it out on the step by the flowers (see photo). After three days, the carrot had been moved, but not eaten. What's this?, I asked myself. What bunny doesn't eat carrots?

Wanting her to keep her strength up, I now have Julienned the carrots into what I hope are bite-sized morsels and placed them where she has only to pluck them from the ground (see photo).

I'll keep you posted.

And that's what I think about it.

Mom's Empty World

Today my daughter was looking at the photo I have of myself as my phone identifier. She said, "Mom, that's a good picture of you." I said, "I know." She said, "I guess as one gets to a certain age, good manners that require a humble 'thank you' go out the window."

That set me thinking about the cultural barriers that fall as one ages.

For example: My mother, with advanced Alzheimer Disease,  lived in a nursing home. She had always been fairly prim and proper. She had not spoken for a couple of years. I almost could not remember how her voice sounded. My sister made daily visits to her while I made the trip every other month or so.

On one trip, I took current pictures of my grandchildren, thinking that the photos might elicit a spark of recognition from her. I held one photo of the four grand daughters in front of her, trying to position it in her glazed-over line of sight. I put the photo in her hand, pointed to each child as I named them. Mom gazed at it, kind of looking, kind of not. Finally she said, yes said, in a most audible voice, "Cute little sh...ts, aren't they?"

After a two year period of silence these were the first and last words out of her mouth.

My sister and I were shocked, looked at each other, and doubled over with laughter.

When we came up for air, gasping in stunned hilarity, we saw that my mother had once again returned to her hidden, internal world.

And that's what I think about it.

More Randomness

Other randomness:

-When manufacturers change the shape of their product container, it is almost always to make you think they have gifted you with more product when in reality there is less product because of indentations in the container.

-You can get ten times the product if you make your own fabric spray and wrinkle releaser...which are exactly the same product.

-Regardless of what the brochures say, Barbados looks very much like Aruba which looks very much like Jamaica. The only island that looks different is Borneo...and I don't recommend that sort of vacation. Ask me how I know!

-Even toxic relationships can be looked back upon with wisdom if 1) they are absolutely in the past, and 2) if learning took place which prevented subsequent repeatedness.

-A cat's Meow volume is in direct proportion to the level of food in the cat's bowl.

-Wisdom with age is a choice.

-Nothing says 'old people' like a padded toilet seat. 

And that's what I think about it.

Randomness

A few random thoughts:

-Never trust a restaurant that has only cold water in the restroom.

-Locally, a politician, Mr. Schitter, was running for county council. Unfortunately, and I don't know whether he won or lost at the Primary level, the newspaper omitted the 'c' from his name in all their reporting. Newspapers should not take sides like that.

-Words I never want to hear, "Step out of the car, please."

-Yoga is big. To differentiate one class from another, snakes have been brought in. "The hottest cool new Yoga for women, this meditative technique will unleash the 'inner serpent' and bring about healing." Curious, I went to the web site. The 'goddess' has several books on snake yoga for sale. Books, tapes, and videos. I'm thinking you have to find your own snakes locally. Beginners should start with the common garter snake, under ten inches long - that's my recommendation.

- A $25 gift certificate for catalog jewelry is never enough.

-A lady never loses a cheap earring by forgetting to put plastic backs on them, but always the priceless gifts from friends who travel the world.

-I saved a few bucks and about ten minutes a week by cancelling my TIME magazine subscription. I don't think I'll miss anything since the royal wedding has already taken place (unless they plan to have a cover shot of Kate breastfeeding the next in line to the British throne).

Today, that's what I think about it. 

A Shot Rang Out

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was a sunny afternoon. I was inside the house; my husband was in the front yard tackling weeds.

He opened the front door and called out, "Hey, did you hear that?"

"What?" I said which told him everything he needed to know, mainly that no, I had not heard whatever it was that brought him to the door.

"Gun shots! Down the street," his excitement barely masked.

We both made our way out to the driveway. Looking down the street, only three houses down on our little cul-de-sac where the houses are very close together I hasten to add, four Sheriff deputy cars had pulled onto the street and were sitting in front of Tom's house.

Here's where I need to back up to three or so weeks ago. 

No, that's not right. I need to back up a year or so ago to when the guy to the back of our cul-de-sac purchased a flock of geese. On a small lot with a falling down ribbon-like fence, pure mud surface with a shed and a corral in the back, the lot keeps three, sometimes four forlorn horses...and now a flock of geese.

Geese are not clean creatures, nor are they quiet, nor are they territorial unless you admit that where ever they wander is their territory. This farm-like property backs upon Tom's. Tom had taken to feeding carrots and apples to the horses, feeling great pity for their sorry estate, but the geese placed the last straw on Tom's back.

Did I mention how very carefully Tom has cultivated his landscaping and backyard? Tom tried many methods for keeping the geese off his property. He had words with the landowner. Tom had a dog but a canine much smaller than a goose the dog was not about to get involved in a neighborhood dispute. He knew the danger. The dog was now staying inside the house. Tom told my husband one day, "Jim, I'm about to lose my Christianity over this." We thought he was joking.

Until the sheriff showed up.

I am not proud that my first thoughts were that Tom had shot either the property owner or the geese.

But, like Paul Harvey would say, here is the end of the story.

When the shots rang out, the neighbor across our street from Tom looked out his window to see what was up. He saw a stranger walking down Tom's driveway carrying a weapon in each hand. The stranger casually tossed the guns in his car and drove off. He called 9-1-1.

And really, might I add, this is one of the ironies of living in southern Indiana, where carrying weapons in public whether it's deer season or not or into the public libraries is quite within the law. You just can't hide the weapons. Last newspaper report had a guy suing the city because he was arrested for carrying a weapon into the zoo. (And people wonder what ever happened to the Emperor Penguin!) But I digress.

We ran into Tom this morning. That is another story. We have been curious. We have not seen Tom since the incident. We have watched for an obituary and/or a police blotter report, all to no avail. We did know that Tom and his wife ate breakfast at Hardee's...every morning. So we got up early and stalked them to Hardee's. There they were sitting with the stranger  across from them like they'd been good friends forever. Turns out they have been.

The friend, now known by his Christian name George, had come over on that day to show Tom two antique pistols, the same kind that had killed President Lincoln. When asked, "Do they work?" the answer was given through demonstration.

 We are thinking that what is shot into the air must at some time return to earth. A bullet traveling downward like that could kill something.  

"Firearms expert Julian Hatcher studied falling bullets and found that .30 caliber rounds reach terminal velocities of 300 feet per second (90 m/s) and larger .50 caliber bullets have a terminal velocity of 500 feet per second (150 m/s). A bullet traveling at only 150 feet per second (46 m/s) to 170 feet per second (52 m/s) can penetrate human skin,^[9] and at 200 feet per second (60 m/s) it can penetrate the skull^. A bullet that does not penetrate the skull may still result in an intracranial injury.

^{Like your mother always told you: Don't come crying to me if someone gets their eye shot out.}

^{And that's what I think about it.}