Red White And Blue

adbdbb06-7ba9-4aac-8787-0af095d59a5b                This photo inspired the poem

                                     Red White and Blue

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
His red, white, and blue symbolic
A political
view
Understand freedom . . . be equal too

Like a school-age kindergartner
Raise his hand to hold the flag
Chosen, glad about honor
Knows to say a prayer

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
Puff his chest, recite the pledge
Listen to the voice within
Battle for the helpless, not let the bullies win!

Stand side by side with those who care
Silently and stare
Misty eyed while taps are played for those who dare
Think America is beautiful

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?

. . . . just saying

 

Previous post, “Bored On The Fourth of July”

 

Cranky, Crabby and Cantankerous

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Cranky, Crabby and Cantankerous

Cranky, crabby and cantankerous

I have the coronavirus blues

What’s a person to do?

Make someone else miserable, too?

I bought some flowers

It wasn’t a cure

Just the best I could do

For the coronavirus blues

I’ve mastered Sudoku, Celebrity Cipher

The crossword. . .

Well, I can answer a few

I’ve read Becoming, a good book, and tried writing one too

How about you?

Do you have the coronavirus blues?

You know the symptoms

Cranky, crabby, cantankerous, grumpy, grouchy and . . .

Grateful. . .

For this time in our lives

To make wrongs right

Learn how to fight. . . fair

Disagree, clear the air

Everyone’s life matters

Don’t dare use color as an excuse for human abuse.

I bought some flowers

It wasn’t a cure

Just the best I could do.

Do you have the coronavirus blues?

You know the symptoms

Cranky, crabby cantankerous, grumpy, grouchy and

Hopeful . . . things will be different.

     . . . . just saying

 

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Who Or Whom Are We Protecting?

Who Are We Protecting? Or, Oops, Is It Whom?

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Friday night, we invited friends over for pizza. I had put an extra leaf in the table and after everyone was properly distanced and had removed their face covers the conversation turned to masks. Should they be mandatory and who, or is it whom, were we protecting anyway?

We sat and talked, two males and two females married to each other. Oops, that is not quite right. The girls were married to the guys and the guys were married to the girls. Well, you get the picture, two old white married couples. Oops, I did not mean to imply only white straight people stay married.

So, forget about gender, race, age, or sexual orientation. Four adults sat around the table talking.

“I wear a face mask to protect me.”

“Really? Doesn’t my wearing the mask protect you?”

“They should be mandatory. People in the grocery store aren’t wearing masks. I got yelled at the other day.”

“You weren’t wearing a mask? You came to our front door wearing one.”

“No, I was yelled at for wearing a mask. What about my First Amendment Rights?”

“Well, it’s hard to believe a piece of fabric really protects us. What about gargling with Listerine?”

“My mask prevents molecules from the transmission into the environment. I’m protecting you.”

“But you don’t have the virus.”

“I don’t have the virus yet.”

“Right. Your mask protects you.”

“We wash our hands. Why not wash out our mouths. We should be gargling.”

“Would public gargling be considered a First Amendment Right?”

“Why isn’t the media reporting on gargling?”

The discussion was interrupted by television coverage that a statue of Calvin Griffith, a former owner of the Minnesota Twins, was removed for racial comments he made in 1976.  Other incidents of statues being taken down flashed across the screen. Many of them not peaceful. In Seattle police questioned who, or is it whom, to protect when activists injured and killed two fellow protestors. Police across the country faced similar challenges. Who to protect?

The conversation resumed.

“So, who, or is it whom, are the police protecting?”

“They were protecting them.”

“No. The police were protecting US.”

“Shouldn’t they protect everyone?”

One of the men put his head in his hands and like the grandfather in the movie Moon Struck lamented, “I’m so confused,” and then ask, “why can’t we watch baseball?”

“It’s not on.”

So, is it who or whom?

Who is the subject of the verb and whom is the object.

In the sentence, who/whom are we protecting? The subject is we. Are is the verb. Therefore, the answer is; whom are we protecting? Oops, that is right unless it is wrong.

  . . . just saying

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Is Today Friday?

456 pic from cell may 2019 154Is Today Friday?

Monday morning, as soon as I was out of bed, the day felt like a Friday. The newspaper indicated it was Monday, June 1st. But, seeing the day and date in print didn’t help. It clearly felt like a Friday.

Tuesday, the next morning, did not feel like a Saturday. Why had Monday felt like a Friday?

By Wednesday, the week seemed to be on track until, my husband said, “Boy this week is going fast.” Then Wednesday adopted a few nuances of Thursday.  

Finally, on Friday it felt like Friday, probably because we had pizza for dinner.

Has any of this ever happened to you?

I asked,  Google; Why does it feel like Friday?

 “Fridays are associated with the ending of work/school, so people are happier and go to parties, bed later, etc. See, if you associate something with the day and it doesn’t happen, it can feel like a different day.”

It is a stretch. . . But if Monday is associated with work, and I am retired, therefore, work did not happen; the day might feel like a different day. Logically, however, the different day,  should have been Saturday. I have to assume they missed my notation about pizza for dinner.

According to Google, People also ask;

  • Why does the day feel so short?
  • Why is the day dragging?
  • Why do days of the week feel different?

These are questions I frequently ask, along with other questions, i.e., What is cow tipping?

Asking the right question is more important than finding the right answer.

Why can’t every day feel like Friday?

What do you think?

. . . . just saying

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You Got To Smize

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You Got To Smize

Yesterday, I read Susan Sparks article, “Put on your mask . . . and smize,” in our local newspaper, The Daytona Beach News Journal.

I want to pass along her message.

Rev. Susan Sparks is senior pastor of Madison Avenue Baptist Church in New York City. Prior to working for God, she was a trial lawyer and a stand-up comedian. To clarify; first she argued for a living, then cracked jokes, before saying amen . . . Let’s talk about the lord.

I’m not Baptist, but enjoy her articles and perspective.

She wrote about a recent venture in the city. While, everyone wore masks that covered their mouths, she caught someone in a smile, by looking at their eyes.

Evidently, Trya Banks, coined the word to advise other models about how to really smile.

The gist of the article is; although a smile is a reaction to feeling happy, a smile can create a happy feeling. In other words, a smile can change a mood.

There is little to smile about in recent news. Especially the tragic public killing of George Floyd by a police officer in Minneapolis.

There’s concern that the coronavirus will have long lasting effects on how people interact. Talk of the potential harm isolation does.

I’m not suggesting we smile about these heartbreaking appalling events.  But that we continue to smile, with our eyes first.

 

. . . just saying

Readers, you can open up the links to Susan Sparks and Trya Banks by scrolling over the colored text.

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See The USA In Your Chevrolet . . .But Not

 

Virtual Travel

Fallingwater Tour

Fallingwater, a house designed by architect Frank Lloyd Wright in 1935, is located in Mill Run, Pennsylvania, and about an hour south of Pittsburgh. The house, the former weekend home for the Kaufmann family (owners of Kaufmann Department store),was designed and built partly over a waterfall.

Needless to say it is unique, well known and one of the places I would like to visit before I die. That’s why I’m going to Pittsburgh this week. It is now a museum and can be toured. . . BUT NOT. . .Because of the coronavirus.   The weather forecast sounds perfect; mild eighties, sunny and zero chance of rain. So I’m going, virtually of course.

I’ll explain.

The year 2020 was going to be a year of travel.  After all, if not now, when?

So, I ordered a Push Pin Travel Map.

The framed map came with a cheery post card from owners, Mike & Brenda, saying, “Hip hip horray!“ and to please use the push pins to “track past travels and dream of future ones,” I was excited. The television advertising jingle, See The USA in Your Chevrolet, sung by Dinah Shore, popped-in and stayed in my head. It was not going to be a Thelma and Louise adventure.

Then the coronavirus hit.

Pittsburgh is one of many places I’d like to visit. My husband asked. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never been there.”

The city sits at the junction of three rivers and includes several “Gilded Age” sites; Carnegie Museum of Natural History and Museum of Art, the Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens.I have always wanted to visit the city. I even know where I’ll stay.

The Renaissance Hotel.

 The Renaissance hosts Braddock’s Side Street Grill, specializing in American dishes, and Prelude Wine Bar. French-American cuisine is served at Braddock’s American Brasserie. The online pictures and description made me drool.

I believe our room has a view of the Ohio River. It’s way above my budget . . .But Not.

The Andy Warhol Museum is 2,650 feet from the Renaissance. The hotel is 15 minutes’ drive from the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium. Clink on the link below to see more.

But, Pittsburgh is a thirteen hour drive from northern Florida. We’ll stop along the way.  and spend the night in Roanoke, Virginia. Someplace cheap or maybe not. Virtual travel is basically free. Even gas expenses has been waved.  Hopefully we’ll still be awake after dark to take in Roanoke’s well know attraction, a man made star on Mill Mountain.

(Mill Mountain in Roanoke,  Falls City Pub in Mill Run and Kaufmann’s Dept. Store)

 

I enjoyed my virtual visit to Pittsburgh. Someday I’ll walk the streets, people watch and soak in the river view. And see more of the USA

.   .  .  .just saying

 

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Perturbed

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     When I overheard someone say the word perturbed recently, the word danced around in my head until I put pen to paper and wrote this vignette.
 

Perturbed

The police station hugs the railroad tracks in this rural New Jersey town. I contemplate retirement most mornings and especially today, as I skip over rain puddles to the precinct door. When I climb the steps, an umbrella pokes my neck. Inside I turn around and observe a woman hiding a closed umbrella in a corner. Then she walks toward me, her hand extended and says, “I’m Dolores.”

Usually, I am not quick to shake hands, but do so automatically and introduce myself.  “Officer Hawkins. How can I help you?”

“My husband went missing last night.”

Her voice is raspy. Her long jet-black hair parted on the side, frames the opposite eye. I wish I had gotten a haircut, or at least trimmed my mustache.

I respond. “Standard procedure is to wait twenty-four hours,” then stomp my feet on a rug, “your guy will probably show up before that.”

“Officer Hawkins, it’s so unlike Steven.” Her doe like brown eyes fill with tears.

“Well, file a missing person’s report if you want.”

I walk behind my desk, and search for the appropriate form. Dolores eases into an interview chair uninvited, and slips off her raincoat, to reveal; what my ex-wife called, a sweater dress.  She trembles at the sight of the paper work, reacting as though it is a hot potato.

Reluctantly, I complete the form for her. She describes Steven as tall, dark, and handsome. Then quickly produces his wallet. The contents spill out. She gathers the singles and worn scrapes of paper with her hands and almost perfectly manicured red nails. The index finger nail is broken.

I say, “Tell me what happened last night.” Her lips purse together before she responds.

“I was perturbed.”

Her pronunciation; emphasis on the first syllable without ignoring the rest, grabs my attention. I confirm her intent. “Perturbed. . . As in annoyed, agitated, or troubled.”

“Yes,” she studies the ceiling, “so. . . I took the dog for a walk,” she pulls nervously at a sleeve, “when I got back, Steven wasn’t there.” She tugs repeatedly at the dress to cover her knees. “I was perturbed.”

I mimic what she says, “You were perturbed?”

Now her doe eyes light with anger as she contains her passion. “Yes, perturbed,” she slips into her coat and stands, “what don’t you understand? Surely you’ve been perturbed, Officer Hawkins.”

She is guilty. But of what, I do not know . . . yet.

I watch her leave the building perturbed.

. . . . just saying

 

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Mind Your Own Business

 

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Happy Mother’s Day to all Mothers. The Coronavirus has changed the way we will celebrate the day.

I am fortunate. My daughter is with me. So, no one has to wear face masks, or wave from a vehicle to say, “I love you.”

My mother died last year at 96 years of age. She worked until she was 85. She had eight children; all surviving, and will be missed. The holidays centered around her even for those of us who lived miles away. I never heard her complain about changing a diaper or cooking a meal. She had a great sense of humor, but also a temper and I knew when to stay out of her way. This is one of the memories I have of her and me, or is it she and I?

Mind Your Own Business

After being told to go to my room, and think about what I had done, I ran away. I was three years old.

We lived in a Cape Cod style house in Levittown, Long Island. The bedrooms were upstairs. By the time my mother realized one of her children was missing, I was long gone.

She went looking and asked a neighbor wearing penny loafers and Bermuda shorts, “Have you seen a little girl?”

He stopped mowing his lawn. “I did,” wiped his brow with a cloth handkerchief and said, “I asked where she was going and I was told to ‘mind my own business.’ ” (Actually I said minch your own business because I had a lisp.)

My mother said, “That was her. Which way did she go?”

Mind your own business is a phrase I have used frequently during this stay at home virus. Until my daughter informed me. “Mom, it’s get off of me.”

She’s afraid I am getting old, and wants me to be on Instagram.

Shortly after, her dad, my husband stood in my way and asked. “What’s that?”

I held a legal-size paper in my hand. Befuddled by his question, I answered. “A piece of paper.”

He continued his inquiry, like an FBI agent. “What’s on it?”

He still did not move. I wondered if he had a concealed fire arm and thought he might flash a badge.

Exasperated I said, “Claire’s banana bread recipe.” Then circled behind him to file it in my baking folder.

I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but said, “Get off of me,” in too loud a voice.

Happy Mother’s Day.,

. . . . just saying

 

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A Chirping Bird Pandemic

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Chirping Birds

A Chirping Bird Pandemic

My neighbor phoned to ask if she could borrow two rolls of toilet paper. Her TP order on Amazon was back ordered. The delay? It was coming from China.

I was face timing with my doctor when I overheard the request and my husband announcing he would leave the items outside our front door. Afterwards, I expressed my concern, and he reminded me. “She made us face masks,” he sighed and said, “relax I gave her the smaller rolls I bought at Walgreens.”

Life is certainly different.

I have stepped away from posting due to several life altering events and my attempt to write a novel. Writing a novel, for me, has been like saying I was going to build a cabin in the woods and waking up to discover I constructed a lean to. No worries, I am not giving up. Writing is my pass-time.

Oprah Winfrey said, “If the Pandemic hasn’t affected you something is wrong.”  I never thought I would face time a doctor. The session required a how-to discussion with a staff member who was working from home and unable to put me on hold. Long pauses filled with silence occurred during our conversation until she said, “I hear birds chirping.” I was sitting outside as I have been for most of the Pandemic. It was sweet and we savored the moment.

I count my blessings, thankful we have not been affected greatly.

Mornings, I enjoy a cup of coffee surrounded by quiet. Slowly the sun creeps up to announce its presence through the mist. Then tangles in the trees. The leaves create a mosaic on the grass while the birds sing. In the background a motorcycle’s dual pipes crescendo in a drum roll. I imagine Leonard Bernstein conducting nature and hear a rhythm band triangle chime. It is a horn honking.

How has the Coronavirus affected you?

Oh, by the way, my novel will have a happy ending.

. . . . just saying

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What Are You Thinking?

 

Bings Landing, Hammock Florida

A friend phoned to invite me out today, I declined saying I was hoping to have a thought, something to write about, as Sunday is my day to post. I had not had one yet, and explained that these days I have to jumpstart my brain, and in addition, my sister had been visiting and we had been sightseeing. The pictures above were taken at Bings Landing where we had lunch at The Captains BBQ and enjoyed the view.  

The conversation caused me to think about thinking, or my failure to. I take that back, I think but not quickly and grab paper and pencil to write down my thoughts, so I do not forget. It didn’t used to be this way.

Before turning 70 years of age, I could keep a thought or idea in my head to be retrieved later. It occurred to me that maybe there is no more room in my head for new thoughts and perhaps the reason we keep thinking old thoughts, i.e., when I was young milk was 25 cents a gallon is because we have accumulated too many thoughts, many of which are dated.

Is there a way to get rid of old thoughts? Head concussions and strokes cause memory loss although these measures would be drastic. Perhaps we can delete or compress some thoughts to make space for new thoughts by viewing old thoughts from a new perspective. For example, can stale bread be made into bread pudding?

The Daytona Beach News-Journal article, ‘Luckiest guy in the world’ reported on the 100th Birthday celebration for Howard Turner a volunteer ambassador at Daytona Beach Airport. When asked about aging he said, “I’m lucky to be walking around. I don’t have a cane. I’m not in a wheelchair, I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” Who could argue with him. He did not talk about memory loss and says he looks to the future, perhaps that is his delete button.

We know the body slows down and the mind becomes stale with aging, but should we throw the loaf of bread out or make bread pudding?

I am thinking of standing on my head, it is just a thought.

What are you thinking?

. . . . just saying