Posted on March 17, 2015
My Mother was the world’s greatest proponent of St. Patrick’s Day. No, actually, she was the world’s greatest proponent of being one hundred percent Irish.
Green was her favorite color three hundred sixty five days of the year, and once when I was growing up she asked a landlord to paint our apartment deep green. I don’t mean an accent here or there; I mean all walls deep green.
She loved corned beef and Irish rebellion songs and the Old Irish Blessing, which she recited at the drop of a hat. It’s the one that starts with “May the road rise up to meet you . . .” And she would always raise her hands on the word ‘up.’
I’m only half Irish, but my Mother did a great job of teaching that half to act one hundred percent. So of course I wore green today. I’m sporting green socks, green slacks, a green jacket, green earrings, and my Mother’s emerald ring.
She’s been gone almost eighteen years, but I’m sure if she were here she’d approve. And then recite the Old Irish Blessing one more time.
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Posted on March 15, 2015
I first learned the Pythagorean Theorem as a sophomore in Sister Mary Marcelline’s geometry class. It’s all about right triangles and states that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Algebraically, it is written A2 + B2 = C2.
Little did I know that this theorem would find me again in my builder’s course last week. We were studying rafters and their pitch and used the theorem to determine how long a rafter needed to be in certain situations. If you think of the rafter as the hypotenuse of a right angle with one-half the run and the amount of slope as the other two sides of the triangle, you understand what I’m talking about.
The funny this is that I understood the formula – Sister Marcelline was a fantastic math teacher – but I didn’t know the building terms. Run is something children do. Slope means what you’re walking on is uneven. However, the men in my class were in the opposite position. They didn’t have a clue about Pythagoras.
He was an ancient Greek philosopher and mathematician who is credited with proving how the theorem that bears his name today works. It was Greek to him back then, and apparently it’s still Greek to some people today.
As for me, I need to learn carpentry terms if I’m going to pass the builder’s test. Go figure.
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Posted on March 14, 2015
By chance, I happened across my local PBS station’s plea for pledges to keep it on the air. It was a concert to honor Peter, Paul, and Mary’s fifty years in the music industry. Having grown up with this group, what could I do but watch?
So I did. And relived my own fifty years along with theirs.
It began in the 1960s. I was in college when the Vietnam War and civil rights and women’s lib were raging. But in many ways, I was too demure, too Catholicized, too mousey to participate in any of these movements.
Still, Peter, Paul and Mary gained prominence, and I supported their agendas in theory if not in action. I never marched for freedom, but I believed in those who did. I never went to Selma, but I thought those on that bridge were justified. And I never helped people make it to the polls, although I believed they should be allowed.
PPM did all these things; because, outside their music, they were activists. They participated in various walks and gathering and meetings regardless of fall-out for their music. Then Mary Travers died at age 72 in 2009.
The two remaining singers decided to carry on in Mary’s honor, for which I’m grateful. Because would I want to live in a world where PPM isn’t acknowledged? Probably not.
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Posted on March 12, 2015
My motto has always been, “When it’s time to paint it’s time to move.”
I understand most people don’t share this sentiment; they prefer to stay put and add a coat of paint. Or change the carpet or reupholster the furniture. I respect that; but it’s not me. I want a new canvas rather than refurbish the old one.
Which is why I’m itching to see what’s out there beyond the lot lines of our current home. And why I’m noticing more and more issues with same said home. Even though Earl and I are careful, there are nicks in the paint, grime in the grout, and scratches on some of the cupboards. The nap in our carpet isn’t as fresh and the faucets are showing lime deposits.
All these things are fixable and certainly cost less than moving. But the real issue is that I have gypsy feet that can’t be painted or reupholstered and certainly can’t be given away; and they are becoming antsy.
Posted on March 11, 2015
Daylight Savings Time (DST) went into effect three nights ago, and I’m still confused about what time to get up in the morning. No, I’m not a morning person. Yes, I could set an alarm. And, yes again, this isn’t a problem on the par of world hunger or Ebola.
Still, I went to the Internet to see if anyone had written about DST lately, either for or against it. Google® took only a quarter of a second to give me 29,100,000 results. I started with Number One, which was an opinion piece by Matt Shiavenza for The Atlantic titled “Time to Kill Daylight Saving.” I thought he made a clear, readable argument for doing away with the 1918 law establishing it. It was relatively brief too.
I never checked on the second Google® reference, because following Shiavenza’s article were 718 comments about it. Many said the article was poorly written; others thought it lacked research; still others commented on previous comments until some of the remarks turned snide. And one person bragged he hadn’t read the article at all; he was just along for the debate.
As for me, there isn’t any reason to expound further on DST since it’s all been said and Google® has preserved it.
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Posted on March 10, 2015
I never met a potato I didn’t like, which is why I try to keep them out of my kitchen. Otherwise, I would eat them every day. Idaho, Russet, Red, Sweet, Yukon Gold (although this last is my least favorite), They and their carb contents are all my friends.
Blame it on my Irish heritage or my Mother’s cooking. The former is deeply ingrained in me and the latter supported the former. I became addicted at an early age.
Last night, a Monday, I do what I do every Monday night when I’m in town and the snow is manageable. I visit a former neighbor. We have a cocktail together and reminisce, and we’ve done this for fifteen years.
But last night was the first time I asked her if she had any potatoes because I had this overwhelming urge to eat one, and I didn’t want to go to the supermarket for just one item, even if it was a potato.
She came through.
We rummaged through her eight pound bag of potatoes, which coincidentally also held eight beauties. You can do the math. I returned home with one pound’s worth of heaven that aked for over an hour while I salivated. And waited.
Finally the beauteous item was done, and I sat down to offer grace regarding my Irish heritage and my Mother’s cooking. I also sent up a prayer for my former neighbor too.
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Posted on March 9, 2015
As long as I’ve known Earl, he’s had a penchant for the daily crossword puzzle. He’s also formulated a variety of rules regarding it.
First, he does the puzzle in ink, which leads to being extra cautious. Earl doesn’t like mistakes or scratch-overs. So before filling in a word, say horizontally, he makes sure a letter or two works vertically.
For instance, today’s puzzle had the clue “Worked in a pub” and the word that fit the nine spaces was ‘bartended’. But before filling it in, he looked for the word that possibly intersected the ‘B’. Once he determined the answer was ‘busboy,’ he filled in both answers.
There are also rules about the size of the letters in the blanks (They cannot touch the sides) and about putting a tick mark against the clues that have already been solved. (Not too big; not too small.)
I like crossword puzzles too, but my approach drives him nuts. I use a pencil with a good eraser, which gives me license to guess. And I don’t take the time to tick off the clues I’ve figured out. Nor do I care if the puzzle is a work of art when it’s finished. It’s going out with the trash.
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Posted on March 6, 2015
I don’t remember if I’ve written about the Costco experience before, but what does it matter? If I can’t remember every one of my blogs over the past decade I’m assuming nobody else will either. So . . . Costco.
Until last fall, Earl and I traveled to either Grand Rapids, MI or Merrillville, IN to shop at Costco. And we did so a couple times a year, making a day’s excursion of it. However, Costco came to South Bend, IN late last year; and South Bend is just forty minutes down the road. Which means we’re becoming more frequent customers.
Today, we visited again and had a great time. There’s something about the gigantic shopping carts that makes me giggle, as if our paltry items will be lost in the bottom of them. But since nothing is paltry at Costco, that never happens. You want croissants? You have to buy a dozen, not just one or two. You want boned chicken breasts; you get twelve or none. And tilapia? You could open a restaurant.
Then there’s the various tasting stations where Earl enjoys lunch, and we often find something we wouldn’t have bought without a tasting. Or something we decided to leave behind. This trip we bought beer battered cod and didn’t buy artichoke stuffed chicken. Costco knows what it is doing.
We spent an hour and a half roaming the aisles, picking up bargains, and comparing notes. In the end, we spent over three hundred dollars – which is something I never do at the local supermarket – but we are now the proud owners of 68 rolls of toilet paper and twelve boneless chicken breasts and enough K-cups to last Earl through the summer.
When we got home, I spent another hour and a half breaking the large packages into smaller ones for two people. Earl collapsed in front of the TV.
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Posted on February 26, 2015
I’m plodding along on my online course with the objective of obtaining a builder’s license. Not sure what I’ll do with it, although Earl suggested I start with making a birdhouse. I suggested I’ll find a builder and just drive him nuts with my newly-learned knowledge.
Yesterday, we discussed ladders in the class; and it was an eye-opener. Ladders are extremely dangerous if you don’t know how to use them. And most people don’t. I won’t bore you with the ratio (which is 1:4) for leaning a ladder against a vertical wall, but I will say that I learned it’s a serious proposition. I also learned why you don’t step on the top rung of a ladder. No where. No how.
Today, we discussed scaffolding, and it was another eye-opener. I’m sure you’ve seen them; but if you don’t know the definition, a scaffold is a temporary structure around the outside of a building that enables workers to do their jobs while protecting the general public.
As a soon-to-be general contractor, I don’t plan to erect scaffolds – especially since I have a fear of heights and the videos in my class showed scaffolding on the Statue of Liberty. Still, I have a new respect for those who do this job.
Tomorrow, we’re still on scaffolds. So keep the excitement down. There’s more to come.
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Posted on February 23, 2015
I’ve been growing my hair since August 2012. In that time frame, I’ve gone from a clipped, curly short style to an almost shoulder-length, every-strand-the same-with-no-layers look.
I’m not sure which looks better on me; in fact, I’m not even sure why I’m growing my hair because I think long hair looks silly at my age. Still . . . some urge overcame me back in 2012, and I decided to go with it.
I’m spurred on by the words in that famous song about hair from the musical of the same name.
Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair, shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there, momma, everywhere, daddy, daddy.
Hair, flow it, show it
Long as God can grow, my hair.
I don’t know if God is taking this as a personal challenge the way I am, and that’s fine. My current plan is to keep going until I can put every hair in a ponytail or a bun. Some older women look great in the latter. I’ll let you know if I’m one of them somewhere down the road.
Hair, flow it, show it
Long as God can grow, my hair.
Yeah, baby!
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