Many people have given the children's book, Places to Go, whether it's for grammar school, middle school or high school. I personally have given it to college graduates as well.
My book, Struck by Lightning is that kind of book as well! It is a children's book, a true story about following your dreams!
What an appropriate book. Contact me and I'll sign it for the new graduate: joni1974@att.net $10 includes signed book, shipping and handling!
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Christmas in SC
I walk down the street,
Oh, the Aiken Mall with decorations,
And I see flowers,
Yellow and purple pansies,
Smiling their warm smile,
With their little dark eyes,
Laughing, singing, dancing in unison.
I feel the warm sun shining
On my skin, shoulders and face,
Helping me to remember Christmas
In the deep cold snow of Massachussetts,
Warm breath to cold air,
Remembering childhood voices in the snow,
Laughing, singing, dancing in unison.
Wherever be Chrismas,
Be it warm or cold,
Remember the loved ones,
Remember the snow of Massachusetts
And the warm blue sky of South Carolina,
Laughing, singing, dancing un unison.
Oh, the Aiken Mall with decorations,
And I see flowers,
Yellow and purple pansies,
Smiling their warm smile,
With their little dark eyes,
Laughing, singing, dancing in unison.
I feel the warm sun shining
On my skin, shoulders and face,
Helping me to remember Christmas
In the deep cold snow of Massachussetts,
Warm breath to cold air,
Remembering childhood voices in the snow,
Laughing, singing, dancing in unison.
Wherever be Chrismas,
Be it warm or cold,
Remember the loved ones,
Remember the snow of Massachusetts
And the warm blue sky of South Carolina,
Laughing, singing, dancing un unison.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
MY HOUSE
The waterfall sang a crisp song tonight. I lay in bed unable to sleep, concentrating on the cool breeze and the soothing rhythm of the water. It was the same song that had hummed softly--always soothing me with its voice. I wondered what life might be like without it and I couldn't. It was part of me, as much a part as my old brick house.
My mind wandered in my sleeplessness, and I wondered if the beautiful Lydia had lain in the corner bedroom on that hot August evening listening to that very same song. I envisioned the first time she had seen the house and imagined her traveling from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city. She would have followed the highway to Sanborn Street in an old-fashioned buggy and gazed at the house in delight.
In 1849, the city had appropriated $400 to erect a school house on that spot (297 Ashburnham Street, West Fitchburg, MA), and that is how the old brick house came to be. A young boy passed that place every day from his farm on Stickney Road. His name was Albert Desgroseilliers. He would brag to all of his friends, "When I grow up, I want to buy that place." It was no wonder, because the view overlooking the pond was great. It wasn't the same as the view from his house way up on the hill. He could see Mt. Wachusett and Boston from there. The scene from the brick house was more musical.
The young Albert was my grandfather, and the beautiful Lydia was my grandmother. On that hot August night, she lay in labor waiting for her sixth child. She was mistress now of the old school house, because guess what? My grandfather did fulfill his childhood dream and purchased the old building for his young bride. Already they had five robust boys and I'll bet that Lydia wanted a little girl almost as much as my grandfather. I can imagine their pleasure on that night when my mother was born. The singing waters below must have been subdued compared to the great joy in the brick house. I remember my gramp telling me the story over and over. And, how I loved to hear it. He had taken the horse and buggy out and driven up and down Ashburnham Street for hours exclaiming to everyone who would listen, "I have a beautiful daughter!"
The child grew inquisitve and spoiled by her father and five older brothers. She had raven hair and eyes darker than the coal in the bin in the corner of the cellar. By the time my mother was five, she had to share the attention with two younger sisters. Oh to see them in my mind exploring the wonders there and singing a happy tune in their heads. And, my mother humming a geat tune, just like the one she heard in her head on the night she was born.
It must have been such a happy family. It was around this time that my grandmother lay in the little corner room again. There she had lain day after day, night after night, waiting (not for another child), but for the pain from the cancer to subside. Did she hear the happy song again then too? And when her body finally could take no more pain, did her spirit reluctantly leave the happy song? Did she hesitate a moment to listen one more time?
Some twenty years later, my mom and dad moved back to the brick house. I was six months old and from that time on, that was the only home I would remember. My little sister and I grew and we were the trailblazers now, exploring all wonders around us. One spot we named our little corner of the world. It was our secret spot under Sanborn Street. We would splash from rock to rock in the water, enjoyng the sight of the the sun reflecting and the music from the waterfall above. But as time will do, it moved too quickly and we left our special corner for grown up concerns. When I got married, we moved next door, building a lovely dream house on the land Mom and Dad had given us as a wedding gift.
I remember a story that Mom had told us about when she was a little girl. It was the year of the terrible hurricane and she could remember the waterfall angrily rushing over the street and washing it away. I wondered why it wasn't angry the year my mother lay in the corner bedroom dying. Why didn't it feel any rage? The last sound that she could remember--was it the water trickling softly in her head--the first sound she had ever heard, and the last one?
And then years later, why didn't the surroundings miss my dad like I did? He had left one day for major surgery and never returned to his old brick house again. Why didn't the water below burst like the falls flowing down my cheeks as my sister and I emptied the house of all it's happy memories?
The old brick house became my house. It was a gift from a city that wanted to educate its children. It was a young boy's dream for his future. Now it was a parents' goodby present. A gift to treasure. My three children, grown and no longer there, thought they had discovered all the wonders by themselves. But did they know that I did too, and my mother before me? No, it was their discovery then.
Now, I have moved away from 297 Ashburnham Street, but the memories are with me always. As I think about it, I envision a dream for the future. In one hundred years, and in two hundred years, someone will travel in their shiny new car from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city. They will follow the highway to Sanborn St and there they will see it--the proud old brick house. It will be overlooing the pond below, and the waterfall will be singing its happy little tune.
My mind wandered in my sleeplessness, and I wondered if the beautiful Lydia had lain in the corner bedroom on that hot August evening listening to that very same song. I envisioned the first time she had seen the house and imagined her traveling from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city. She would have followed the highway to Sanborn Street in an old-fashioned buggy and gazed at the house in delight.
In 1849, the city had appropriated $400 to erect a school house on that spot (297 Ashburnham Street, West Fitchburg, MA), and that is how the old brick house came to be. A young boy passed that place every day from his farm on Stickney Road. His name was Albert Desgroseilliers. He would brag to all of his friends, "When I grow up, I want to buy that place." It was no wonder, because the view overlooking the pond was great. It wasn't the same as the view from his house way up on the hill. He could see Mt. Wachusett and Boston from there. The scene from the brick house was more musical.
The young Albert was my grandfather, and the beautiful Lydia was my grandmother. On that hot August night, she lay in labor waiting for her sixth child. She was mistress now of the old school house, because guess what? My grandfather did fulfill his childhood dream and purchased the old building for his young bride. Already they had five robust boys and I'll bet that Lydia wanted a little girl almost as much as my grandfather. I can imagine their pleasure on that night when my mother was born. The singing waters below must have been subdued compared to the great joy in the brick house. I remember my gramp telling me the story over and over. And, how I loved to hear it. He had taken the horse and buggy out and driven up and down Ashburnham Street for hours exclaiming to everyone who would listen, "I have a beautiful daughter!"
The child grew inquisitve and spoiled by her father and five older brothers. She had raven hair and eyes darker than the coal in the bin in the corner of the cellar. By the time my mother was five, she had to share the attention with two younger sisters. Oh to see them in my mind exploring the wonders there and singing a happy tune in their heads. And, my mother humming a geat tune, just like the one she heard in her head on the night she was born.
It must have been such a happy family. It was around this time that my grandmother lay in the little corner room again. There she had lain day after day, night after night, waiting (not for another child), but for the pain from the cancer to subside. Did she hear the happy song again then too? And when her body finally could take no more pain, did her spirit reluctantly leave the happy song? Did she hesitate a moment to listen one more time?
Some twenty years later, my mom and dad moved back to the brick house. I was six months old and from that time on, that was the only home I would remember. My little sister and I grew and we were the trailblazers now, exploring all wonders around us. One spot we named our little corner of the world. It was our secret spot under Sanborn Street. We would splash from rock to rock in the water, enjoyng the sight of the the sun reflecting and the music from the waterfall above. But as time will do, it moved too quickly and we left our special corner for grown up concerns. When I got married, we moved next door, building a lovely dream house on the land Mom and Dad had given us as a wedding gift.
I remember a story that Mom had told us about when she was a little girl. It was the year of the terrible hurricane and she could remember the waterfall angrily rushing over the street and washing it away. I wondered why it wasn't angry the year my mother lay in the corner bedroom dying. Why didn't it feel any rage? The last sound that she could remember--was it the water trickling softly in her head--the first sound she had ever heard, and the last one?
And then years later, why didn't the surroundings miss my dad like I did? He had left one day for major surgery and never returned to his old brick house again. Why didn't the water below burst like the falls flowing down my cheeks as my sister and I emptied the house of all it's happy memories?
The old brick house became my house. It was a gift from a city that wanted to educate its children. It was a young boy's dream for his future. Now it was a parents' goodby present. A gift to treasure. My three children, grown and no longer there, thought they had discovered all the wonders by themselves. But did they know that I did too, and my mother before me? No, it was their discovery then.
Now, I have moved away from 297 Ashburnham Street, but the memories are with me always. As I think about it, I envision a dream for the future. In one hundred years, and in two hundred years, someone will travel in their shiny new car from the Boulder on Main Street along River Street, bearing right at the fork and proceeding to the west end of the city. They will follow the highway to Sanborn St and there they will see it--the proud old brick house. It will be overlooing the pond below, and the waterfall will be singing its happy little tune.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
SO, I THINK I AM A HANDY LADY
So, today I decided to do a very small project, seeing as I think I am a plumber now.
1. The flange (notice I know the word for that thingie now) had a crack in it where you put in the bolt. When I tightened it a little too much, the bolt popped up, and although it was fine, and the toilet was completely secure, I decided that I needed to "fix" it.
2. Couldn't get the bolt in without taking the toilet off. OK, I will go to Lowe's and get a new wax ring and do it all over right this time. I find a metal thing to attached under the plastic flange to secure the crack. So, as long as I was re-doing it, I thought, "that's okay, I'll fix the patched work tiling I did where the toilet sits--or I thought it would sit--but, no, it looked awful and the toilet didn't cover it. OK, so I'll fix that too.
3. I think I'm so smart, I remove the toilet, remembering to shut off the water, but there's still that little bit left in the tank. No problem. Push it over in the corner so I can do my plumbing! And, replace the tile I didn't like.
4. I push the toilet a little further, and that little bit of water seeped all over the floor. Remember, I asked my handy lady cousin why it said not to seal the grout? Well, found out the hard way that the stupid grout does need to be sealed (the hell with those directions!.) I started stepping on three of four tiles and squish, squish, bubble, bubble. Water seeped under the tiles.
5. Remove half a dozen tiles--and it's easy, because now the grout looks like mud. Get hair dryer and start drying the floor--swearing all the time, but saying, "that's how I learn."
6. Later today, when all dries, I will put the tiles back down.
7. Tomorrow I will grout and put the toilet back.
8. AND I WILL SEAL THE FLIPPIN' GROUT!
1. The flange (notice I know the word for that thingie now) had a crack in it where you put in the bolt. When I tightened it a little too much, the bolt popped up, and although it was fine, and the toilet was completely secure, I decided that I needed to "fix" it.
2. Couldn't get the bolt in without taking the toilet off. OK, I will go to Lowe's and get a new wax ring and do it all over right this time. I find a metal thing to attached under the plastic flange to secure the crack. So, as long as I was re-doing it, I thought, "that's okay, I'll fix the patched work tiling I did where the toilet sits--or I thought it would sit--but, no, it looked awful and the toilet didn't cover it. OK, so I'll fix that too.
3. I think I'm so smart, I remove the toilet, remembering to shut off the water, but there's still that little bit left in the tank. No problem. Push it over in the corner so I can do my plumbing! And, replace the tile I didn't like.
4. I push the toilet a little further, and that little bit of water seeped all over the floor. Remember, I asked my handy lady cousin why it said not to seal the grout? Well, found out the hard way that the stupid grout does need to be sealed (the hell with those directions!.) I started stepping on three of four tiles and squish, squish, bubble, bubble. Water seeped under the tiles.
5. Remove half a dozen tiles--and it's easy, because now the grout looks like mud. Get hair dryer and start drying the floor--swearing all the time, but saying, "that's how I learn."
6. Later today, when all dries, I will put the tiles back down.
7. Tomorrow I will grout and put the toilet back.
8. AND I WILL SEAL THE FLIPPIN' GROUT!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
B-24 AN OLD FAVORITE STORY OF MINE
September 17, 2008, my sister-in-law Cindy and I arrive at Pease International Airport in Portsmouth, New Hampshire around noontime. The sun is shining, it is warm now and the low fog from the morning is gone. I think the cancelled morning flights will be a go. When I reach the registration table, Po, the Ride Coordinator, hands me a pink sticker that says, “B-24, Hot Load.” Yippee! Was I more excited or scared? I don’t really know. But, being one who doesn’t like to fly, I remind myself that I will be riding in the only World War II, combative flying B-24 in the world!
The riders of the B-24 now gather together to hear the flight briefing. I idly touch my pink sticker and listen intently. Jim Goolsby, the Pilot, asks Po if he wants to do the briefing, but thinking better of it, he says, “Better I do that, Po, because no one will be able to understand you.” Po’s cute English accent did make it somewhat difficult to understand him. So, I don’t know if the Pilot is completely serious, but being the apprehensive flyer that I am, I hold onto every one of his words. Here is what I hear:
1. Do not walk or step on the bombay doors as you go across the catwalk. If you do, we will tear up your waiver form upon return. We will do that because you will no longer exist.
2. When you go to the nose, DO NOT STEP ON THE RED FLOOR.
3. Do not grab any cables or wires as you are moving along. I would prefer to operate the aircraft (not you).
4. If you need to bale out, we will open the bombay doors—then jump. Hopefully, we will be close to the ground. Or, if necessary, jump out of the waist gun window.
Wooooo! Here we go, ready to board. Po says, “I need two volunteers.” He calls my name and a gentleman, David, whose Mom had purchased the flight for him. Po takes us to the forward of the plane, through the open bombay doors. He points to the catwalk above, tells us to climb up there and then continue up to the navigator seats. We are the special two who will fly behind the cockpit. Climbing up is a task, but we both make it and buckle up on the cushion on the floor.
The B-24 now roars to the runway. The bombay doors are open and I think, “They are going to forget to close them.” I imagine what that will be like. The B-24 will proceed upward, and Dave and I will be pulled down and right out of the plane. We continue to the runway, and Po climbs up with us. He has assumed his new position as Flight Engineer. He opens a hatch window above and peers out the window. As he comes down, he closes the hatch and I yell as loud as I can. “Po. Don’t forge to close the bombay doors!” He smiles at me, chuckling to himself. “Don’t worry Joni.”
Finally those doors close and I take a deep breath. We are off. Again I yell over the noise of the engines to Dave, who is sitting beside me. “I’m really glad we’re not off on a bombing mission!” But, in my imagination, I am on a bombing mission—after all, I am flying on the B-24. He nods as though he hears me, but I am not really sure if he does.
We are in the air now, and Po gives us the signal to unbuckle. I stand—well sort of stand. There is not enough room to really do that. I grab my camera that is tightened around my wrist and I look out the tiny window. I get a photo of an engine and the view below. Then I turn and get a picture of the Pilot and Co-pilot in the cockpit.
Now I remember my conversation with Nollie at the Collings Foundation. I had told her that I would probably just stay seated and seat belted through the whole trip. I knew that I could explore the whole plane, but didn’t feel I could be so brave. She told me, “That would be an insult to the Pilot as though you didn’t have any confidence in him.” Well, I knew it was only because I would be very scared, but Nollie’s words rang in my head.
I must be very brave now. I climb below, turn and proceed to the nose. Here I see a wooden plank and I get down and crawl on both knees, saying “ouch, ouch, ouch.” All the while, in my head, I am praising the gunners of World War II. I get to the nose, and two or three other passengers are encouraging me to get up and continue onward. I move to one side so that they can depart, and I stand all alone in front of the nose of the B-24. Po is off to the side, however, and motions for me to grab something above and push myself up and in the seat. I stand up on a little piece of wood first and it tithes back and forth. I grab above, and it looks like that seat is pretty high up for me to climb. Then I say to myself, “I can do this, but how will I ever get out of there?”
I am glad that thought came to me, because later as I exited the B-24, I inquired to the other passengers if they did really climb in the nose gunner’s seat. One woman says, "I climbed up on my knees and looked from there.” Then a gentleman said,, “No, not me. I was smarter this year. I attempted that last year, and I couldn’t get out.”
I am still contemplating how I will get up there and back down. I want to, but my arms and legs don’t seem to cooperate with me. Then I turn behind me and what do I see? THE RED FLOOR. Well, that’s it for bravery for me. I aim my camera out the nose window, I give Po a little smile, wave and depart. I do not sit in that seat, but I do feel like a proud crewmember, shaking legs and all.
After that I continue across the catwalk towards the waist gun section of the plane. I am walking very slowly—one foot in front of the other. This catwalk goes from one end of the plane to the other. Maybe eight or ten inches in width. Then I am reminded not to step on the bombay doors directly below me. I do not have my leg capacity back yet, but still I continue on. And, I remembered how easy it was for me to trip, as I did earlier while touring the B-17 with Cindy. I had literally flown off of the catwalk and jammed headfirst into her.
Oh, yes, I reminded myself. I can see the headlines now. “Collings Foundation part time employee plunges through the air, never to return, from the bombay of the B-24.” And, what a great song that would make, I think.
I finally make it across to the other side. I am now staring down at the ball turret, and there is a big gap that I see. Oh, it’s not big enough for me to fall through, or even get my toe stuck, but I can see the ground and the trees moving below, way down there, speeding so fast that my head is starting to spin.
As I described it to my brother-in-law later, he told me, it was the plane moving, not the ground. Either way, I am stuck in that spot. Someone above offers me his hand to boost me up and encourage me to continue. But here I stand, mesmerized, looking down—way, way down. I look up at him, shake my head and turn around—very carefully, very slowly. No waist gun tour for me. I will not be a waist gunner today. I continue back across the catwalk, climb back up to the navigator seat, buckle myself up and smile.
All in all, you might say that I am a wimp, but I am really proud of myself! Maybe next year I will attempt it again. Maybe I will sit in the nose, and finally make it to the waist gun section. Maybe. But guess what? It doesn’t really matter that much, because in my own way, I have had a memorable experience. Yes, for one brief shining moment I had really felt like a crewmember during World War II. Nowhere else on this earth could I have ever done that. I felt, I heard, and I experienced it all. Thank you, Collings Foundation. Thank you from the bottom of my “wimpy” heart!
The riders of the B-24 now gather together to hear the flight briefing. I idly touch my pink sticker and listen intently. Jim Goolsby, the Pilot, asks Po if he wants to do the briefing, but thinking better of it, he says, “Better I do that, Po, because no one will be able to understand you.” Po’s cute English accent did make it somewhat difficult to understand him. So, I don’t know if the Pilot is completely serious, but being the apprehensive flyer that I am, I hold onto every one of his words. Here is what I hear:
1. Do not walk or step on the bombay doors as you go across the catwalk. If you do, we will tear up your waiver form upon return. We will do that because you will no longer exist.
2. When you go to the nose, DO NOT STEP ON THE RED FLOOR.
3. Do not grab any cables or wires as you are moving along. I would prefer to operate the aircraft (not you).
4. If you need to bale out, we will open the bombay doors—then jump. Hopefully, we will be close to the ground. Or, if necessary, jump out of the waist gun window.
Wooooo! Here we go, ready to board. Po says, “I need two volunteers.” He calls my name and a gentleman, David, whose Mom had purchased the flight for him. Po takes us to the forward of the plane, through the open bombay doors. He points to the catwalk above, tells us to climb up there and then continue up to the navigator seats. We are the special two who will fly behind the cockpit. Climbing up is a task, but we both make it and buckle up on the cushion on the floor.
The B-24 now roars to the runway. The bombay doors are open and I think, “They are going to forget to close them.” I imagine what that will be like. The B-24 will proceed upward, and Dave and I will be pulled down and right out of the plane. We continue to the runway, and Po climbs up with us. He has assumed his new position as Flight Engineer. He opens a hatch window above and peers out the window. As he comes down, he closes the hatch and I yell as loud as I can. “Po. Don’t forge to close the bombay doors!” He smiles at me, chuckling to himself. “Don’t worry Joni.”
Finally those doors close and I take a deep breath. We are off. Again I yell over the noise of the engines to Dave, who is sitting beside me. “I’m really glad we’re not off on a bombing mission!” But, in my imagination, I am on a bombing mission—after all, I am flying on the B-24. He nods as though he hears me, but I am not really sure if he does.
We are in the air now, and Po gives us the signal to unbuckle. I stand—well sort of stand. There is not enough room to really do that. I grab my camera that is tightened around my wrist and I look out the tiny window. I get a photo of an engine and the view below. Then I turn and get a picture of the Pilot and Co-pilot in the cockpit.
Now I remember my conversation with Nollie at the Collings Foundation. I had told her that I would probably just stay seated and seat belted through the whole trip. I knew that I could explore the whole plane, but didn’t feel I could be so brave. She told me, “That would be an insult to the Pilot as though you didn’t have any confidence in him.” Well, I knew it was only because I would be very scared, but Nollie’s words rang in my head.
I must be very brave now. I climb below, turn and proceed to the nose. Here I see a wooden plank and I get down and crawl on both knees, saying “ouch, ouch, ouch.” All the while, in my head, I am praising the gunners of World War II. I get to the nose, and two or three other passengers are encouraging me to get up and continue onward. I move to one side so that they can depart, and I stand all alone in front of the nose of the B-24. Po is off to the side, however, and motions for me to grab something above and push myself up and in the seat. I stand up on a little piece of wood first and it tithes back and forth. I grab above, and it looks like that seat is pretty high up for me to climb. Then I say to myself, “I can do this, but how will I ever get out of there?”
I am glad that thought came to me, because later as I exited the B-24, I inquired to the other passengers if they did really climb in the nose gunner’s seat. One woman says, "I climbed up on my knees and looked from there.” Then a gentleman said,, “No, not me. I was smarter this year. I attempted that last year, and I couldn’t get out.”
I am still contemplating how I will get up there and back down. I want to, but my arms and legs don’t seem to cooperate with me. Then I turn behind me and what do I see? THE RED FLOOR. Well, that’s it for bravery for me. I aim my camera out the nose window, I give Po a little smile, wave and depart. I do not sit in that seat, but I do feel like a proud crewmember, shaking legs and all.
After that I continue across the catwalk towards the waist gun section of the plane. I am walking very slowly—one foot in front of the other. This catwalk goes from one end of the plane to the other. Maybe eight or ten inches in width. Then I am reminded not to step on the bombay doors directly below me. I do not have my leg capacity back yet, but still I continue on. And, I remembered how easy it was for me to trip, as I did earlier while touring the B-17 with Cindy. I had literally flown off of the catwalk and jammed headfirst into her.
Oh, yes, I reminded myself. I can see the headlines now. “Collings Foundation part time employee plunges through the air, never to return, from the bombay of the B-24.” And, what a great song that would make, I think.
I finally make it across to the other side. I am now staring down at the ball turret, and there is a big gap that I see. Oh, it’s not big enough for me to fall through, or even get my toe stuck, but I can see the ground and the trees moving below, way down there, speeding so fast that my head is starting to spin.
As I described it to my brother-in-law later, he told me, it was the plane moving, not the ground. Either way, I am stuck in that spot. Someone above offers me his hand to boost me up and encourage me to continue. But here I stand, mesmerized, looking down—way, way down. I look up at him, shake my head and turn around—very carefully, very slowly. No waist gun tour for me. I will not be a waist gunner today. I continue back across the catwalk, climb back up to the navigator seat, buckle myself up and smile.
All in all, you might say that I am a wimp, but I am really proud of myself! Maybe next year I will attempt it again. Maybe I will sit in the nose, and finally make it to the waist gun section. Maybe. But guess what? It doesn’t really matter that much, because in my own way, I have had a memorable experience. Yes, for one brief shining moment I had really felt like a crewmember during World War II. Nowhere else on this earth could I have ever done that. I felt, I heard, and I experienced it all. Thank you, Collings Foundation. Thank you from the bottom of my “wimpy” heart!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
THE NEW OOPS DANCE
I have invented a new dance. I call it the "Oops Dance." It goes something like this. First you go to New Hampshire to visit family. Next, you go to your niece, Heather's house for a girl's afternoon watching movies. What fun we will have: My two daughters, Jennifer and Jessica, my two nieces, Heather and Kara, and my sister-in-law, Cindy.
I look at this awesome dip, and volunteer to take it down to the movie room in the basement. I start down the stairs and begin to sway. This is how the dance starts. Then, I go back up the stairs, put my glasses on my head (reading glasses don't work well for desending stairs). Next, I continue down the stairs and I still seem to be swaying back and forth, all the way down. Crocs with no backs doesn't really help.
The last step. I think I have made it. Turn the corner and proceed. Now, Heather, why did you put that big curve as a step down anyway? You guessed it, I stepped down missing that, walking instead. That's where the dance begins to excelerate. "Oh, oh, save the dip. Save the dip." I don't fall and continue one step after another. Complete silence. Everyone is watching me with interest. This dance really seems to be mesmorising to them.
"Save the dip." I keep singing this song in my head. There's the table, only two more pirouettes. Can I make it?
"Down dip, down," Gently set it on the table. Now for the end of the dance. Plop, plop. Down I go, face first in the cracker and chip bowl.
"Are you all right?"
"Are you okay?" Not a laughter in the room, only concern. This is the highlight of the dance! All eyes are on me.
"Well," says I, "I will be fine as soon as I get this chip out of my nose!"
I look at this awesome dip, and volunteer to take it down to the movie room in the basement. I start down the stairs and begin to sway. This is how the dance starts. Then, I go back up the stairs, put my glasses on my head (reading glasses don't work well for desending stairs). Next, I continue down the stairs and I still seem to be swaying back and forth, all the way down. Crocs with no backs doesn't really help.
The last step. I think I have made it. Turn the corner and proceed. Now, Heather, why did you put that big curve as a step down anyway? You guessed it, I stepped down missing that, walking instead. That's where the dance begins to excelerate. "Oh, oh, save the dip. Save the dip." I don't fall and continue one step after another. Complete silence. Everyone is watching me with interest. This dance really seems to be mesmorising to them.
"Save the dip." I keep singing this song in my head. There's the table, only two more pirouettes. Can I make it?
"Down dip, down," Gently set it on the table. Now for the end of the dance. Plop, plop. Down I go, face first in the cracker and chip bowl.
"Are you all right?"
"Are you okay?" Not a laughter in the room, only concern. This is the highlight of the dance! All eyes are on me.
"Well," says I, "I will be fine as soon as I get this chip out of my nose!"
Friday, December 9, 2011
CHRISTMAS MADE IN AMERICA
During this wonderful Christmas season, I've been watching Diane Sawyer, Made in America. I usually start my shopping in the summer, but my real goal is before Black Friday. And, even without that, I find great buys throughout the year. I went back to see what I bought that was made in America. Must be this shirt that says, "Gamecock." No, that was made in Nigeria. OK, so maybe the one that says, "Notre Dame." It says it is an officially licensed product from University of Notra Dame. No, no, no, made in Nicarague. What the heck? I finally found something--a Wilson Pro, Official Size, NFL football, made is Chicago. Yippee!
Today, I had to call my health insurance company, and who am I speaking with? Someone in India. I did send a note to Diane Sawyer telling her that it would be nice to speak to an American on the telephone. Let's start paying Americans for telemarketing, information, whatever. So, today this becomes my pet peeve. Then, I remembered this summer when I called my mortgage company.
I could not understand what this women was telling me. My guess was that she was in India also. I asked to speak with her supervisor.
Phone rings. "This is the supervisor." Hmmm? Same voice?
"May I ask who I am speaking with?"
"Oh, yes," she replies, "Nancy Wilson."
Today, I had to call my health insurance company, and who am I speaking with? Someone in India. I did send a note to Diane Sawyer telling her that it would be nice to speak to an American on the telephone. Let's start paying Americans for telemarketing, information, whatever. So, today this becomes my pet peeve. Then, I remembered this summer when I called my mortgage company.
I could not understand what this women was telling me. My guess was that she was in India also. I asked to speak with her supervisor.
Phone rings. "This is the supervisor." Hmmm? Same voice?
"May I ask who I am speaking with?"
"Oh, yes," she replies, "Nancy Wilson."
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