Angel Notification

Looking at the beauty surrounding us, we often take for granted everything! Just as the sun rises and sets we sleep, we work, play and each day the process begins anew. More often than not we think only of daily activities, planning perhaps but on the scope of largeness and the infinite possibilities that lie before us. or that are even presented knowingly and unknowingly to us, we often do not recognize or acknowledge their existence.

Perhaps my daily travels offer more contemplation time, yet when trying to rest the weary body, much like the newborn baby whose inner clock flip flops, my contemplation time is in the darkness and silence of the wee night time hours. More than likely it is just the stubbornness of the mind that has been fighting for front line recognition all day, now as the body drift towards dream time, the brain says "I don't think so! My time to be heard."  The body, too tired to resist says, "okay make it quick!"  Realizing much of my skills as a communicator rely on being precise, making quick decisions and providing up to the minute information, allowing things to proceed at a rapid pace, the tangent personality that has been suppressed during the entire day, now has free run.  Not good!

Sleepy time usually means exhaustion, flop into bed, instant sleep for thirty to forty five minutes, awakening to an imaginary inner alarm clock, my brain, giving me that little devious smile announces, "excuse me, but you didn't let me wind down and share my inner thoughts, again.  A large part of me remains unused, sleeping or being totally ignored for most of the day, while the body does its thing, now YOU must pay for this abuse!"  No longer able to fight this naughty childlike tantrum, I open my eyes and "let the games begin!"

Earlier conversations from the day, all fighting for recognition, screaming to make their point come flying to the forefront and as if the spinning wheel stops, the first one pops out. Angels are the first to appear. Thankfully, this was a happy upbeat conversation. Simple asked by a young lady, "Do you believe in Angels?" "Of course I do, why do you ask?" I question.  With a seriousness and sincerity well beyond her years, she begins, "I do too, but I question my faith." she reveals.  Again, the look, I see the wheels of thought rapidly turning.  As they grind to a halt, the question of affirmation is re-asked, "have you ever seen an angel?" 

With the death of my mother, the security of knowing you always had a parent you could talk to, was laid to rest.  Mom was almost eighty-three and had outlived my Dad by twelve years.  In the scope of time, she was sick only a relatively short period.  During that time, she forced me to learn, this decision was out of my hands.  She was torn, leaving her daughters and grandchildren was not going to be easy, but she took comfort in knowing, she would be reunited with the love of life, our Dad.  Happy at the thought, as her soul ascended to her heavenly body, she would once again be whole.  No pain,  no suffering, Dad and her reunited would be as one.  Her faith, unshaken, she would prepare herself.  If questioning thought invaded her weary mind, she justified them.  Sharing, she feared, Dad would "see" her as frail, hair falling out in clumps, and her outward physical appearance altered by a mastectomy.  "Mommy, Dad will see you as you are, a beautiful spirit, an undying love, he awaits Mommy, are you afraid?" I softly questioned.  Mustering all her strength, her voice barely audible, she squeezes my hand, "Yes my youngest daughter, I am afraid.  Afraid of leaving all of you, afraid it might not be as I hoped, but my faith has brought me here, it will get me through.....and...with a tightness in her hand and a gentle calm in her eyes, she reveals, "Thank God Daddy was a leg man!"

About a month or so after Mom had passed, the homestead sold, my sister Patty back in Arizona handling the details of the estate, receives a call.  Although nothing is there, the caller ID reveals the name of our Dad, Arthur McKenna.  Thinking she is crazy, she looks again, "how can this be? The phone was turned off a month ago, taken from the house.  Who even knows me?"  She collects her thoughts, "I must take a picture  of this!"  Sending it via email to me and her nephews, she is at a loss for words.  As with all things, they happen for a reason!    Mom and Dad reunited in the heavens above, Dad let us know.  Think what you may! Yes, there are angels, perhaps not always seen and yes, I believe in angels.

Golf, Survival of the....Marriage!

Okay, so let's talk golf, my favorite sporting past time.  Hitting that little white ball looks so simple, yeah not so much.  Although I didn't start playing golf until the kids were older and I had more time to do something for myself,  it meant spending time outside, hopefully basking in the warmth of the sun.  As a much younger person, I could sun-bathe for hours, just keep lathering on the protection and I was good to go,  listening to loud music, soaking up the rays...outstanding!  As the aging process began, the thought of laying around, listening to music in the sunlight, was not much more than a distant memory.  My mind wouldn't rest and allow me a chance to lie in that sun induced vegetative state, doing absolutely nothing!

Enjoying the game of baseball,  my thought process being, golf should be easy.  No longer wanting to run the bases, the knees a bit weary from playing catcher, walking a golf course would be a sophisticated adult form of exercise.  Heading to the local driving range with a mix and match set of golf clubs, I felt very confident. For the record, there is NOTHING natural about swinging a golf club. Admitting, had I started the game as a toddler, my flexibility would have allowed for such movement.  At age forty, not so much!  But I persevered, manly to prove my husband wrong.  All the while knowing his reverse psychology of  "you will never be a golfer," would tick me off enough to prove him wrong!

The process of learning the game of golf began with lessons from Mr. Bill, proof we have a solid marriage, although I am sure there were times he feared for his life.  On occasion he sought transportation home from some one other than his pissed off wife. Not so much because he didn't want to ride with me,  I had thrown his clubs off the cart, leaving the course without him. He deserved it!  Understand, the thought of clubbing him to death did appear as a pop-up in the brain, thankfully never taking a firm hold.  Once I learned, throwing your club after an errant shot proved to be a useful way to relieve tension, remembering to throw them in a forward direction, was an added bonus stress reliever, he never had to hitch a ride again!

Almost twenty years have passed since those name calling, club throwing days of golf. He now plays much more golf than I, only because retirement has afforded him the time, working at the golf course makes the game affordable.  He is a formidable opponent for many and as team, we rock. His patience with my game is outstanding, reminding me, "you do fine considering you never get to practice." He's pretty smug, he shoots his age, not every time, but he's pretty consistent.  I, on the other hand, will never shoot my age, unless of course I am still playing well, at age eighty three.  Who am I fooling, I'll just be happy to make it to eighty-three!

Oh the Fog!

"Just wait a minute, the weather will change," a statement I remember hearing as a child.  Although it referenced New England weather, it was also a testament to hearty souls living within this picturesque northern climate, yet it pretty much sums up the sunny tropical paradise known as Florida as well.  Maybe it followed me and the multitude of New Englanders that call the sunshine state, home. I really don't know, but case in point, with a quick reassuring tap to the old "wooden noggin," hurricanes: since three hit this area of the peninsula state halfway through the first decade of the new millennium, nope, nada, none, dare raise their ugly heads again.  For the record, Walt Disney himself, researching central Florida weather patterns, knew this long before I arrived! The flip side of the coin, violent thunderstorms are numerous, may be treacherous, are extremely dangerous, and much to my husband's chagrin, a regular occurrence during spring and summer months. However, the emphasis  needs be on  tropical sunshine and warmth especially during the winter months. The local newspaper reporting, "fantastic winter weather drives tourism and agriculture in Florida," not really a news flash, but in the spirit of "take the good with the bad," it's reportable!

A weather phenomenom not normally mentioned and extensively reported on unless tragedy strikes, is FOG. Although it occurs worldwide, London first coming to mind, for the record, I would not feel hurt if  the British cornered the market on this silent, eerie mass of moisture that shrouds the landscape in an instant, making people do crazy things.  Associating a full moon with outlandish, strange and even bizzare antics, FOG if often forgotten!  Some little know facts:  Drivers, undaunted by over head signage, "use caution, HEAVY FOG ahead," put the pedal to the metal, hit the passing lane and they are gone! Simply put, Why?  Are they more afraid of this dense, seemingly endless mass of quietness that rolls swiftly, enveloping all who venture into its black endlessness?  Are they claustrophobic and in the face of danger and a need to reach the other side, they drive with reckless abandonment, threatening all in close proximity to their madness? Or do they just throw caution to the wind saying, "what the #%*@?

As a person who enjoys her late evening rides, radio blaring, windows open, the endless star-studded skies with an occassional falling star on which to make a wish, the FOG although sinister and mysterious, is a time to open windows, heat on, no radio and drive at reasonable speeds and listen.  The quietness and solitude very much a rush, the dampness cleansing the spirit, the endlessness breathing new life into the weary brain, drained from activities of the day. The FOG, washes the landscape, Mother Nature's way of saying, "move my children, under my cloak of secrecy. Watch, observe and explore and for the sake of well being, do not venture far on the highways and by-ways, humans and their strange ways cannot handle my spring cleaning!"        

Guardians of the Meadow

Stone walls are everywhere in the Northeast. They conjure up bucolic images of a time when small farms were a way of life. A herd of twenty to thirty milking cows could sustain a family, along with the vegetable garden, chickens, fruit trees and berry bushes.  Originally constructed as property markers and means of keeping farm animals within confined areas, these stones walls, many still standing, are defined by their natural beauty. Gates, called bar ways, were just a tree cut in half, the bottom whittled to a point and driven into the ground, one on either side, the width of the desired opening. Before being driven into the ground, these end poles had three holes bored into each them. Three much smaller trees were cut and used as the rails across the opening. Just lift the rails out of the holes and the animals could move freely through the bar way to the next field.

Memories of walking through the open fields and woods of New England, we recall jumping the stone walls or squeezing through the rails of the bar ways. We never thought to take down the rails, jumping over or squeezing through seemed so much more sinister! We knew the dangers of trespassing, a field of cows munching the emerald green grasses, never a challenge for a walk through.  On the other hand a lone bull, with a nose ring and muscles protruding from his large majestic body, a warning of danger, yet a challenge to the wing-footed bodies of youth. Only the agile dare enter such a foreboding place, a field strewn with "cow plops", only added to the dangers of a quick flight. Depending on the depth, circumference and age of these odoriferous mounds dotting the picturesque fields of the hilly New England landscape, your run need be strategically planned, insuring safe passage and exit into the quiet, unsoiled, virgin green meadow on the far side.  Once reached, these areas, a bountiful playground of wild raspberries, blueberries and in early fall, the overhanging maple trees intertwined with wild grapes, serving as arbors from the afternoon sun. Stonewalls, with their nooks and crannies, often a secret hide-a-way, a place far from the obtrusive world of adult glare, a place where minds wondered, playing out the world of imagination: Cowboys and Indians, colonial militia or British red-coats, only now, admitting the boredom of the classroom, although a  vital and necessary learning tool, was so much more interesting, when pretending you were there.

My husband recalls wanting one of his homemade arrows to be more effective.  Not quite understanding the danger of his choice, he launches his "fire" arrow towards they heavens. Everyone in awe of its beauty, it actually worked, just as it did on TV.  Once skyward and out of sight, having been picked up by the cool afternoon breezes of the autumn season, everyone heads back to the barnyard, eager to help with the cows making their way to the milking parlor.  It was then in a moment of sheer terror, a flashback in the mind says,"run, run as fast as you can, back to the woods, the safe haven and majestic solitude of the forest will protect me," he realized just where his fire breathing arrow had landed.  Implanted in the roof of the bar, a fire quickly broke out. Thankfully, the farmer and friends that often took up residence in the sun bathed barnyard, while awaiting afternoon chores, had seen the incoming arrow and its trajectory, allowing for a quick response and dousing of the fire.  Punishment not as bad as first imagined, a stern warning, NEVER play with fire and best aim your arrow out of harm's way!

But it wasn't just historic facts that were played out.  The barns and surrounding yards held equal fascination: Riding small calves, perfectly roping techniques and jumping into the sweet smelling hay, neatly packed to the rafters, these old barns were a place to play and explore.  Many a neighboring farmer visiting his friend would talk for hours in the barnyard, exchanging news of the agricultural world and gossip that travelled at lightening speed throughout the community.

Today, only a handful of small family owned farms remain in the northeast, the former farm lands now dotted with homes and the once majestic stonewalls crumbling if not completely gone. Many of these stones, gathered by a handful of artisans now hoping to rebuild these magnificient and stately monuments of the past, to their former glory.    

Childhood Memories and Lessons Learned

Looking at pictures of years gone by, the mind wonders, "Dear God the years have quickly passed!" I don't long for the years of youth, I relish the memories.  Remembering the winters in the northeast, bitterly cold, building snow forts, that if covered with water, would last a lifetime or at least until the warming rays of the springtime sun.  Ice-skating the entire winter, bonfires were set at the edge of this endless sheet of ice, keeping toes tingling from the winter harshness and chilly cold noses at bay.  For the most part, winter was enjoyed, just not the heavy layers of clothing or early darkness that helped rejuvenate the world at sleep.  Neighborhood friends played and planned there lives together, insisting "things would never change", our lives would be endless days of school, playing outside, building forts and destroying "enemy" ones.  In the spring, baseball bats and gloves replaced winter boots, ice skates and sleds. 

My Dad an avid baseball fan, passed that love onto me.  Although females weren't supposed to play anything other than softball, Dad made sure my skills of throwing, fielding, batting and my passion for catching, were second to none.  Playing a game of hardball with the local boys, always challenging, their intent was not a good game of ball, but a lesson for me: "go play softball with the girls!"  My mother, mortified, when she learned I had whipped the ball at Stanley, "the Town Crier," of course true to his reputation, he balled his eyes out.  Concerned my mother would prohibit me from participating in my favorite past time, I asked why I had to remain benched for a week.  Surely she didn't think a week would dampen my desire to" knock it out of the park!"

Recalling those series of events, valuable lessons were learned: Don't ask the question unless you are fully prepared to hear the answer; Political correctness is a virtue-and there is a gray area here. I simply murmured, "Mom it's not fair, why do I have to sit out a week's worth of baseball fun, no big deal, I only made him cry, he deserved it!" As this very petite five foot woman, with eyes of steel, whose gentle nurturing smile could heal all, whirled around standing directly over me, her words will forever be ingrained in my brain, "Don't you ever tell me, young lady, it's not fair.  NEVER and I mean NEVER, pick on the meek, do you hear me? "Geez Mom, you don't have to yell!"  I remember the lesson learned here, political correctness:  Had I said, "I'm sorry Mom, I won't do it again," her anger might have been redirected. The gray area being, at that point I was the meek and being "picked on," albeit deserving!

Although only February, a southern spring season has already begun. New lime green leaves on the sweet gum trees look almost good enough to munch on,  The canopy of the preserve is again filling in allowing the moisture to remain trapped, a perfect greenhouse temperature for the multitudes of ferns sprouting up everywhere.  Red bud spring, lasts not much longer than the blink of eye around this part of the world, cool air now warmed by the ever increasing angles of the southern sun.

In the northern climates we'd look for the first signs of spring to be the budding of the pussy willow trees.  Those fuzzy little buds resembled the softness of a rabbit's foot and would last forever if picked at the proper time.  Mom would allow us to give them a light coating of hairspray, preserving their beauty. A tradition, until we opted for the southern climates.  But it was the awakening from a cold winter's sleep, that first hint of spring time warmth, having the most profound effect on my memory.  The landscape barren and gray, mud everywhere as the thawing moisture oozed from the once frozen ground.  As children, we'd head for the muddy garden, collecting the thawing vegetables, left behind in the autumn harvest.  These made great weapons of mass destruction on enemy forts.  This little known practice, not a favorite with the adults cleaning the battered clothing of the hearty warriors.  Dad didn't mind, the garden got the necessary cleaning prior to him tilling the soil for the springtime planting of early peas, lettuce and radishes.

My own children we forest foragers as well.  Living in very close proximity to the riverbed of the Shetucket River, the treasures found, as it meandered through the green valley were numerous.  As the winter ice melted, much like the debris left from the retreating glaciers of the ice age, my kids collected everything.  These artifacts adorned bedroom window sills, serving as reminders of their childhood expeditions.  The finding of an occasional arrow head, a prized bounty, created a "gold rush" flurry to the woods, word spreading like the flames of a windblown wildfire.  These prizes made great show and tell conversations in classrooms.  Stones worn smooth, by the pounding of the swift currents during winter snow melt and springtime flooding, also prized bounty.  Remembering back, these stones ranking just as high up on the scale of valuable treasures as the smooth pieces of glass, brilliantly sparkling as the rays of the sun bounced off their different colors.  The riverbed and forest serving as playgrounds for the neighborhood, with territories clearly marked out and hide-a-ways cleverly disguised!    

Another Super Bowl....Done!

Football, as I have lamented in the past, is not my favorite sport! All the hype, pre-game shows, pre-game commentary and whatever else is associated with the Super Bowl, not my cup of tea. On the other hand, I adore imagination! Cutting through the bull of watching grown men in overly tight clothing, trying to crush skulls, break bones, jump around strutting their stuff should they score or maim an opponent, congratulating each other with jumps, bumps, slaps, pats and punches to each others bodies, which I might add, would sideline an average person, perhaps mortally wounding others, all in the name of the great sport of football, no thanks.

This sport was probably the direct result of some wannabe war-monger or dictator, hell bent on destruction and/or control of the human race, instead realizing, there was money to be made.  Isn't it all about marketing?  I get the entertainment part, not the inflicting of pain, but the actual entertainment of the sport.  As the camera spans the masses of humanity that have assembled, paying good money for this privilege, I find these fans, for the most part, hilarious.  Much like the commercial for a cruise ship: Dad dancing up a storm, no text messaging, shirt hanging out, totally enjoying the moment, relaxing and shaking off all signs of any inhibitions, extremely relaxing!   It is referred to as: supporting their team, perhaps it's just me.  Football, boxing, including kick boxing.......although and quite possibly the ultimate form of athletisicm, with muscles bulging, honed and toned to the max for peak performance, so that the whole concept of the game, throwing, kicking and catching the PIGSKIN, scoring more points than your opponents, can be achieved.  It's the blocking, tackling, picking up a body, slamming it to the ground, then jumping on top of the dazed and confused body, that has me baffled.  On the other hand, those tight pants appear to be molded to the athlete's body, with every flex totally noticed by the masses viewing this performance.  Perhaps, should a tear appear, a snap fall off, a stitch rip, now that would be exciting!

I watch for a reason, commercials!  Imagination, creativity, technology and special effects have resulted in some of the most outstanding sales pitches produced.  Not only do they showcase a product, they are for the most part, extremely entertaining.  Elton John's pitch for Pepsi is a prime example.  His self indulgences of outlandish costumes, gluttony of life's riches and wealth beyond anyone's wildest imagination and the fact that he is one helluva entertainer, will sell Pepsi.  But beyond that, its downright fun to watch!  Chevy on the other hand should practice what they preach.  As I watched the Chevy truck rising from the ashes of apocalypse, the frogs falling from the sky, my thoughts were not, "I'm gonna buy me a Chevy," instead, just make me one that can survive the daily grind of driving to and from work, without fear of a recall.

Although a 2008 Chevy Malibu is my current vehicle of choice, my purchase of this vehicle was based on: it was named Motor Trend Car of the Year, it was made in America, gas mileage was good and so forth.  Perhaps had I been allowed to put it through a few flips, take it sky-diving, bunge jumping or some other x-treme road test, the steering column at slow speeds wouldn't make a funny noise, which might lead to, yes, another recall.  Point being, just produce a vehicle that is dependable.  Which brings to mind another question...what is a recall?  If I am caught speeding, as many drivers are each day, do I get a recall?

Madonna with her entourage of singers, dancers and gladiators, their muscles protruding, bodies honed and toned just like the ones now resting or receiving an ass-chewing in the locker room, were fun to watch.  This thirty minute intermission a nice break from the bone crunching "action" of my least favorite sport....FOOTBALL!  Many Super Bowls ago, Janet Jackson during her half time performance, suffered a wardrobe malfunction, planned or unplanned, it is still a vivid memory and a much talked about event.  Should an athlete, with a well toned body, suffer the same wardrobe malfunction, now that would be an event remembered for years to come!

Customer Service 101!

Visiting the community clubhouse restaurant earlier today was pretty much a trip down memory lane with fellow diners, friends and may old fogeys hanging out at the place.  Few were eating, many deep in conversation awaiting service, the place seemed to bogged down with chaotic activity by the staff. Understanding Guest service is always important, sometimes show quality may have to trump the conversation mode, if only for a moment. Dirty dishes piled high, seats void of Guests, yet piled high with the dirty dishes and unconsumed portions of food, all needing to be bussed. The old farts complaining but then again, perhaps lip service is an improvement over NO service at all.

This place is a lesson in what a restaurant SHOULD NOT BE and more.  With a captive audience, fantastic location, poolside and golf course views, a full service bar and plenty of seating, it should be the ultimate go to location for a meal, anytime of the day.  Alas, the place lacks direction and my suggestion, in it's current form, should be a classroom for anyone studying the art of restaurant management and hospitality........this is the worst case scenario!  Here, everyone is the boss except the boss, with no set direction, no prep, no sense of urgency and not anyone even close to being a cook. The only thing consistent about the place........it's bad.  Lack of a better word, we will leave the three letter b.a.d. in place. As a meeting place, "it's opened everyday!" allowing for lively conversation and local gossip trading!

There are some great people working at the Caddy Shack, those that are, try.  Ideas are fine, but after not receiving backup from management, the bickering continues, with each tiny pod of employees bad-mouthing their peers and jockeying for position......to overtake.  Just what they plan on overtaking baffles me. With foundations for success severely cracked, the core is quickly crumbling.  Much like my arthritis that irritates the crap out of me, it is a thorn, a very prickly one that is a source of severe irritation for me.....and I have nothing to do with the place!

High tech gadgets galore, all forms of communication at our finger tips, new "laws of the land" need to be in place and adhered to:  Cell phones turned off and only used at break times.  Is there any reason someone working in front-line position should be allowed to converse with anyone via cell phone, just because they can?  Emergency Only please!  When entering a restaurant, am seated waiting for my server and designated server is within my view, laughing and speaking loudly on their cell phone, ignoring the fact people are waiting on them, this one moment irritates my most inner being.  Mr. Bill says,"regardless of any sort of repercussions, his size thirteen shoe, would be on the backside of that employee, as they were shown the door.  I'm thinking "with the tropical weather allowing for poolside seating, can my server's cell phone swim?"