Stones

When I was younger, living with my parents, sister, and two brothers, our humble place of residence was a 2 bedroom, one bathroom, 900 square foot suburban home, that did not have a garage, or a blacktop driveway. We had a gravel driveway that I loved to listen too when my dad drove the car up to the house. I liked the way the stones sounded when they crackled under the weight of the car, and every once in awhile a stone would pop out from under the tires and make a sound like a big bubble gum bubble bursting.

During the summer my sister and I had to remove the stones that found their way from the driveway to the grass. We took turns raking. This precaution my dad inflicted upon us once a week was so he could mow the lawn unencumbered with concern that a stone would fly out from under the push mower and break a window, or worse, hit some innocent bystander. I think the lawn mower had a guard on it to prevent those pesky, maiming, window breaking objects from rocketing out to do harm in the world, but my dad was generally safety conscious and we had to rake.

Every few years my dad would order a truck load of gravel, which was dumped at the top of the driveway. He would don his white yard work t-shirt, and have (as he called it ) a hankie tied over his nose and mouth, I specifically remember a brown and cream plaid one, to help prevent breathing in the dust from the stones. My father suffered from chronic asthma and somehow rationalized that the hankie was a bearer to stone dust. Usually he had a pack of filter less camel cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve revealing his skull tattoo. When he took a break from shoveling the stones into a wheelbarrow, hauling the load to a designated place in the driveway, and raking the stones level, my dad would smoke a cigarette. The necessary replacement of stones would sometimes be completed in one weekend, maybe two, depending on the weather and my dad's asthma.

However long it took was to long for my sister and me. We would watch my father shovel, haul, level, and try to keep track of the stones we were sure contained gold. The second the pronouncement was made that the work was finished, my sister and I would race to the spot where we were sure the stones had arduously been put, stake our separate claims, work out the boundaries, and begin to mine for gold. Picking carefully through the stones, separating the ones veined with gold from the lackluster common stones, we would shout to each other how many were found and how much the gold weighed.

I am not sure how long we entertained ourselves mining, discussing the things we would buy with all the money we would have, but the effort always ended in disappointment. After careful scrutiny of our geological finds, my father would inform us that the only gold in the stones was fools gold. Nothing that could be traded at the bank. That didn't stop my sister and I from talking and dreaming of the things we would buy or what we would do if we had money.Later we would try to determine how long it would be before a new load of stones would be delivered and assure ourselves that that load would have gold in it.

Today it's hard to find a gravel driveway. I do not hear the crackle or pop of stones, but I am always listening and looking for gold.

yoga class

This morning was my second attendance at the yoga studio? dojo? center? club?, it was a stretch for me. ( yes that was a pun) My muscles had not recovered fully from the Wednesday class, still sore in small pockets of that fiberous tissue that weight lifters are so determined to increase in size.

As a redhead, I am always on the look out for other redheads, and find an attraction to them. We are rare, I have discovered and perhaps that is why I have a soft spot in my heart for those of us that have inherited whatever the generation skipping gene is, that is reposnible for red hair.

The instructor for this morning's class is Amiee. Roco is her side kick and a redhead. I introduced my self as soon as I walked in the door. The yellow and blue arglye sweater he wore complimented his red hair as well as his dreamy brown eyes. He was very friendly and greeted me with a nice smile, indulged me with a slight handshake that was warm, all the while watching the door for other fellow yogi to come in, so he could greet them in the same manner.

Most everyone commented on his sweater, seemed to know him and were delighted that Roco was attending class. He flitted from person to person in the classroom, walking faster towards those he was better aquainted. But wether the participants were new like me or regulars, Roco made sure everyone was greeted at least once.

As Amiee came into the room to take the instructor's place at the front and start the class, I noticed Roco looking at the books on the lower shelves of a bookcase that was tucked into the left front corner of the room. Not finding what he was looking for, Roco stretched up to examine the upper shelves, his head moving from side to side slightly, giving the impression that he knew whatever it was that he wanted, was somewhere on one of the shelves in the book case. At last, on the third shelf from the bottom he found the object of his search. Careful not to knock any other contents from the shelf Roco removed his rubber chicken from the bookcase, and walked over to his bed.

Amiee was seated in the front of the class next to Roco's bed. As she informed us of what we would be doing in class she reached over and lovingly scratched Roco behind his ears. Content with his rubber chicken, the redhaired mini dauschand, with dreamy brown eyes, wearing a blue and yellow argyle sweater, went to sleep.

I learned after the class that Roco is always Amiee's side kick and always in class with her. It's nice to know that a fellow redhead will be attending the same classes as me. I look forward to our next meeting

Childhood Nightmare

I knew eventually it would happen, it was a matter of time, an event that if it had to happen I hoped would occur when I was senile. In that frame of mind, who would care if it occurred, and would anyone be around to notice. At the very least I thought I would have a clue, notice a look or get an inkling from body language from someone, that something was not quite right. In my smug confident mindset, I had taken care of the problem before entering the dentist office.

The appointment was at 8am this morning, and thanks to a very frigid holding weather pattern the temperature was only 8 degrees. This particular weather pattern is part to blame for the nightmare unfolding, coming to fruition, me getting my comeuppance. I pay attention to the details, I know my body, and knew I did not want to be Linda T.

Linda T. was a fellow student at Sherman Elementary School. We were together through elementary school, same classes, same teachers. We sat close to each other, not because we were friends, because we were not, I am not sure why, we just never associated with each other after school or collaborated on school projects. We were forced to be in close proximity due to the alphabetical seating chart that was so widely used by those crazy creative teachers back in the 1960's. Linda's last name began with a T and mine began with an S. So it was destiny, or at least in a less dramatic way alphabetical seating charts that caused me to vow never to become a Linda T.

Have you ever wondered why mother nature made some of the most beautiful flowers out of proportion? Take the giant sunflower, its beautiful when it stands tall. The large green stalk with soft fuzz, proudly holding, displaying, the gigantic golden orange petals and black center, it truly is beautiful. But the flower head gets so large that it causes the stem to bend, losing its stature. Sadly bowing, no longer proud. That was Linda T. She had beautiful brown eyes, soft looking skin, but her nose was gigantic and it had hair in it!!

Because of the seating chart my desk was close Linda T. , sometimes side by side, or in a square with two other students, depending upon the whim of the teacher, most of the school day. And sometimes, thank god only sometimes, she had dangling nose crustacean, mucous left overs, BUGGERS, hanging from her nose. Couldn't she feel it?? Why didn't she have a tissue to wipe it away, or go to the girls room and wash her nose. UUUGGGH gross. I hated those days. Every time she breathed through her nose the buggers would move in and out. It was disgusting. I couldn't concentrate, if I said something she would be embarrassed, so I kept quite and tried not to look at her.

I vowed to never let that happen to me. To always have a tissue handy, flare my nostrils in the hall mirror, the rear view mirror, the vanity mirror on the passenger side of a car if I happen to be a passenger, in the bathroom mirror, or the small mirror I kept in my book bag( now in my handbag) before proceeding to the classroom, restaurant, friends house, or wherever I happen to be going.

I did the nostril flare before getting out of the car, not seeing anything I went into the dentist office. Once in there I used a tissue, as my nose began to drip. The hygienist called me into her room, and all went well. No cavities, minor tarter, an interesting conversation regarding menopause, and I was out of there. I chatted in the hallway with the dentist, made my appointment for six months, smiled at the other patients waiting their turn, and went to my car. No one said a thing, touched their noses, made an Ick face with their lips, you know the one I am referring too. The slightly curled upper lip, that is the universal signal for " you have something gross on your face, but I can't tell you, because we will both be embarrassed." Nope not an inkling from anyone.

To my embarrassment, and horror I noticed when I looked in the rear view mirror, a dangling crustacean, left over dried mucous clinging to a nose hair I did not have before I went into the dentist office, a BUGGER. So there is was, one of my childhood nightmares, staring at me in the mirror. I laughed, and said to myself, "unhuh, smart ass, that's what you get for being so smug. Hope you learned a lesson". I have. After wiping with a tissue I will find a mirror and flare my nostrils, I will check more often for nose hair, and remove them. I will never let this happen again, and I will not be Linda T.

friendship

Another anonymous blogger commented on my first post. I was really happy, smiled and said "huh" to myself. The comments were positive and I think she and I have alot in common. But an epiphany occurred and I realized something about myself that has been nagging me, stuck in the back part of my head, something that has been attempting to push to the front lobe of my brain, to a part of my head that recognizes my faults. I'm lonely.

I love my husband, kids and extended family members, but I think I might need friends in my life. Perhaps even girlfriends. I have not had a girlfriend since high school. I graduated in 1977. Marriage, work and then children and now work again have been my focus for 30 years. I never made time to keep friendships and acquaintances going.

My life was full. Not a minute to spare for girlfriends. Quite frankly, girlfriends were never a priority, even in high school. I never liked and still do not like the cattiness of girlfriends. Going out, complaining about husbands, kids or anything else never appealed to me. I like friendships of substance.

Maybe I need to give girlfriends another chance. Perhaps at the age of 40 plus, the cattiness is gone, and substance has replaced it. I'll look for a group to join, reading group, yoga, something that I am interested in, and try to bond with a few woman. Who knows maybe I'll make a friend or two.

I'm here

I'm here, trying to keep up with the way the community is connected. My kids are embarrassed that I have a facebook page, and once they realize I am blogging they will get a sneer of disgust on their faces, shake their heads in disbelief, whisper among themselves, and wonder why.

The generation they belong to ( I am not sure what the politically correct name for them is), has quietly claimed the web to be their domain. Perhaps it is. My friends of 40 plus years, family and acquaintances generally use the web for informational purposes and shopping. Emailing chain letters and messages are the about as advanced as the 40 plusers go. Maybe I am just not acquainted with web sophisticates in my age group.