While making lunch, Hannah grabbed the bag of chili cheese Fritos from the pantry and set it on the kitchen counter. A slight movement caught her eye. “Ah!” she said in an aggravating tone. “Not an ant. Don’t tell me...” Hannah hesitated going to the pantry. She held her breath while slowly opening the door. Among the jars of Burlson’s honey and Smucker’s grape jam was a trail of Argentine ants aligned in symmetrical fashion moving around the jars. Hannah felt dread and fascination while watching their path. Continual movements in a straight line; some going up and some going doing, sometimes running over each other. Hannah moved more food staples and found another set going around the bottle of olive oil. One trail led to the top of the cabinets while others were dispersed throughout the pantry.
“Peter, come quick!” Hannah shouted. She grabbed a printed Bounty paper towel and started crushing them which produced an unpleasant musty odor.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.
“We’ve got ants.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Is that all?” Peter was raised on a farm and considered this invasion a minor detail. “Just buy some traps.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re a big help.” Hannah continued to move the cans and bottles from the pantry and chose a bottle of Clorox Clean-Up to assist her with this unwelcomed chore.
“I just hope we don’t have any more problems in other parts of the house.”
Unfortunately, that was not the case. In the guest bedroom windowsill crawled three emmets. A few bait stations had been left in the windows by the previous owners. As Hannah picked up the ants, she hit the bait station. Out scurried hundreds of ants. Although Argentine ants do not have stingers, they can bite on provocation.
“Ugh,” Hannah shrieked. She ran to get her Clorox and started spraying with fury. The ants began to wobble and died quickly; however, more appeared in the guest bathroom and closet.
The Griffins never used the services of a pesticide company. Peter thought it a waste of money, but this time Hannah insisted something be done. Sunshine Pest Control came out on a bright sunny Thursday morning. Hannah hoped and prayed for success. The technician thoroughly sprayed the foundation and trees, placed Deadline pellets in the planter boxes for snails, and treated the problem areas inside with Maxforce gel and Terro liquid bait.
“Mrs. Griffin, this should take care of your problem,” the exterminator said. “If you are still having trouble in a week, call us and I’ll come back out. No charge.”
“Thank you so much. I don’t think it could get much worse,” Hannah added.
Several days later, Hannah noticed that the ants disappeared outside but not inside. In the guest bedroom closet, there still were ants. In the closet in the third bedroom there was a trail as well as three trails going in and out of an electrical outlet. In the guest bathroom, ants were still crawling all over the floor and falling down from the light fixtures. Two trails were detected in the living room. They were especially hard to find on the tan berber carpet that covered a majority of the floor.
Sunshine Pest Control was a big help, Hannah brooded. “I hate this house!”
Neighbors and fellow shoppers suggested different methods to solve the Griffins’ problem. They bought Grants and Raid bait stations and even used a mixture of boric acid and sugar. Although these solutions drove the ants out of hiding, they never disappeared.
This was not the first time the Griffins had ant problems. From Albuquerque to Houston to Austin--ants--but nothing uncontrollable. At least, until now. The house seemed haunted, resembling Amityville Horror or Poltergeist.
Hannah was exhausted. Arising at midnight or another God forsaken hour to encounter a mass of ants foraging across the floor in a state of frenzy. Bruised hands and knees from endless hours of searching for ants on the carpet. It became an obsession.
After three weeks, Hannah realized she should have called the exterminator. “We have a contract. How stupid,” she said to a disconcerned Peter.
The exterminator came back and was enthralled by Hannah’s account of the last few weeks. “I have 400 accounts and four homes have a similar problem. There obviously is a heavy infestation.”
“Can you spray inside?” Hannah asked.
“We normally don’t because it forces the ants to move to places more difficult to treat, but I’ll go ahead and spray the baseboards and do the outside again with a stronger solution. I’ll also treat all your electrical outlets and drain pipes with a pesticide powder. Hopefully, this will work.”
“Whatever it takes,” Hannah said.
Every day Hannah checked the closets, floors, and windowsills. There still were ants, but this time they were dead. No more middle of the night killing fests. After several months the house seemed exorcised of all ants. Hannah could again enjoy the beautiful house with the magnificent landscaping; or could she?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
THE ELEVENTH PLAGUE - PART I
[This was submitted as an entry in a short-story contest in January 2003 and is based on a true story. There is some embellishment with respect to dialogue and the names have been changed to protect the innocent.]
Can you imagine entering a room with hundreds of tiny creatures roaming the floors, crawling on the ceilings and down the walls, on the counters, in the closets, or in the pantry? Everywhere you turn a light to dark brown insect, 1/16 of an inch, a profile unevenly rounded, with a spineless thorax and a 12-segmented antenna driving you absolutely insane. If God had added these monstrosities to the mix, Pharoah undoubtedly would have let the Israelites go. What would have been the eleventh plague? The Iridomyrmex humilis, or in layman’s terms--the Argentine ant, Southern California’s friendly invader.
After living nine years in the hot, humid climate of Austin, Texas, the Griffins made the long trek to beautiful Southern California; however, the relocation was not trouble free. The movers were a day late to pick up the appliances and various household items but promised to deliver on time. The Griffins arrived at their $500,000 home surrounded by palm trees and breathtaking landscaped magnificence.
“Finally. Thought we’d never make it,” Peter said as he opened the door of the 2000 champagne, four-door, Nissan Sentra.
“The trip was long but well worth it, wouldn’t you say,” Hannah beamed as she entered the white, double door entranceway of their three-bedroom residence. “Look at the skylights and vaulted ceilings. It’s bright and cheery. So different from our place in Austin.”
“Okay, you made your point,” Peter smirked.
Living in a 2,265 square foot home without furniture and appliances was miserable thanks to the two-week delay of the Allman Brothers Moving Company. Sleeping on the floor, daily trips to the store, and eating take-out food were for the adventurous, not the Griffins, a couple in their late 70s who lived a humdrum life. Peter was a man of average height who weighed the same as in high school but now shuffled along at a snail’s pace; and Hannah, her disproportionate body shrinking several inches over the years, but cleaning and doing yard work through all the aches and pains. They both retired from a research and development laboratory in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and had two children, a boy and a girl, who were unsuccessful in the business world. Yes, the Griffins were a typical white, middle-class family.
“Maybe things can get back to normal once we get settled in,” Peter groaned. “Sure am getting tired of sleeping on the floor. Maybe it will be smooth sailing from now on.”
“One can only hope,” Hannah added.
It took three weeks to organize the house, and Hannah did all the work. Peter used to be quite helpful in the yard and around the house but the last few years diminished his desire to do anything but sit around and watch television and read outdated twenty-five cent novels.
“Peter, I need your help hanging these pictures. Get up and give me a hand.” Hannah was tired and frustrated by the lack of support from her husband of 53 years. It’s amazing their marriage lasted so long.
“Okay,” Peter sighed. “I’m coming.”
The silverware, dishes, and pots and pans were neatly arranged in paper-lined cabinets and drawers. Furniture arranged and rearranged to suit Hannah’s fastidious characteristic. Everything in its place. Hanging pictures a ridiculous labor of perfection.
“Whew. At last.” Hannah smiled. “Now we can enjoy the California weather and walk along the North County beaches.”
Weekly trips to the ocean and lunch with Peter’s sister, Ruth, who lived just three miles from their house; filling the church pew three times a week and daily doses of Rush and Fox News--that was life for the Griffins. A contented life but mundane nonetheless.
Although the house was surrounded by a colorful botanical scenery, the vegetation and palm trees became a popular habitation for ants. These insects were in the trees and on the sidewalk especially around the lifeless black worms that had crawled out of the freshly watered lawn. At least they’re not in the house, Hannah mused.
TO BE CONTINUED
Can you imagine entering a room with hundreds of tiny creatures roaming the floors, crawling on the ceilings and down the walls, on the counters, in the closets, or in the pantry? Everywhere you turn a light to dark brown insect, 1/16 of an inch, a profile unevenly rounded, with a spineless thorax and a 12-segmented antenna driving you absolutely insane. If God had added these monstrosities to the mix, Pharoah undoubtedly would have let the Israelites go. What would have been the eleventh plague? The Iridomyrmex humilis, or in layman’s terms--the Argentine ant, Southern California’s friendly invader.
After living nine years in the hot, humid climate of Austin, Texas, the Griffins made the long trek to beautiful Southern California; however, the relocation was not trouble free. The movers were a day late to pick up the appliances and various household items but promised to deliver on time. The Griffins arrived at their $500,000 home surrounded by palm trees and breathtaking landscaped magnificence.
“Finally. Thought we’d never make it,” Peter said as he opened the door of the 2000 champagne, four-door, Nissan Sentra.
“The trip was long but well worth it, wouldn’t you say,” Hannah beamed as she entered the white, double door entranceway of their three-bedroom residence. “Look at the skylights and vaulted ceilings. It’s bright and cheery. So different from our place in Austin.”
“Okay, you made your point,” Peter smirked.
Living in a 2,265 square foot home without furniture and appliances was miserable thanks to the two-week delay of the Allman Brothers Moving Company. Sleeping on the floor, daily trips to the store, and eating take-out food were for the adventurous, not the Griffins, a couple in their late 70s who lived a humdrum life. Peter was a man of average height who weighed the same as in high school but now shuffled along at a snail’s pace; and Hannah, her disproportionate body shrinking several inches over the years, but cleaning and doing yard work through all the aches and pains. They both retired from a research and development laboratory in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and had two children, a boy and a girl, who were unsuccessful in the business world. Yes, the Griffins were a typical white, middle-class family.
“Maybe things can get back to normal once we get settled in,” Peter groaned. “Sure am getting tired of sleeping on the floor. Maybe it will be smooth sailing from now on.”
“One can only hope,” Hannah added.
It took three weeks to organize the house, and Hannah did all the work. Peter used to be quite helpful in the yard and around the house but the last few years diminished his desire to do anything but sit around and watch television and read outdated twenty-five cent novels.
“Peter, I need your help hanging these pictures. Get up and give me a hand.” Hannah was tired and frustrated by the lack of support from her husband of 53 years. It’s amazing their marriage lasted so long.
“Okay,” Peter sighed. “I’m coming.”
The silverware, dishes, and pots and pans were neatly arranged in paper-lined cabinets and drawers. Furniture arranged and rearranged to suit Hannah’s fastidious characteristic. Everything in its place. Hanging pictures a ridiculous labor of perfection.
“Whew. At last.” Hannah smiled. “Now we can enjoy the California weather and walk along the North County beaches.”
Weekly trips to the ocean and lunch with Peter’s sister, Ruth, who lived just three miles from their house; filling the church pew three times a week and daily doses of Rush and Fox News--that was life for the Griffins. A contented life but mundane nonetheless.
Although the house was surrounded by a colorful botanical scenery, the vegetation and palm trees became a popular habitation for ants. These insects were in the trees and on the sidewalk especially around the lifeless black worms that had crawled out of the freshly watered lawn. At least they’re not in the house, Hannah mused.
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
SUNDAY NIGHT SPECIAL
[NOTE: Working a lot of overtime, including Saturdays, but will try to post as much as I can, but more than likely only on weekends.]
Sunday night was another special time for LBC. The Praise Band usually performs during our monthly celebration times. For me, the songs are always inspirational and uplifting, and yes, entertaining. As always, Greg and his gang were excellent even with Daniel’s little slip (that’s something I would do). Kamille’s sweet voice blended in quite well and some of the other teens will be lending their voices to the mix throughout the year.
Came from a church background where you had Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night services. LBC only meets on Sunday morning and have gotten used to that once a week replenishment. When there are occasional gatherings in the evening, habits are hard to break and sometimes plans don’t want to include attending or staying for the meals, but am always glad I did. Enjoyed sitting with my “buds,” and meeting Greg’s cousin, whose name escapes me at the moment, but he was great on the drums. Also got to catch up with some people I haven’t been able to talk to for a while. Oh, yeah, the chilis were delicious. I put a spoonful of each on the bottom of my plate topped with my usual mile-high serving of salad. And with some cornbread on the side--now that's good eating.
The crowd was sparse and hopefully it wasn’t because of the Colts/Patriots game, but I’m not one to cast judgment—years ago I missed Sunday morning worship to stay home and watch the Wimbleton championships.
Although you might consider me nuts, I actually enjoy being on the clean-up crew, but I say that about filing too, so you decide. Maybe that’s why I would like to manage (dare I say, own?) a food establishment some day.
Sunday night was another special time for LBC. The Praise Band usually performs during our monthly celebration times. For me, the songs are always inspirational and uplifting, and yes, entertaining. As always, Greg and his gang were excellent even with Daniel’s little slip (that’s something I would do). Kamille’s sweet voice blended in quite well and some of the other teens will be lending their voices to the mix throughout the year.
Came from a church background where you had Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night services. LBC only meets on Sunday morning and have gotten used to that once a week replenishment. When there are occasional gatherings in the evening, habits are hard to break and sometimes plans don’t want to include attending or staying for the meals, but am always glad I did. Enjoyed sitting with my “buds,” and meeting Greg’s cousin, whose name escapes me at the moment, but he was great on the drums. Also got to catch up with some people I haven’t been able to talk to for a while. Oh, yeah, the chilis were delicious. I put a spoonful of each on the bottom of my plate topped with my usual mile-high serving of salad. And with some cornbread on the side--now that's good eating.
The crowd was sparse and hopefully it wasn’t because of the Colts/Patriots game, but I’m not one to cast judgment—years ago I missed Sunday morning worship to stay home and watch the Wimbleton championships.
Although you might consider me nuts, I actually enjoy being on the clean-up crew, but I say that about filing too, so you decide. Maybe that’s why I would like to manage (dare I say, own?) a food establishment some day.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
JEALOUSY DOES NOT BECOME YOU
Never considered myself envious of other people’s material possessions. Oh, it would be nice to have money to burn, but a majority of the rich and famous seem to have as many headaches as we commoners. Always said I could live in a broken-down hovel as long as there was a tennis court and lap pool. Mom would probably think I live in one now, sans the court and pool, and after the closet door almost falling off in my hand this morning and literally hanging by a thread, who am I to disagree.
There are a couple of things where jealousy rears its ugly head. My spirituality continues on a roller coaster ride and must admit to being envious of other people’s spiritual focus. Some appear to be so sincere and are moved by the moment. Some are very prayer oriented and really do pray unceasingly. Others study in great depth. How do they get to that point? Yes, while sitting in a church pew, Greg and other evangelical orators have said some things that tugged at my heart. Reading spiritually based books incite that bit of passion to make you decide to change a lifestyle or turn toward a better path, but for me it seems to diminish with time and soon forgotten. Except for certain classes or looking up a scripture or two, really haven’t read the Bible much in the last several years.
Many times I “forget” to pray. Now, how is that possible? Truth be told, just don’t take the time to pray, at least in the way most think prayer to be--the sit down, elongated version. While walking or in my car or in the shower, I’ll talk to God on a whim about people or circumstances that are on my mind, but not often enough. For a time didn’t think much of the concept of prayer but do know there is one person you can always go to any time and any place. You are never alone.
During the communion service, Chris spoke from the heart and like many others doesn’t need to make annual spiritual resolutions. Unfortunately, I’m not as lucky and decided this year to make a New Year’s resolution to read the Bible every day using one of those schedules. So far, so good and if I happen to miss, will make it up the next day. Still working on the prayer issue though. Guess it's all a matter of priorities.
It makes me sad (okay, jealous) when so many parents beam about their kids and their accomplishments. These children are well educated. They have spiritual purpose, moral convictions, or have devoted their lives to a missianic calling. They have great jobs. They have good impulses. Many who have known me for a little while are surprised to learn I have a 21-year-old son. Rarely talk about Jonathan and am ashamed to state that fact. My son is good looking, full of talent, has all the key ingredients of a recipe for success, but chooses not to use that potential. He takes the lazy route, and Jonathan will be the first to admit to his laziness. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son and would die for him, but happen not to like him sometimes. Most of it is disappointment, not just in him, but in myself as a parent, and the guilt… Parenting skills… yeah, another topic to write about.
Jonathan has always been strong-willed with a mind of his own who is going to do whatever he wants. And he has with many repercussions. Can’t blame Jonathan too much for the stubborn streak--the gene pool, you know. As a matter of fact, as an infant you couldn’t get Jonathan to take his medication unless Carl and Dad held him down. Now that’s stubbornness personified.
I am mindful that Jonathan experienced a tremendous loss at age 16 and realize it is affecting him more now than at the outset. Although I do admire Jonathan’s gutsiness, am hopeful he will find his way, and I can take what Chris said to heart--males go through an adjustment period between the ages of 17-27. All this aside, I know what was instilled in Jonathan and there is comfort knowing that he still believes in God.
There are a couple of things where jealousy rears its ugly head. My spirituality continues on a roller coaster ride and must admit to being envious of other people’s spiritual focus. Some appear to be so sincere and are moved by the moment. Some are very prayer oriented and really do pray unceasingly. Others study in great depth. How do they get to that point? Yes, while sitting in a church pew, Greg and other evangelical orators have said some things that tugged at my heart. Reading spiritually based books incite that bit of passion to make you decide to change a lifestyle or turn toward a better path, but for me it seems to diminish with time and soon forgotten. Except for certain classes or looking up a scripture or two, really haven’t read the Bible much in the last several years.
Many times I “forget” to pray. Now, how is that possible? Truth be told, just don’t take the time to pray, at least in the way most think prayer to be--the sit down, elongated version. While walking or in my car or in the shower, I’ll talk to God on a whim about people or circumstances that are on my mind, but not often enough. For a time didn’t think much of the concept of prayer but do know there is one person you can always go to any time and any place. You are never alone.
During the communion service, Chris spoke from the heart and like many others doesn’t need to make annual spiritual resolutions. Unfortunately, I’m not as lucky and decided this year to make a New Year’s resolution to read the Bible every day using one of those schedules. So far, so good and if I happen to miss, will make it up the next day. Still working on the prayer issue though. Guess it's all a matter of priorities.
It makes me sad (okay, jealous) when so many parents beam about their kids and their accomplishments. These children are well educated. They have spiritual purpose, moral convictions, or have devoted their lives to a missianic calling. They have great jobs. They have good impulses. Many who have known me for a little while are surprised to learn I have a 21-year-old son. Rarely talk about Jonathan and am ashamed to state that fact. My son is good looking, full of talent, has all the key ingredients of a recipe for success, but chooses not to use that potential. He takes the lazy route, and Jonathan will be the first to admit to his laziness. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son and would die for him, but happen not to like him sometimes. Most of it is disappointment, not just in him, but in myself as a parent, and the guilt… Parenting skills… yeah, another topic to write about.
Jonathan has always been strong-willed with a mind of his own who is going to do whatever he wants. And he has with many repercussions. Can’t blame Jonathan too much for the stubborn streak--the gene pool, you know. As a matter of fact, as an infant you couldn’t get Jonathan to take his medication unless Carl and Dad held him down. Now that’s stubbornness personified.
I am mindful that Jonathan experienced a tremendous loss at age 16 and realize it is affecting him more now than at the outset. Although I do admire Jonathan’s gutsiness, am hopeful he will find his way, and I can take what Chris said to heart--males go through an adjustment period between the ages of 17-27. All this aside, I know what was instilled in Jonathan and there is comfort knowing that he still believes in God.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
CYNICISM 101
How trusting are you? Do you have any trust issues? Have you always been a trusting person? If you still are, that’s great, but have a feeling that’s not what the majority of people would say. When did it change? Maybe a friend screwed you over more than once. Maybe your child did something so despicable that all credence is now lost. Maybe your spouse had an extramarital affair. Whatever the situation, it does seem to change your whole philosophy on life.
I considered myself a very trusting person and tried to see the best in everyone. Was one of the lucky ones who grew up with many of the same people throughout elementary, middle school and into high school. In school I never seemed to hang with the rebels or those who smoked and would probably have been referred to as a “Miss Goody Two Shoes“--the ideal student who tried to do the right thing and not get into trouble. Didn’t know anything about the drug scene or that one existed (did I have my head in the sand) and considered smoking and drinking to be the evils of the teen scene. Smoking especially was a sore subject, because I saw my dad puffing away the first 12 years of my life. Hated the smell and hated the fact that Dad couldn’t get away from the dinner table fast enough to go enjoy his “dessert.” Eldorado High had a smoking wall in front of the Humanities building. Every day I had to pass through to get to either a typing, shorthand, business law, creative writing, or bookkeeping class. One day, to my chagrin, I saw a good friend at the “wall” amidst the ever increasing crowd. It disappointed me and felt somewhat uncomfortable around her at first, but still considered Deanna my friend.
Had my first boyfriend in college. Mark gave me his ring and wore it when I went home for Christmas break. Everyone noticed the pep in my step and the euphoric appearance on my face, and why not--Debbie was in love! Returned to campus life and saw Mark on the tennis court. Noticed a sapphire ring on his hand and not one a male would wear. Mark tried to skirt the issue, but the guy was caught and finally fessed up. A girl gave it to him. Yes, Mark seemed to have a girl in every port. You’d think I’d have had a clue--his nickname was “Elvis.” Ended this short-term disaster but didn’t give up on the concept of love.
Carl and I hit a rocky patch in our courting days but… When it came to the affairs of the heart, I believed in love and closed my eyes to what was in front of me. Not a real good thing to do and hopefully still don’t have that tendency.
Maybe you would choose to call me Miss Gullibility or the Queen of Naiveté. A salesman’s dream. A regular pushover. (Any other cliché you care to add?) Probably not the best character trait to have when considering a law enforcement career. The criminals would have a field day.
So, what changed? After plodding along as a secretary in the corrections department for 1½ years, in 1983 I became a probation officer in the presentence unit. The job entailed interviewing defendants who either pled guilty or were convicted at trial of felony offenses; doing record checks; contacting interested parties, including the victim(s); writing presentence reports and making sentence recommendations to the judges; and covering these sentencings in court.
My first assignment out of the blocks was interviewing an individual in the county jail. Never had stepped foot inside a prison environment and it was quite an eye opener. There wasn’t a separate interview room so entered in among the inmate population. I’ll never forget the sound of that cell door closing. Didn’t get the whistles and the “yo, mamas” I had anticipated--you received those going by the construction sites. The inmates I passed were polite and well behaved and doubt it was the guard behind the glass protection making the difference. I finally reached the young black man sitting on his bunk. Can’t remember his name or the crime, but the maximum sentence was only one year. This was a pleasant fellow who told me he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and had never been in trouble with the law. After several minutes asking the formatted questions, I walked back to the office with an already determined recommendation. Read through the District Attorney’s file, did a complete record check and discovered that this young gentleman, who I foolishly believed, had priors in California and was on probation in Missouri. Talked to his probation officer who informed me that this guy was “a real bad dude.” Wrote my report and submitted it to Judge M who had been one of my professors in college and a fresh out-of-law-school ADA when I worked with Judge Sanchez 10 years earlier. During the sentencing, Judge M called me up to the bench to explain the reason for my recommendation. I had been quite forthright in the report and thought it was self-explanatory. I was furious that this man had lied and thought he deserved the maximum one year. That was good enough for Judge M and sentenced this pillar of the community to a year of incarceration.
Yes, I can attribute my new found cynicism, my doubtful attitude, and taking what people say with a grain of salt to this young man. I still treat people the way I want to be treated and would like to see the best in everyone, but I am skeptical and will just sit back and watch attentively before coming to a conclusion, and not always the right one at that. Jonathan is probably the only one who can still pull the wool over my eyes, but, hey, he’s my son and always try to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I considered myself a very trusting person and tried to see the best in everyone. Was one of the lucky ones who grew up with many of the same people throughout elementary, middle school and into high school. In school I never seemed to hang with the rebels or those who smoked and would probably have been referred to as a “Miss Goody Two Shoes“--the ideal student who tried to do the right thing and not get into trouble. Didn’t know anything about the drug scene or that one existed (did I have my head in the sand) and considered smoking and drinking to be the evils of the teen scene. Smoking especially was a sore subject, because I saw my dad puffing away the first 12 years of my life. Hated the smell and hated the fact that Dad couldn’t get away from the dinner table fast enough to go enjoy his “dessert.” Eldorado High had a smoking wall in front of the Humanities building. Every day I had to pass through to get to either a typing, shorthand, business law, creative writing, or bookkeeping class. One day, to my chagrin, I saw a good friend at the “wall” amidst the ever increasing crowd. It disappointed me and felt somewhat uncomfortable around her at first, but still considered Deanna my friend.
Had my first boyfriend in college. Mark gave me his ring and wore it when I went home for Christmas break. Everyone noticed the pep in my step and the euphoric appearance on my face, and why not--Debbie was in love! Returned to campus life and saw Mark on the tennis court. Noticed a sapphire ring on his hand and not one a male would wear. Mark tried to skirt the issue, but the guy was caught and finally fessed up. A girl gave it to him. Yes, Mark seemed to have a girl in every port. You’d think I’d have had a clue--his nickname was “Elvis.” Ended this short-term disaster but didn’t give up on the concept of love.
Carl and I hit a rocky patch in our courting days but… When it came to the affairs of the heart, I believed in love and closed my eyes to what was in front of me. Not a real good thing to do and hopefully still don’t have that tendency.
Maybe you would choose to call me Miss Gullibility or the Queen of Naiveté. A salesman’s dream. A regular pushover. (Any other cliché you care to add?) Probably not the best character trait to have when considering a law enforcement career. The criminals would have a field day.
So, what changed? After plodding along as a secretary in the corrections department for 1½ years, in 1983 I became a probation officer in the presentence unit. The job entailed interviewing defendants who either pled guilty or were convicted at trial of felony offenses; doing record checks; contacting interested parties, including the victim(s); writing presentence reports and making sentence recommendations to the judges; and covering these sentencings in court.
My first assignment out of the blocks was interviewing an individual in the county jail. Never had stepped foot inside a prison environment and it was quite an eye opener. There wasn’t a separate interview room so entered in among the inmate population. I’ll never forget the sound of that cell door closing. Didn’t get the whistles and the “yo, mamas” I had anticipated--you received those going by the construction sites. The inmates I passed were polite and well behaved and doubt it was the guard behind the glass protection making the difference. I finally reached the young black man sitting on his bunk. Can’t remember his name or the crime, but the maximum sentence was only one year. This was a pleasant fellow who told me he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and had never been in trouble with the law. After several minutes asking the formatted questions, I walked back to the office with an already determined recommendation. Read through the District Attorney’s file, did a complete record check and discovered that this young gentleman, who I foolishly believed, had priors in California and was on probation in Missouri. Talked to his probation officer who informed me that this guy was “a real bad dude.” Wrote my report and submitted it to Judge M who had been one of my professors in college and a fresh out-of-law-school ADA when I worked with Judge Sanchez 10 years earlier. During the sentencing, Judge M called me up to the bench to explain the reason for my recommendation. I had been quite forthright in the report and thought it was self-explanatory. I was furious that this man had lied and thought he deserved the maximum one year. That was good enough for Judge M and sentenced this pillar of the community to a year of incarceration.
Yes, I can attribute my new found cynicism, my doubtful attitude, and taking what people say with a grain of salt to this young man. I still treat people the way I want to be treated and would like to see the best in everyone, but I am skeptical and will just sit back and watch attentively before coming to a conclusion, and not always the right one at that. Jonathan is probably the only one who can still pull the wool over my eyes, but, hey, he’s my son and always try to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
DEATH, THE FINAL FRONTIER
“Death and dying are the most serious questions we will ever ponder.” Greg made this profound statement in his sermon this morning which made me decide to write this short article. (Not to worry, Greg, don’t think I’ll steal the thunder of any of your future blogs.)
I don’t profess knowing much about anything and would never try to explain the concept of death, but it does make you stop and wonder about this convoluted topic. There are television shows that deal with the subject such as Touched by an Angel and Ghost Whisperer. People broadcast their near-death revelations about seeing white lights, bright lights at the end of a tunnel, or talking to loved ones who have long passed. Not sure what I believe, and who am I to say otherwise?
Carl had what I would call many near-death experiences. He had numerous diabetic reactions over our 17½ years of marriage, with many blood sugar readings not even registering on the paramedics’ glucometer (below 20). That old saying--a cat with nine lives--comes to mind, but with Carl it actually was more like several cats’ worth. After one episodic incident, Carl said he saw those lights and his mother waiting for him. JoAda died two years prior to Carl’s death. It was very real to Carl, and now I’m remembering that this was one of Carl’s last reactions. Kind of spooky.
Everyone must have had at least a passing thought about death. Maybe even what it would feel like to know you are dying. My aunt knows she doesn’t have long to live, but has been long ready to meet her maker. Although still in a stage of denial that anything was wrong, have a feeling Carl knew life would be limited especially after being told his kidneys were failing and would be starting dialysis with a possible kidney transplant. A special person I knew was in so much heartache (I believe a health issue), he decided to end his life with pesticide and had a change of heart, but not soon enough.
I’ve contemplated the issue a time or two. Would not be devastated to learn I had a terminal illness or the dreaded “C word” and although you may think it terrible for me to say, don’t know if I would go through the struggle to try and fight it. All I know is that I need to be ready for whatever happens.
I don’t profess knowing much about anything and would never try to explain the concept of death, but it does make you stop and wonder about this convoluted topic. There are television shows that deal with the subject such as Touched by an Angel and Ghost Whisperer. People broadcast their near-death revelations about seeing white lights, bright lights at the end of a tunnel, or talking to loved ones who have long passed. Not sure what I believe, and who am I to say otherwise?
Carl had what I would call many near-death experiences. He had numerous diabetic reactions over our 17½ years of marriage, with many blood sugar readings not even registering on the paramedics’ glucometer (below 20). That old saying--a cat with nine lives--comes to mind, but with Carl it actually was more like several cats’ worth. After one episodic incident, Carl said he saw those lights and his mother waiting for him. JoAda died two years prior to Carl’s death. It was very real to Carl, and now I’m remembering that this was one of Carl’s last reactions. Kind of spooky.
Everyone must have had at least a passing thought about death. Maybe even what it would feel like to know you are dying. My aunt knows she doesn’t have long to live, but has been long ready to meet her maker. Although still in a stage of denial that anything was wrong, have a feeling Carl knew life would be limited especially after being told his kidneys were failing and would be starting dialysis with a possible kidney transplant. A special person I knew was in so much heartache (I believe a health issue), he decided to end his life with pesticide and had a change of heart, but not soon enough.
I’ve contemplated the issue a time or two. Would not be devastated to learn I had a terminal illness or the dreaded “C word” and although you may think it terrible for me to say, don’t know if I would go through the struggle to try and fight it. All I know is that I need to be ready for whatever happens.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY
How many times have you been in a classroom setting and the teacher asked a question and said there was no right or wrong answer? How can you have any qualms about responding--you can’t be wrong. That wasn’t quite the case when sitting in a 9th grade Bible class in New Mexico. We were new to the congregation and having come from a much smaller church was quite a transition. One of the elders was the teacher. Don’t remember what the question was, but I chimed in with an answer. “No,” he said, with a few more added words. No was all it took. Woa! I thought there was no right or wrong answer. Well, that became a life-altering experience.
After that incident I clammed up in any type of classroom setting. Would not answer any question or make a suggestion and literally kept my mouth shut. Didn’t want to be wrong or feel the humiliation again. Any time a teacher would ask a question, I looked away or down at my desk and this technique worked. Well, it did until I met Professor Wirth. PW was just too smart for me.
Only three teachers taught the criminology courses at U of A. One was on the parole board, one was an assistant district attorney, and one was a former FBI agent--Professor Wirth, my favorite. He was a crusty man, but had a great sense of humor. He was tough, but made every class challenging. It never failed though, in every single class PW would constantly pick on me. I even tried making that eye contact, but PW still would call on me. It was very frustrating and somewhat disconcerting.
One day I went up to the office and talked to the department secretary and asked her why Professor Wirth constantly picked on me in class. She smiled and seemed quite amused. “Why, Debbie, he knows you have the answer because you’re always prepared.” I’m not so sure the same would be said if Jesus were to return today. (Guess this blog could have been titled, “Always be Prepared.”)
It takes a lot for me to speak up in a group situation, but still feel uncomfortable doing so and have a tendency to fall back on that old pattern of no eye contact. Recently that 9th grade incident came back to haunt me, so I’m back to square one again.
We should remember that people can get hurt by what we say and how we say it.
After that incident I clammed up in any type of classroom setting. Would not answer any question or make a suggestion and literally kept my mouth shut. Didn’t want to be wrong or feel the humiliation again. Any time a teacher would ask a question, I looked away or down at my desk and this technique worked. Well, it did until I met Professor Wirth. PW was just too smart for me.
Only three teachers taught the criminology courses at U of A. One was on the parole board, one was an assistant district attorney, and one was a former FBI agent--Professor Wirth, my favorite. He was a crusty man, but had a great sense of humor. He was tough, but made every class challenging. It never failed though, in every single class PW would constantly pick on me. I even tried making that eye contact, but PW still would call on me. It was very frustrating and somewhat disconcerting.
One day I went up to the office and talked to the department secretary and asked her why Professor Wirth constantly picked on me in class. She smiled and seemed quite amused. “Why, Debbie, he knows you have the answer because you’re always prepared.” I’m not so sure the same would be said if Jesus were to return today. (Guess this blog could have been titled, “Always be Prepared.”)
It takes a lot for me to speak up in a group situation, but still feel uncomfortable doing so and have a tendency to fall back on that old pattern of no eye contact. Recently that 9th grade incident came back to haunt me, so I’m back to square one again.
We should remember that people can get hurt by what we say and how we say it.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
REFLECTION OF A PRESIDENT
Never had any political aspirations. Never followed the political scene and couldn’t tell you the names of many key players in Washington. Have only voted in a few major elections. Yeah, guess you could call me unAmerican. As a matter of fact, my only real interest in an election was at 17--the future of my job depended on the outcome. I was secretary to Judge Sanchez who was appointed to the District Court bench by the governor of New Mexico. He had to run for re-election the following year. Although my parents were philosophically republican, I had to register my first time out as a democrat in order to vote in the primary.
Also around this same time was that well-known scandal of Watergate. Remember being plugged into the boob tube (as my dad likes to call it) watching the hearings. In August 1974 Richard Nixon resigned from the presidency and Gerald Ford became the 38th President of the United States. The following month President Ford pardoned Richard Nixon.
Gerald Ford died on December 26, 2006, at the age of 93. My mom thought it strange that I would bother writing about Ford, let alone any political figure. Really don’t know what my opinions of Ford were during his 29 months in office or what you thought of the man. Maybe you were angry about the pardon and Nixon not getting his comeuppance. Although I’m not so sure what I thought at the time, in reflecting upon Mr. Ford this week, I do admire his conviction for doing it. Ford did what he thought best for the country, and he got a lot of flack for it. That decision most assuredly cost Ford the election. The only other remembrance after watching a little of the news coverage this week, was Ford’s son, Steven--oh, yeah, an actor on The Young and the Restless way back when.
Also around this same time was that well-known scandal of Watergate. Remember being plugged into the boob tube (as my dad likes to call it) watching the hearings. In August 1974 Richard Nixon resigned from the presidency and Gerald Ford became the 38th President of the United States. The following month President Ford pardoned Richard Nixon.
Gerald Ford died on December 26, 2006, at the age of 93. My mom thought it strange that I would bother writing about Ford, let alone any political figure. Really don’t know what my opinions of Ford were during his 29 months in office or what you thought of the man. Maybe you were angry about the pardon and Nixon not getting his comeuppance. Although I’m not so sure what I thought at the time, in reflecting upon Mr. Ford this week, I do admire his conviction for doing it. Ford did what he thought best for the country, and he got a lot of flack for it. That decision most assuredly cost Ford the election. The only other remembrance after watching a little of the news coverage this week, was Ford’s son, Steven--oh, yeah, an actor on The Young and the Restless way back when.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
“B” IS FOR BARNEY
I never knew any Barneys, unless you count Barney Rubble, Barney Fife, or the occasional dog who got called the “B” word. When coming to LBC I was only going to be a temporary fixture in the pew. Walking out the door after each service I was greeted by a dapper looking man, one of a few who actually wore a suit, who pleasantly shook my hand and thanked me for coming. His name was Barney.
After a while I realized this man had severe health issues and was in and out of the hospital. If he could, Barney was always at church and you knew he couldn’t have been feeling all that great. After becoming a member, the handshakes turned to hugs.
Although I didn’t know Barney very well, I so admired his spirit. Barney died this week, but he lived a long life. Barney will be greatly missed. A nice man. A sweet man. A lovely man. These things should be said to the person before it’s too late. My timing has never been very good.
After a while I realized this man had severe health issues and was in and out of the hospital. If he could, Barney was always at church and you knew he couldn’t have been feeling all that great. After becoming a member, the handshakes turned to hugs.
Although I didn’t know Barney very well, I so admired his spirit. Barney died this week, but he lived a long life. Barney will be greatly missed. A nice man. A sweet man. A lovely man. These things should be said to the person before it’s too late. My timing has never been very good.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
THE SHAME OF HAND-ME-DOWNS
The youngest sibling gets the oldest sibling’s clothes. Good Will, Disabled American Veterans, church rummage sales, neighborhood garage sales, church-operated and family-owned thrift stores. Where another person’s junk will now become your treasure.
I would venture to guess that most people have no problem donating items to a thrift store type establishment, but some would never step foot in one as a customer. Grew up in a family who patronized major department stores, and I continued the trend but was never a spend thrift. As a matter of fact, learned to be quite frugal and clipped those manufactured coupons and would continue to do so even if in the upper echelon of society.
Never considered entering a thrift store until Jonathan was ready to attend day care when I returned to the work force. What a concept! What savings! My husband came from a well-to-do family who I’m sure never set foot in a thrift store. Carl soon realized where to find the bargains. My parents were so impressed with a particular find that it became a newly found hobby, especially on SCD (that’s senior citizen’s day for you young squirts). On one of their visits my parents purchased a ladies’ Neiman Marcus watch and a man’s Bill Blass watch for $.95 each and they only needed batteries. Twenty years later my mom is still wearing hers. Unfortunately, when Jonathan could speak his mind, he balked at wearing somebody else’s clothes. He would rather have an $80 shirt from Hot Topic or PacSun.
The thrift store meandering still continues today. My parents found a gold mine in San Diego County and wish I had known about it when living there for a few years. Now on our jaunts we go in before heading back home and always seem to leave with several bags full of major labeled clothes from Gap to Old Navy to Calvin Klein to Sag Harbor costing under $10.00. (You’d be lucky to buy a shirt at The Gap for that price.)
Every time I enter a thrift store, I’m reminded of the angst getting Jonathan to wear a thrift store purchase. If he ever has a family, it won’t surprise me to find Jonathan stepping foot in a thrift store and finding it not so humiliating after all.
I would venture to guess that most people have no problem donating items to a thrift store type establishment, but some would never step foot in one as a customer. Grew up in a family who patronized major department stores, and I continued the trend but was never a spend thrift. As a matter of fact, learned to be quite frugal and clipped those manufactured coupons and would continue to do so even if in the upper echelon of society.
Never considered entering a thrift store until Jonathan was ready to attend day care when I returned to the work force. What a concept! What savings! My husband came from a well-to-do family who I’m sure never set foot in a thrift store. Carl soon realized where to find the bargains. My parents were so impressed with a particular find that it became a newly found hobby, especially on SCD (that’s senior citizen’s day for you young squirts). On one of their visits my parents purchased a ladies’ Neiman Marcus watch and a man’s Bill Blass watch for $.95 each and they only needed batteries. Twenty years later my mom is still wearing hers. Unfortunately, when Jonathan could speak his mind, he balked at wearing somebody else’s clothes. He would rather have an $80 shirt from Hot Topic or PacSun.
The thrift store meandering still continues today. My parents found a gold mine in San Diego County and wish I had known about it when living there for a few years. Now on our jaunts we go in before heading back home and always seem to leave with several bags full of major labeled clothes from Gap to Old Navy to Calvin Klein to Sag Harbor costing under $10.00. (You’d be lucky to buy a shirt at The Gap for that price.)
Every time I enter a thrift store, I’m reminded of the angst getting Jonathan to wear a thrift store purchase. If he ever has a family, it won’t surprise me to find Jonathan stepping foot in a thrift store and finding it not so humiliating after all.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)