BOXES

I have several boxes in my closet, filled with a plethora of personal history. I am not really sure what actually is housed in these cardboard mysteries, but, judging by the box that I filled today, I would say it is most likely a hodgepodge of items that I find just too dear to actually put in the give away bin or to toss in the trash. Mind you, I schlepped six stretchy plastic bags of junk deemed unworthy of historical significance out to the raccoon housing unit known as our trash bin. But I am still left with the newest addition to the collection that resides on the top shelves of my newly cleaned out closet. Every so often, I'll take down one of the boxes and paw through it, wondering why on earth I kept this or that... it must have been important that I hang on to it, so it dutifully goes back into the box until my curiosity gets the better of me next time around. I've discovered faded pictures of people I don't remember, vacations someone else took and thought I'd love to see pictures of, and old kodachrome photos of what can only be family members I've never met. There are papers written in a college course that got a passing grade, a letter with a lock of what I am guessing is my grandmother's hair (still red after one hundred years), a notebook filled with my life experiences like a script for a bad made for TV movie. I found four, count them, four empty binders and a handful of wirebound, college-ruled notebooks. Back-to-schoolers could have a field day in my closet.

It makes me wonder where all this very important stuff comes from. Dog-eared books collected over the years that I simply will not part with. Framed pictures of family members that can't be hung up on the wall, yet I can't seem to find the time to put them in a proper frame so they can be displayed. Leather-bound journals filled with random notes and shopping lists. Crayons. Office supplies. All items I, at some point in a cleaning frenzy, decided were meaningful enough to keep in my life for whatever future reason I could possibly think of. I suppose I am lucky. I've made it to this second half of my life with only three boxes of stuff to show for it. I am sure, at some point in the future, I will determine that the things in those boxes might not be worth keeping afterall. But, until then, they will remain safely ensconced on the top shelf of my closet. Waiting to be discovered, like an ancient end to a magnificent treasure hunt in some future adventure.

PRAYERS & LAWNMOWERS

My father was a strong, proud man. He fought to stay independent and demonstrated to his world around him how to stay strong, how to get things done, and how to help your neighbor when he was down. As my father aged, he lost much of his independence to a wheelchair. But that didn't stop him from going about his regular routines. One hot, Indian Summer day, he was in our massive front yard, scooting along in his wheelchair, pushing his lawnmower. He was determined to make his home as beautiful as it had once been when his back was straight, his stance solid, and his health in better shape. He worked on the stubborn grass, going around and around, up and down the lawn, making his rows as perfect as possible with one hand on the mower and one hand on the wheel of his prison. A pastor saw him struggling and came across the street where he had been laughing and talking to some friends. He greeted him and asked him how he was doing. My father, never one to mince words, told him that life was tough, but by God, he was going to stay in the game as long as possible. As my father sat there, his kerchief soaked with the sweat pouring down his brow, the pastor looked at his watch and told this wheelchair-bound man that he only had a couple of minutes, for he was in a hurry to a very important meeting and he asked him if there was anything he could do for my father. Without waiting for a reply, he went on to offer to pray for my father and his health. My father looked up at him from his wheelchair, pointed at his lawnmower and said, "I don't need you to pray for me pastor, I need you to mow my damn lawn." I've never forgotten that lesson. Prayer IS important - and please, don't ever stop praying for each other. But sometimes we need to see that our prayers are more than words. Our prayers are a helping hand, a word of encouragement, an advocate for our well-being, a hug, a smile, or sometimes, simply a listening ear. How are you praying for others?

OFFICE PLANT

It was a lovely plant. I inherited it my first day on the job. Apparently, the church secretary before me decided to leave it where it was at - and expected her replacement to figure out how to care for it's lovely blooms. I knew nothing about orchids. So I studied. I googled. I researched. And I learned. I bought a spray bottle and moved it to a place where it got sunlight, but not direct sunlight. Heat, but not too much. I lovingly named it Phyllis, and began a relationship that I hoped would do her justice. Her blooms were magnificent. White, full, with just a tinge of pink, like the blush of a young school girl. Her leaves were rich and green and the moss that carefully protected her roots was placed just so. I timed my waterings. I made sure she was watered every other Thursday, and just before I left for home, every 14 days, I would tenderly spray her leaves, pour just a quarter cup of water at her roots, and speak gently, zen-like words to ease any troubles she might have faced. I made sure I was alone when these tender ministrations too place - I did not want to be embarrassed to be caught talking to a plant. Oh, I had done damage to other orchids. She was not my first. I had bought my father a beautiful orchid, which promptly got too wet and all the flowers fell off. He used to joke that I was taking care of his "stick" - and sadly, we put the plant out of its misery early on in its pitiful existence. But not Phyllis. No. She was a trooper. She thrived under my tender loving care. The attention she received was worthy of her beauty. For nearly six months, her blooms were strong and healthy. Her leaves turned even a darker shade of green. All was going so well. Until.... I missed a Thursday. And a Friday. In fact, I didn't get to her until the following Monday. I rushed into my office, worried that I had done permanent damage to poor Phyllis. I fretted about, apologizing to her profusely for leaving her alone and uncared for. I begged her not to leave me... to give me one more chance. I made promises that I would never, ever again leave her unattended for so long. I even broke my own rule and fussed over her while in full view of my boss. I did not care who saw me talking to the plant. I only wanted her to live - and to live well. My employer watched all of this with a bemused silence. He let me work all the way through my guilt and then, when I had settled down, asked me, "So... how long have you been watering the plant?" I explained to him that I had studied, researched, and had apparently discovered the perfect formula for caring for orchids. He sat quietly for a moment, then began to giggle. Then laugh. Then his laughter turned into large guffaws. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. He couldn't catch his breath. When he finally paused at the confused look on my face (after all, what is so funny about having discovered a perfect orchid care formula?)... he gasped and said between huffs... "Are... you...... hahahahahaha.... aware.... aaaahhhhhh..... that the ....... tee-hee.... orchid.... you're... hahahaha... watering..... baah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.... is a .... Silk plant????" He collapsed on his desk top, head on his arms, convulsing with laughter at my expense..... Phyllis stopped talking to me soon after that. It might be because I stopped watering her. I wonder.....

COUNTRY

Country. Like chickens in the driveway country. Like milk the old heifer, get the pig outta the kitchen, and pour me another beer country. Like overalls and battered, oil-stained John Deere caps, and rough suede brogans covered in horse pucky country. Yup. That kind of country. Not the kiss yer mama and marry your best girl kinda country. Not waive the American flag and honor yer brother who died in 'Nam country. No. More like the confederate flag, all terrain vehicles and boff yer cousin in the hayloft kinda country. Ig'nant country. Backwoods. Squirrel huntin' roadkill kinda country. The kind of country where Stupid and Dumbass are yer two best buddies. The kind of country where yer word don't mean shit unless there's something in it for you. The kind of country where you just don't get it. The kind of country where you're mean to your little brother and you're only looking out for number one. It give good country folk a bad name.

Good country folk honor one another, lift each other up, love each other unconditionally. Good country folk will sit with you a spell, call each other up just to say hey, and make sure you write home to your family every now and again. Good country folk go to church to praise Jesus and to make sure old man Cooper, who's gettin' along in years, is taken care of next week. Good country folk stick to their plans, return your stuff when they borrow it, and will mow your lawn when you're laid up with a broken leg. Good country folk know the difference between book learned and intelligent. Good country folk take care of their families, their friends, and their animals and expect you're doing the same. Good country folk don't judge you by the size of your pocketbook, but by the size of your heart. It don't matter if you drive a fancy car, dress in a three-piece suit, or wear alligator shoes. It don't matter if you ride a John Deere, kick mud off your boots every night, or have kissed the same woman goodnight for the last forty years. It matters only how you treat people. How you show respect. How you stick to your commitments. Are you a pig in the kitchen kinda country or the love each other kinda country? It don't matter if you live in the city... there is a little bit of country in each of us. What matters is which kind.

GIZMO GADGET

So. I've acquired a new gizmogadget.... Well, a Chromebook to be exact. I've been fussin' about writing. And my dear husband finally dragged me to the Google counter in Best Buy for a gander at this new little puppy. I've been enamored most of the afternoon. Well, after that first glitch of "something is wrong with this" message that popped up. I fixed it. And then I lost the screen completely. Fixed that too. So now I've already finished the first three pages of the next great american novel. Or something like that. We'll see. At any rate, I think my husband made me get the gizmo just so it will keep me quiet and out of his hair. How do I download solitaire on this thing???

FOR THE BIRDS

You've all met Sir Poopalot here in the pages of my blog. Our little blue budgie slash parakeet has his endearing qualities. Like the complete and utter inability to fly. And stay on his perch. He falls quite noisily and creates a ruckus. Well, the neighbors across the way have a cockathingamagiggee kind of bird. I don't know his official name, but "Squawker" will do for now. He gets to sit outside on the porch during this warm weather. I think the two fine feathered friends talk to each other. All day. I'm not quite sure what they are communicating to one another, but they are definitely singing off of the same page in their little birdie hymnal. It's enough to drive the cat crazy.

FLATLINED

Remember the movie "Flatliners?" A 'younger' Keifer Sutherland leads a team of medical students who clamor for the opportunity to bring themselves as close to death as anyone can get... and get jolted back to life at the last possible moment.... well, things get screwy... oh, watch the movie. Monterey weather is kind of like that. While the rest of the continent is basking in heat in the triple digits, Monterey's weather app on my Android phone has hit a very mundane, rather boring 66 degrees. With only a variation of about 10 degrees in any given 12 hour stretch, the weather has quite simply flatlined. What we need is a good Defib machine to perk us back up. It's all anyone talks about. "What's up with this weather?" is the question that starts most conversations. Foggy in the morning, bleh in the afternoon, slightly cooler in the evening. There is no mystery in getting dressed every morning. I don't have to switch out my wardrobe. The same sweater I wore last Sunday works just as well today. I suppose the good news is that I don't have to get a pedicure and show off my toes. And I definitely don't need to work on my tan. No one is going to see my legs. Or my arms for that matter. Makes going to the gym sort of a moot point don't you think? You can always tell the tourists too. They are the ones thinking they are taking a delightful summer vacay in a quaint, historic California beach town. Expecting the quintessential beach weather. Wearing their cargo shorts, black sandals with white socks because their feet are cold, and a tank top with a parka thrown in for warmth. They walk around, looking rather dejected and disappointed that they cannot frolic in the surf. Oh, they could if they can stand the frigid temps of our bay... and all that seaweed that tells you its healthy... but they didn't come here for the polar bear experience. But, there is hope. My weather app says that it is suppose to top out at 72 degrees next week. Break out the ice cubes and get out the fans. Unfortunately, Monterey weather is fickle. Promises of a heat wave (anything over 70 for more than 2 days is considered a "wave") usually dissipate and settle back down into the same ol' same. Flatlined weather.