Driving

I've often wondered about how we can improve the driving skills of those on the road who are not-so-aware of their surroundings. I came to the conclusion long ago that it would be wonderful if we could assign vehicle types to drivers based on their driver's test scores. For example, those who pass with flying colors should be able to pick any car they want, including sports cars, large SUV's and vans. Those who don't do as well, can pick any mid-sized car. Those who are on the lower end of the passing scale should only be eligible for VW Beetles, or other small cars such as the Ford Focus, or the smaller Hyundais.

Just for fun, I've added some other things to my "bad drivers" wish list. Here they are:

1) With each failure of the driver's test, you lower your chance of getting a very large vehicle when you DO pass.

2) What if we had to pay more incrementally, each time we renew our license, if we've had an accident that was determined to be our fault? Add that to the increases in insurance that already happen, and it may be that some of our worst drivers would take the bus!

3) Oh, and here's my favorite: if you're a bad driver, a force field of some kind can be place around your car so that no cell phones or other electronic equipment can be used within the car.

As I was driving home from work yesterday, I noticed that the persons in the two cars ahead of me at a stop light, and the three cars behind me were ALL on a cell phone. Last week, I was rather amused to be able to read the lips of the woman on the opposite side of an intersection, as she very adeptly chewed somebody's butt off, then threw her cell phone into the back seat of the car. I thought, "Good, at least she'd have to stop the car to pick that thing up again!"

I actually own a cell phone, and I have been known to talk on it while driving. A few months ago, I found that I was in my car a lot and HAD to use the phone to get things done. So, to be safer, I bought a bluetooth headset. I've also used a wired headset in the past. So, I don't think it's necessarily wrong to use a cell phone, play the radio, etc. But, when we as adults (because the driver's license bureau in each of our states thinks we're mature enough to allow us to get behind the wheel of a potential killing machine) cannot think straight because the conversation we're in is too tense, or we're distracted to the point that we don't recognize the light has changed from red to green, then we need to take a closer look at ourselves before we cause some damage!

Miracles

God is a god of miracles. If you want to know what I'm talking about, check out this blog: http://janandersonfamily.blogspot.com.

Jan and Allene are neighbors and friends of mine. In fact, my house is the one where Jan has fixed the sprinklers, helped to roof, and more recently torn down the deck that needed to be replaced, if you read on in the biography that's posted. Mine is not the only house that he has spent time working and serving at. Our neighborhood is a neighborhood of service, and Jan is one of the most self-sacrificing individuals I've met.

I don't usually post things that are so identifiable with me or my friends and family. However, in this case, I felt I must add my witness that we see miracles every day. Some are small. Some are big. That Jan is still with us is a major miracle. That he continues to make progress every day is a miracle. And, the bond that our neighborhood has felt as we've drawn even closer together is a miracle.

I've been privileged to see what can happen when we unite our faith. I have seen yet another example of how our trials will strengthen us, if we draw close to the One that can make us strong.

Remembering on Decoration Day

If you asked someone about their childhood memories, and they responded that hanging around a cemetery was among their most favorite, you might think them odd. But, in America and around the world, people celebrate the lives of their ancestors by "hanging out at the cemetery".

I have fond memories of Memorial Day weekend. After a big lunch at the bowery, and a family softball game, in the less-than-a-mile-long town of Deweyville, Utah (which is at the top of the state of Utah) we migrated up the hill to the cemetery. The cemetery has had big changes since I was small. There are still pioneer-era headstones, but there are more recent ones. The number of plots available has increased from what was the size of a neighborhood baseball field to a football field. They've removed the cottonwoods that were at the edge of the hill overlooking the valley. And, I think they even have "automatic" irrigation.

I remember my grandma getting her box of plastic flowers from K-Mart out of the Buick and telling my mom which flowers were for which graves. My grandpa was buried there in the little Deweyville cemetery, along with most of my grandma's family. I remember his lone plot next to one of the four small roads dividing the cemetery. It has a flat marker, and always had a cross next to it, with a small American flag flying on patriotic holidays. When grandpa was called up to serve in World War II, he was a married man, with three children at the time. A fourth came shortly after. He was young when he died, and they determined his early death was a result of the health problems that were intensified during his service. My grandma was left a young widow.

In my memory of that early Memorial Day, my grandma was older. Her children were all grown and had their own children. Yet, I could see a young woman as she placed the flowers on my grandpa's grave. And, although I never met my grandpa in this life, his service and the loss his family felt when he died have helped to shape who I am.

My grandma remarried. The grandpa I really knew was a man who had served in the Navy. He tells of watching the flag being posted at Iwo Jima from his battleship. My dad's father also served in the armed forces. He's been awarded several medals, and it's clear when you talk to him about his service, that he's been deeply affected by things he experienced while serving. There are other examples of service to country in my family, but these are the first generation to answer the call. These men continue to shape my view of the world, both in war and peace, because of who they were and are, and what they sacrificed for me.

Tomorrow is Memorial Day in the United States. My grandma has been gone for 17 years, and her body is buried next to grandpa's in a dedicated plot within the little cemetery in Deweyville. And, I'll be using real flowers rather than plastic, but not much else has changed. I look forward to the feelings of gratitude and respect that will be enlarged for me, as I spend time with family. As we celebrate the beginning of the summer season, I'll remember that we first gathered as a family to celebrate the legacy left to us by our ancestors. I'll remember those who served, as well as those who sacrificed so that others could serve. Although I didn't know it at the time, these are the reasons some of my favorite childhood memories are centered around a little cemetery at the top of Utah.

Thank you to the men and women who honorably serve the United States of America. May God's best blessings be upon you and your families for generations to come.

Civility

This thing we call the internet is a wonderful thing. And yet, it's also a place where we sometimes show our worst side. It's easier to spout venomous attacks at people we hardly know, about things that don't really matter via the internet. Why? Maybe typing mean words on the computer doesn't affect us in the same way that shouting them at a real, live person does. After all, a computer doesn't respond with "body language". We cannot see the pain or hurt on the screen like we can in the eyes of the person to whom we've directed our infantile outburst. And, I suppose that when we feel pain, we might think it's better to just "let it out" no matter who sees or hears our rant.

I just finished reading a thread on my favorite bulletin board. You would think the board was dedicated to the subject of religion or politics after reading some of the posts in this thread. No, it's dedicated to needlework. But, the needlework wasn't the real subject of this thread. What appeared to be an innocent posting asking to get in contact with someone turned into a public roast of this individual (the one they were seeking to find) because of a lack of communication regarding a project exchange. What disappoints me is that even though it's apparent that those who posted mean comments did not know the all the details of the situation, they chose to air their feelings on a public board. An even bigger disappointment is that it's clear to me that several people were more concerned about what they received in the exchange than with what they gave. Even when a sincere apology from the person who was being attacked was posted, the attacks kept coming.

What could possibly justify such behavior? I honestly can't figure it out. This type of behavior is happening more and more every day. I'm in a continual battle against my own cynicism and inner-meanie too, which is why I seriously considered not posting this opinion here on my own blog. It would appear that we all need to regularly check our thoughts and words before we make utter fools of ourselves in both public forums and private relationships.

If you weren't aware of the thread I'm talking about, this post will make no sense to you. If you were, it still might not make sense. Either way, I'm going to remember to be careful about what I say and do, and ask myself the question, "Is venting my own frustration going to hurt another person? Is my short-lived pleasure worth the hurt I may cause?" I'm not always going to do the right thing I'm sure, because no one of us is perfect, but I'm going to try. And, now that I've ranted here, I'm going to try my best to forget the names of those who posted such mean comments.

The Grass Isn't Always Greener

As the season of Spring is just around the corner, I've taken some time to look closely at my yard. There's a lot of work waiting for me when the sun begins to shine a little more. My lawn is in need of some particular loving-care. I was pondering on that old saying "The grass is always greener". Some people spend their lives searching for their idea of a perfect life. It might include a wonderful relationship with family or spouse. Or a beautiful home, wonderful kids, or an exciting career. Some people dwell on the thought that their lives will be better when this or that happens. We've all done it if even for a short period of time. We compare our lives, our homes, our children, our career to someone else's. And, we usually find ourselves lacking when we use this yardstick. So, we go about doing things that we believe will somehow make us happy. Our lives get busier, more complicated, and we usually find too late that all the fuss, money spent, and time lost didn't get us any closer to the happiness we're seeking.

You know, the grass just isn't always greener at the neighbor's house. It may appear to be greener, but it's usually got some sort of fungus or cutworm underneath the surface. Even if it doesn't have some sort of disease or bug, and it's healthy, we need to realize that it takes a lot of effort to keep it green. The people around us who seem to have "perfect lives" never do. They work hard at making things better, they choose to spend their time nurturing their "lawns" and in the end, they have all had challenges along the way that no one could have imagined.

I decided long ago that it's better to stick to my little old lawn, with a few brown spots here and there, and not worry about the neighbor. Someone once said, "there's heartache within every home." So, as you look at your neighbor's homes, don't compare yourself to their "perfect" life. You probably don't know half of what they sacrifice for that life, and what challenges they've overcome. And, I can guarantee that you won't willingly bring upon yourself the same sacrifices and challenges to get there. Stick to your own path, and enjoy the bits of green you do have in your lawn.

Santa's Plans for the New Year

For those of you who glance at this infrequent blog, Happy New Year. I hope the holidays at your house were happy and healthy.

I, for one, I'm looking forward to another new year. It's a nice thing that the year just starts over again if you didn't finish what you needed to in the previous year. Just like the days. Time is a nifty thing. Speaking of time, I was able to take a vacation from school and work for about two weeks over the holidays. I started back to work today. We were able to get some items in my stitching pile framed, and I put more thread on linen. Here is one of the finished pieces...

This is "Cromwell" by The Trilogy. I just thought a snowman might make you all feel more like this is really January, whether you're in a cold snowy climate or a warm desert one. There are more pics in my picturetrail album at http://www.picturetrail.com/stitchinmaniac, if you're interested in seeing what I've posted recently. Some are oldies, but just needed to be photographed. My camera is not the best, but you'll get the gist of things.

Until my next infrequent post, have a nice day, and be good. Santa is STILL watching. Perhaps more than he was just before Christmas. I mean, if I were him, and I'm not saying I am, but IF I were... I'd pay more attention to how people acted after I dumped all those presents, all that good will, and all of that food on them over the holidays. I'd watch whether people still gave to their local food bank in January, February and beyond like they did in November and December. I'd see if they said "thanks", and then acted thankful the rest of the year. That's what I would do if I were Santa. Where do you think his "naughty and nice" list comes from? He's got magic all right, but he doesn't use it to make split-second decisions at the mall the day after Thanksgiving.

Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be?

Who said that? I think whoever it was, they were an idiot. Let’s consider the items in my garage. I’ve spent at least a large part of the last four free Saturdays that I’ve had working in my garage. I have so many things in there that I HAVE to clean it out if I want to park our two cars in it before the snow flies. I go through this ritual every fall. Usually I find a way to stack everything so that the cars fit. I stack the leftover lumber and sheetrock from my latest project. I shove the tools, paint cans, and other supplies in the corners. But, we bought a new car this past spring, and it’s slightly larger than the one we sold. So, stacking and shoving isn’t really an option anymore.

As I have spent time organizing all of the “stuff” I’ve collected I’ve discovered some interesting statistics. I have twelve putty knives. I have four unopened bottles of insect spray. I have multiple jigsaw and scroll saw blades, still new in the packages. I have five caulking guns. I would like to say, in my defense, that none of the twelve putty knives is an exact duplicate. Two are also plastic. But hey, I probably could’ve gotten by without a few of them. All of these items have been in boxes, home center sacks, or lying on the top of my table saw in piles for months. Lately it’s been harder for me to find just the tool any of us have been searching for.

Admittedly, I’ve had some huge projects and very little time to put things away. The impending winter is a good taskmaster. I now have some fairly inexpensive shelves (made of some of that leftover lumber) and pegboard on the walls. I also emptied an old cabinet that contained a hodgepodge of items; it is now filled with small power tools and some of the things that you can’t hang on a pegboard hook.

My neighbor, who spends a lot of his time helping around my house, happened to stop by about a week ago, when I was out sorting through all of the drill bits I have (I didn’t bother counting those!). I’ve always allowed this neighbor of mine, and many others to borrow my tools or anything else they needed. In fact, he has my garage combination. (He’s one of only two in the neighborhood who do though, because while I believe in sharing what I have, I also am not stupid.) My neighbor just stood in the middle of my garage, looking around at all of the tools and things that are now so neatly organized. He spied a piece of MDF leaning against a wall. I saw his eye and asked if he wanted it. I was just going to cut it up and use it for firewood. He replied that would be great. It looked like it might be perfect for a scout project his wife was working on. He said, “I need to measure it though to see if it would work. Do you have a tape measure I could borrow?” I pointed to the FIVE hanging on the pegboard and we both laughed.

I heard something this weekend from a very wise woman that sums up my feelings: “Accumulate less and share more.” I really feel that way. I'm pretty good at following the sharing part of it. (Heck, I have a tile saw that's been sitting in another neighbor's garage for over a year now, and was just borrowed by another neighbor. I never saw it in between.) And when I heard my feelings put so succinctly, by a woman that I admire and respect, I was glad I’d been cleaning up my garage and donating items to charity. Now onto the items in my house, like the bazillion pens and pencils I have in my office! Because if you can't find it, how can you share it?

Little S#@T's and Poker Chips

I recently placed an order with one of my favorite needlework shops. As I chatted on the phone with the owner, we were kidding around, and after a particular remark of mine, she said jokingly “You’re a little S#@T.” It was a little term of endearment. The funny thing about that is I haven’t had anyone call me that since I was little. My grandma used to call me that. Not the mac’n’cheese grandma, the other one. Of course, she called my little sister that more than me, but that was to be expected. She’s a redhead. I’m not. (And, don’t eMail me about how unfair I am to introduce stereotypes into my blog. My red-headed, little sister would be the first to admit she’s often a little s#@t.)

I didn’t spend a lot of time with my grandma after I was about 12 or 13. We moved further away from that set of grandparents. But, what time I did spend with her was really memorable. No, we didn’t bake cookies everytime we were at her house. She wasn’t much into cookies. I’ll have to tell you all about popcorn and Cheese Wiz another time, though. We played lots of games. Grandma was always finding new, fun things in magazines to entertain us when we visited. She tried really hard to make things fun, and to bring things down to our level. For example, Grandma had Grandpa cut the legs short on an old wooden card table. She recovered the top with green felt. We could then sit on the floor, indian-style (NO, this blog is not politically correct, but I do give credit to a people when they were the first to invent a particular way of sitting on the floor), and play our games, or have our lunch, etc.

I remember that during the cooler months, we would often go out to the silver airstream trailer, parked on their property. That seems exotic – “their property.” Let me explain a bit: they lived in a small, mobile home, on five acres in the hills of Fallbrook, California, with the “immigrants” that came over the US-Mexican border hiding in the hills, and the snakes. They had a deck built around the mobile home, and a small yard with lawn, that was fenced. Just outside their door, there sat the Airstream. I don’t think they really used it much, except to stash “company” and to get away from each other. Anyway, one day when we were out in the Airstream, Grandma taught us to play blackjack and poker. I thought those chips were really cool. I think I must have been around 7 or 8. Grandma had her mug full of her drink of choice, and we had our rootbeer. The breeze blew the curtains in the airstream as we sat around the little table that would convert into a bed at night. And, when I made a particularly surprising play of the cards, she’d call me a “little s#@t.” Not many people have such fun memories of their grandparents. I feel sorry for those people.

Tomatoes and Back to School

It's early Saturday morning. I think that these days leading into autumn are the best days of the summer. Things are starting to cool down, and the harvest is really beginning. For instance, the tomatoes in the garden can't be beat. Those store-bought ones are just to add some color. They don't have any flavor.

This past week at work was hectic. I work at an "institution of higher learning". I've always wondered about that description. If you want to get into specifics, I work at a government-sponsored, state-governed, college. I think whether a place is an "institution of higher learning" is totally up to the people that work and attend there. And, it doesn't have to be the entire institution. It might be only as small as a classroom, or a carrol in the library. It's all dependent on your definition of "higher" really.

"More" is not necessarily "higher". Just because you know "more" about something than you did before, doesn't necessarily mean that knowledge is "higher". For example, I know more about raising vegetables in a garden than I did a few years ago. I started out knowing that I have to plant the seeds or a plant to get fruit or vegetables. I now know that water and sunlight are required. And, I've learned that I have to pull a few weeds and fertilize the plants to get a good crop. These are all important aspects of gardening, but one concept is not necessarily higher than the other because of the order in which I learned them.

Perhaps "higher learning" happens when I come to understand a concept more fully? When I learn how to apply it in just the right circumstance to produce the best results in a given situation I not only know more, but the knowledge I have is more valuable to me and others. The challenge is to make the places where I am found to be institutions of higher learning. Whether I'm teaching or learning. I do think that's largely up to me. And, I think that's why I've always heard that you can tell the best students by the questions they ask. Hmmmm. It's a wonder how tomatoes can make you think.

A thousand words can paint a picture

I guess since this blog stuff is new to me, I have a lot to say.

I've been thinking about my love of reading. I have loved to read ever since, well, ever since I could read. My second-grade teacher, Ms. Fite (yes, that was her name), wrote that I should "not spend my time reading novels in class." I guess she didn't like me reading when she was talking. That was when I first read the Little House series.

Even when life gets really busy, I find some time to read for a few minutes here and there. But, what I absolutely love is being so engrossed in a book that I cannot put it down to eat or sleep. Recently, I awaited the arrival of the latest HP installment (that's Harry Potter for all of you people who have been off-planet for the past several years). It arrived near the end of a very busy Saturday, about 5 pm. I must say I had some real self-control this time around. I didn't finish it until 12:30 am on Monday morning. At first, I read it in small bites, like you would when you're trying to make a great piece of cheesecake last longer by eating just around the edges. After a while, you figure, "Oh well, it's gonna get eaten sometime". What you're really saying is "I'm beat. You win. I've gotta devour the rest." You can say "I don't need the rest of that cheesecake (or insert your own personal weakness here)" all you want. But, you really do need it. It's that way for me with books. Well, AND cheesecake. I'm particular about my books and my dessert. I don't just read anything that comes along on the best seller list. I'm selective. (And, I prefer the real cheesecake, not the stuff from a box, but baked, New York style.)

For instance, I love to read books by John Steinbeck. But, they're not my absolute favorite books. I don't usually read them more than once. Why, you ask? Because he is so good at painting a picture with words, that all of the suffering and inhumanity he describes is more than I can take. I admit it, it's more than my little sheltered soul can handle. But, once I'm into the book, really into it, I can't put it down. If you haven't read Steinbeck, you should at least read the first chapter of "East of Eden" or "The Grapes of Wrath" or "Of Mice and Men". Then you can put it down. If you really can.

Macaroni and Cheese

I've had a love affair with mac and cheese for most of my life. I love the stuff in all variations: the famous blue box mix, homemade comfort food with five cheeses, the frozen kind by the famous frozen food company...you name it. It's one of those comfort foods that just can't be beat. Soft, squishy pasta surrounded by creamy cheese, then just enough crunchy cheese on the top to make you work a little. It's one of the few foods that I think is worth all the time I'm now spending on my recumbent bike!

I remember a visit with my grandmother. She asked us what we wanted for dinner. We all yelled, "macaroni and cheese!" So, being the kind, loving grandmother that she was, she began to pull all the ingredients for macaroni and cheese from her cupboards. We were appalled. We protested. We wanted the stuff from the blue box. She was appalled. She insisted that although our mother (her own daughter) would cook from a box, SHE would not. And, then, something wonderful happened. She made this fantastic macaroni and cheese. She even added tomatoes...which to a kid is usually very yucky stuff. I've been trying to duplicate that recipe for some time now. Grandma's making mac and cheese on the other side now. I'm kicking myself that I didn't make her write down a recipe. And, that's just another reason why I really miss her. Not the most important reason, but a good reason nonetheless.