Blackberry Patch Stealth Invasion

This memorable experience was unique and of special significance to this then-twelve-year-old. I was adapting to living in a different place again, following a move more than two years earlier to a rural somewhat isolated existence from the city life I had always known. Now I was even further away, U. S. States away, from familiar friends and family other than my parents – again no other young people around except when I rode a bus considerable distance to school, but this was summer vacation, there were no classes.

One early morning that late summer I rubbed insect repellent lotion over my body, then I dressed in what I considered my grubby clothes for the excursion ahead. I wore blue jeans, a pair of mid-calf-high rubber boots, a long-sleeved multi-colored predominately blue plaid flannel shirt layered over a plain white tee shirt. I hoped the boots would, at least partially, protect me from wet muddy ground, unfriendly snakes, and unexpected encounters with other small creatures.

I needed protection from insects, all bug types, though chiggers seem to be immune to deterrents in those years before some chemicals available today existed. Additionally, I needed to guard against the harmful effects of prickly thorns, stinging nettles, bushes, poison vines, and, especially, the sun with my redhead's fair skin. I vividly recalled the itching assault unpleasantness of Poison Oak from a city park vine years earlier.

I looked forward to this outing in which I would be accompanied by a neighbor, Mr. H., who could easily have been my grandfather. Since all my grandparents were deceased (grandfathers had died before my birth, one grandmother soon after,) I liked those rare opportunities when I could be with this neighbor and his wife. Mrs. H. hadn't come along for this outing, but had expressed relief her husband would not be alone and wanted me to take care of him as he would me.

I heard the motor sounds of my grandfatherly co-adventurer's car coming up the hill from their nearby lakeside retirement home. I quickly grabbed my metal gallon bucket, went out our door to meet him at the hilltop end of his gravel drive. Once I was safely seated beside him, he turned the car to the right, driving down a steep hill for about a mile on our less-frequently traveled graded dirt road, before pulling over to the road side, stopping to park his Studebaker automobile.

Each carrying our own bucket, we exited the car, crossed the road, and carefully climbed through a barbed wire fence. We were entering one small corner of a much larger wooded acreage belonging to a neighbor, who we knew wouldn't mind our berry picking there. We tromped side by side, sometimes single-file with him leading the way, deeper into the wild green growth. We made pathways through the brush, trampling dead leaves, as we pushed aside low hanging tree branches that quickly snapped back to lash the face of any follower not guarding against such a split-second sudden whipping attack. I kept one raised arm extended out from my face to carefully protect myself, especially my eyes. Eventually we circled around trees and shrubs to a more open but bushy area near the woods furthest edge.

As we drew closer to those bushes we were thrilled to see clusters of the large dark indigo blackberries, some hanging openly, others hiding among the branches and leaves. These tightly compacted wild thorn-laden bushes growing profusely, spread irregularly above the ground. In places their branches appeared to be reaching for the sun with new twig tips extending well above our heads. I had never seen so many berries and such large ones.

We began picking those luscious-looking dangling fruits, dropping them into our buckets as we slowly wound our way around the bushes' exterior edges. Sometimes, despite the prick of needle-like thorns, I pressed into the thorny growths indentations where fewer branches met and intertwined with others. I would twist and turn my body, twinging from the sharp thorn's points jabbing like a rapier, maneuvering to reach even larger purplish blue-black berry fruit clusters.

We each concentrated on filling our buckets while pre-occupied with our own thoughts. We had little or no conversation, but sometimes collaborated to identify the different unseen bird species from their songs and chirping commentary. I'd encountered no mucky mud to tread through, no cow pies in which to avoid stepping, and no snakes, at least so far. Even the few bees I noticed seemed to defer to me by flitting to other pollen harvesting grounds. So, my initial heightened sense of alertness at the beginning of this adventure had slowly modulated as I gradually internalized my environment's features.

I could now automatically recognize in this bushy wooded area sights and sounds that were quite normal from what had been strange, possibly even threatening when I first arrived. I knew I would be able to recognize instantly any change in environmental sounds -- rustling leaves, alterations in birds songs or their sudden quiet -- all possible indications something might be out of the ordinary or amiss. This information reinforced my perception this experience would add to my continuing gain in outdoor living skills. Skills that I had only begun to acquire a few years prior at a much earlier age.

I thought at the very least I would be equipped to recognize advance danger warning signs of sight and sound should anything untoward occur. My talents would especially surface, as I humorously fantasized to myself, if it was a dinosaur lumbering out of the forest, a herd of stampeding buffalo rumbling through, or a sky-darkening flock of giant flesh-eating parrots descending toward me. I felt confident in this environment with my newly acquired knowledge. I experienced a sense of comfort I could cope, and felt a high degree of personal safety. If necessary, I could probably even defend or rescue my blackberry-picking partner, whose care his wife had entrusted to me. Meanwhile, I'd just keep picking blackberries and maybe eat one or two for strength, energy and endurance as a cautionary preparation for whatever might come.

Several hours later we each were feeling humidity's tiring effects from the emerging sun's penetrating heat. So we picked our way back through those woods to the car with our blackberry-filled buckets and returned to our homes from what had seemed an uneventful outing.

While picking berries I also filled my thoughts with just how delicious these juicy dark amethyst-like gems would taste, and exactly how my Mom would prepare them. Whenever I picked berries of any kind, I rarely ever ate any, maybe just a few, during that process, instead contemplating the eating pleasures to come once I was home. Perhaps I was unconsciously motivating myself to continue the fruit picking by delaying gratification.

I created mind pictures of my favorite blackberry cobbler Mom was sure to prepare. During the cobbler's baking process, she would skim into a small deep high-sided bowl, spoonfuls of rich cream gathered from the inside top of bottled milk, refrigerated fresh from our neighbor's cows the night before. She would create whipped cream to top the hot baked cobbler by rapidly cranking a hand-operated beater, until the bowl's contents reached a degree of thickness resulting in the cream mix independently standing upright when the beater was removed.

The visualization conjured aromas and tastes that were real to me. But as I returned to reality from this stimulating titillating sensory daydream toward the end of the blackberry picking adventure, I had begun to realize that something was unusual. I was becoming slightly aware of a strange feeling around my ankles and lower legs. I had discounted it then to just being my jeans rubbing against my flesh.

Eventually when we had returned to our homes, I relaxed. With no other activities to distract me, I soon noticed again the sensation experienced in the blackberry patch, now extending all the way up to my thighs. The faint feeling was as though a million fine hairs were brushing lightly against my skin.

When I finally removed my blue jeans, glanced at my lower body, I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of barely visible minute' dark spots moving upward on both my legs. Clearly these were living insects of some sort. The only solution my mother said, was to quickly hose them all off with water as best we could, then subject myself to her close visual examination to be certain none were left behind in any crevice or orifice. This was no simple task since she was having increasing vision problems.

So, we decided to also lightly rub kerosene over my lower body to dislodge any remaining attached creatures that we now thought might be ticks. This treatment was supposed to cause ticks to open their little jaws and release their hold on any host, including humans. We had never seen almost microscopic-sized ticks like these before.

When I described my experience to others later, these tiny dark-colored predators were identified as being seed ticks (larval stage of any tick species.) These newly developed ticks had emerged from their host parent's nourishing sack en masse (thousands,) then rushed out into life in search of a food source of their own. Their nourishment came from affixing themselves to a living creature, embedding themselves deeper and deeper into that being's flesh while extracting their needed nourishment from their host's life-giving blood. I think these infant ticks had not yet strongly attached themselves to my body as we were successful in separating them all from me.

[Bernie Rains at "Missouri Conservationist" explains ticks typically meet their mates where both gorge themselves on some living host. These are another of those insects where "...after feeding and mating...the adult male dies. The female drops to the ground to lay thousands of eggs, and then she dies, too." Once these seed ticks emerge from the eggs "...to find and attach to a host...," they use what Rains describes as "...a wait-and-watch technique called questing."
He describes "They climb to the top of grass stems or take a position on the branches of bushes. When a potential host brushes against the vegetation, the tick's extended legs snag fur, hair or clothing. This pulls them off the vegetation. Ticks sense exhaled carbon dioxide and emitted body odors, and will crawl a short distance to the source. They also detect vibrations and changes in light intensity caused by movement. These alert them to an approaching potential meal."

[Rains notes, "They frequent woods, tall grass, weeds and brushy areas. Overgrown, vacant lots, waste farm-fields, and weedy edges of paths and trails are prime tick areas, particularly where wildlife is abundant. They are not typically found in well-maintained lawns." Rains cautions "Any tick bite is dangerous because of the threat of disease. The three most prevalent tick-borne diseases are Rocky Mountain spotted fever, Lyme disease and ehrlichiosis"(bacterial.)]

I had prepared myself for many potential hazards that could occur with blackberry picking, but all my defenses had been penetrated. Actually, because those stealth attackers had finally been defeated, I derived special pleasure eating the treasured blackberry fruits. They were, after all, harvested during the time I was under assault in the seed tick invasion.

My sensory vault has stored only this experience's most important memories -- comforting feelings from the quiet companionship of my grandfatherly neighbor, the inviting aroma of my mother's baking cobbler biscuits and berries, the smooth textured rich real whipped cream's flavor and the combined sweetness but slightly tart tastes of the blackberry cobbler. Sometimes, though, I can still feel that crawling ticks sensation, much like a multitude of tiny loose hairs or cobweb filaments squirming against my skin and I can't quite brush them away.

Peacock Feather Dilemma

(After writing this piece, I learned a dear friend is literally off her feet for a while with a cast on one ankle and a boot on the other. Having only recently retired, she's much too young and in too good a physical condition for this inconvenience, though it could happen to anyone at any age. I dedicate this post to her. I wonder, should I give her some peacock feathers?)

Are peacock feathers displayed inside the house good or bad luck? This is my dilemma. The owner of several male peacocks offered me some of the birds' feathers. "No," I was assured by the feather-giver, "I did not chase down the birds and pluck their tail feathers. These colorful birds are molting. Peacock feathers displayed inside your house may bring you good luck!" That was all I needed to hear to convince me to give these iridescent green and blue colored feather plumes an opportunity to work their magic in my life.

I welcomed these good luck omens to thwart Murphy's Law that continues to impact my daily life since I first wrote about a series of persistent undesired events to which I have been relentlessly subjected. Murphy's Law is the one that predicts everything that can go wrong will go wrong. In my case, that has included household mechanical objects breaking down, with a few even beyond repair, along with a sprinkling of unusual personal medical matters. (See earlier posts with links on right side bar.)

One reader suggested I was experiencing bad juju brought on by evil spirits which I determined was hoodoo for sure. Certain suggested remedies to counteract these malignant forces may have played the devil with those spirits, subsequently lessening the ill effects of some of those original problems. Also, my personal ongoing efforts have been reaping results and resolutions, despite new unwelcome issues that perversely persist in emerging.

I'd been ripe for needing more magic, when coincidentally I discovered on YouTube that John Fogerty recorded a tune "You've Got The Magic" on an unreleased album titled "Hoodoo." I immediately concluded that song meant I had the magic all right, now that I had these lucky peacock feathers. That's what I thought until I later learned the rest of the male peacocks story. I then began to wonder if those birds had encountered evil spirits and bad magic, too.

But I didn't know about possible bad magic connected to peacock feathers then, as I was busily conducting a quick Internet search about positive belief systems associated with these good luck bearers. I learned peacocks and their feathers are described as representing protection, safe-guarding, harmony, good luck, serenity, peace of mind, and relaxation. The unnamed Google site writer additionally notes:

"This bird is also valued as a protection for the psychic self. There has been lore that writes that to have a peacock feather within the home this helps to safe guard any of the energy in the environment. I personally have always had peacock feathers in my home, even when I was a child in my room. I also know that some native people also use the peacock feathers in fans and some crafting. While I have heard some individuals speak of not having them in the home but I can say that nothing has never come about for me. I found the feathers and consider them to be a gift from The Creator."

What was meant by, "...some individuals speak of not having them in the home but I can say nothing has never come about for me"? Is possible bad luck being intimated here? I also note the writer to whom bad luck has not occurred "...found the feathers... ." Does the fact I was given the feathers rather than having found them make a difference in the magic flow of positive versus negative energy? I think it's important to consider all these little intricacies. These may be the fine print guiding how magic works, just like the fine print of legal agreements. Perhaps magic shouldn't be over-simplified any more than life can be.

So, suddenly complicating matters is my encountering unexpected new information indicating that peacock feathers displayed inside a home are not always considered good luck. The Google link notes that while

"In India the peacock was believed to have a thousand eyes in its feathers... In Java, the peacock was associated with the Devil. In Mosul in northern Iraq, there is a sect of Yezidis who hold that the Devil is not evil, and call him the Peacock Angel.' Also, I noted, "Myth has the peacock representing fidelity, as it dies of grief, or remains single, if it loses its mate."

Additional contradictions between good versus bad luck omens emerged as I learned more about the story of the male peacocks from whom my feathers came. I don't like to even think about the misery to which those birds have been subjected. Not only are they molting, but I wonder now if they may be depressed, too. How would that affect the magic? Consider this, the three cocks were each deserted by their mate. How else to say it, other than, those female birds abandoned my feather-donating male birds -- the peahens literally flew the coop together.

What does that say about fidelity? The whereabouts of these missing partners, the much more drab appearing hens, is unknown. They have been absent for so long, their owners no longer expect they will return. Speculation is that after fleeing their mates, the hens may even have been victims of the area's wildlife predators. On the other hand, the hens may well be living a whole new life. Surely they wouldn't have aligned themselves with new bird companions, would they?

Obvious to me is the fact the abandoned male peacocks have been decidedly unlucky birds. Molting or not, no wonder they're dropping their tail feathers. Life must be disappointing to them, with or without their awesome filigree-like plumes tipped with those strikingly penetrating eyes that have been compared to an evil eye.

Have I been mesmerized by evil spirits, because I think the delicate peacock feathers projecting a play of sharp bright dark blue and green colors, are most attractive and fascinating to gaze upon? The colorful patterns provide glimpses of white accents surrounding those hypnotic piercing black eyes.

I hope I've made the correct decision, because these frond-like feathers stand majestically tall in a corner of my home, hopefully bringing me good luck.

Art/Nature/Environment Thoughts

Celebrating our Nation's Independence

I've been thinking about what the arts to which we are attracted say about us as individuals. I was viewing a television program featuring paintings of Monet the French painter, who is among my favorites. I like the attention Monet gives to water, reflections, light on many of his canvases.

Then, I was reminded that another famous artist to whom I have long been attracted is Debussy. He, too, focuses on water in some of his work, but with music.

I long ago became aware that whenever I use visual imagery for relaxation, the scenes my mind often conjures are mental pictures of water. Often I'm sitting alone in a boat gracefully resting on the calm clear blue waters of a small lake that in turn is surrounded by a narrow sandy beach leading to green forests of tall majestic trees.

Since I started writing here and subsequently in a writing class, I have sometimes used metaphors to describe my feelings. I have noted the emergence of the language of water, including references to streams, creeks, rivers, lakes, oceans, waves, storms, rain and its variations.

Our natural environment and nature is such a part of life for so many of us. We value those park and wilderness areas around us. We attempt to bring some part of that nature to our homes. Some of us delight in carefully designed and planted garden areas -- a specific place for certain plants and flowers, all planned much as certain types of artists organize the color in their paintings.

Others prefer plants, flowers in random placement much as they would appear in nature. Some have a combination of both approaches. I have lived with the structured design that clearly conveys to me the desire, or need, to exercise control over one more aspect of life.

What I know is that I prefer and feel most comfortable in the setting where the randomness of nature prevails, where nature is permitted to exercise some freedom, too. Just as I do not want to overwhelm and impose myself upon nature, I do not want nature's plants, vegetation, flowers to do the same to me, and so we reach agreement with each other.

Redhead's Aging Skin -- Answers

Plastic Surgery May Contribute to Ageism

My previous post described some of this redhead's perceptions of beautiful skin and my personal experience with aging skin issues. I raised the question of whether or not to seek various treatments and surgery to alter my aging appearance.

Discussion of aging skin reminds me of those youthful ages when we all aspired to tans and sometimes took extraordinary means to obtain one. The ideal golden-bronze look was never to be mine, a shade usually only those with darker hair and skin colorings achieved. These were the days before sunscreen lotions were in use and the medical term, melanoma, wasn't as prevalent in our vocabularies.

I did use one of the tanning lotions of the day, in an effort to protect my skin, enabling me to enjoy as much time in the sun and water as my friends. Some of them used baby oil, and one in particular mixed iodine in her baby oil, then baked herself daily in the sun's rays. Eventually she suffered severe sunstroke from which for a while, they thought she might not recover. When she did, her future required she stay out of the sun ever after.

Despite my care, I did experience one or two unpleasant burns during my early years. I'm convinced some of the cellular skin changes I've experienced in recent years are likely attributable to those sun assaults. Fortunately, melanoma has not been diagnosed for me, but even one, two, or more pre-cancerous skin cell conditions are not desired either. Frankly, I'm amazed I don't yet have more wrinkles than I do, between my sun exposure and the aging process, but they may well be just biding their time before surfacing. One day I will awaken, look in the mirror, much as with those corner-of-the-mouth furrows, and see another new me.

Given the onslaught of anti-aging articles, advertisements promoting miracle treatments, and eternal youth commentary to which we are subjected today, I guess I'm supposed to be alarmed and even repulsed enough by the sight of my own aging face I should want to avail myself of some of those products and treatments at all costs. Probably, I should be rushing to my dermatologist, or plastic surgeon, begging to have my youthful looks reinstated. I know with such interventions I can receive temporary relief from these furrows and beginning wrinkle crinkles affecting my facial appearance. The secret word there, of course, is that whatever is done is "temporary." I can also have the magic Botox administered, because I've previously been the recipient of such promotion brochures and seen TV infomercials promising to rejuvenate me.

I also see posted pictures and signs on the topic every time I'm in the dermatologist's office. Furthermore, when I phone the office if they need to put my call on hold, I am repeatedly subjected to a verbal description of all the cosmetic services provided. The recorded informative message sounds quite similar to an advertising pitch. I have wondered if callers are deliberately put on hold just so they'd have to listen to the recording? What's the difference between providing information and advertising/promoting a service?

The message in our culture seems to be to disguise or alter the appearance of any body features we don't like, or changes that occur with aging. The not always so subtle thought being conveyed is that feature and body alteration is necessary and may be especially so for the aging individual's emotional well-being. The marketers having successfully seduced so many women with this notion, have increasingly assaulted men with the same ideas, as more and more are told to suction off those pounds and darken the gray from their hair. I wonder, too, about those teens whose body features are physically altered before they've even matured?

The implication can also be drawn that men and women who don't utilize all means available to seek a more youthful appearance can fault only themselves for being victimized by ageism. Possibly, an inability to accept our own natural aging process, then our pursuing some of these perpetual youth seeking purported remedies and treatments help create some ageist attitudes. Such desperate actions may actually contribute to the very age discrimination we resent.

Right now I could have just a little tuck on each side of my face to eliminate my furrows, start constant creme applications at the corners of each eye to erase those squinty laugh lines, and seek tucks for those slight upper eye lid droops. Eventually I'll likely need regular creme applications or botox injections if those faint forehead creases become full-fledged wrinkles.

I know, too, there are those professionals in various medical specialties more than anxious for me to contribute to their income by having me seek their professional help to rid myself of such unsightly wrinkles. I know, also, that the "fix" is, at best not permanent, and I must keep returning periodically, at no small fee, to rid myself temporarily of these natural body changes. Advertisements run rampant with all these wrinkle cremes that work miracles, if only I will buy their product, for now and the rest of my life.

Several months ago an article I read in a prominent West Coast newspaper included interviews with a group of women who said they regretfully were having to forego their frequent visits for facial nips, tucks and surgeries due to the state of the economy. They good-naturedly reported they could no longer afford this self-indulgent luxury to which they regularly treated themselves. These many months later with other product costs increasing and the price of gasoline going sky high to support the fortunes of those whose dynasty is built on oil income, I expect these ladies may be having to give up even more. I hope for their sakes they are able to content themselves with their appearance.

Maybe if more individuals have those ladies experience, some specialty doctors providing services for purely cosmetic reasons might experience a decline in their practice. They might have to devote themselves to providing medical services and treatments to patients with true health ailments. Some other thoughts such as these that another blogger once suggested made sense to me, too. Consider what might happen if we lessened the demand for some of those medical people devoting their skills, time, and energy to purely cosmetic beautification surgery at all ages, including for those who are simply aging. Maybe some of those now-unneeded specialists might gravitate to other needed medical specialties, and general practice, thus contributing to the lessening of a physician shortage.

This could be just one more small item that could help reduce overall health care costs a smidgen for which there is certainly a need. My experience of budgeting often requires many small expense cutbacks if expenditure reduction is to be accomplished and this might help a wee bit. I do not hear proposals for long-needed pharmaceutical company cost overhauls by our Presidential candidates where we might reap some really significant savings. The plans they propose offer some changes, but we're forced to continue dealing with the health insurance plans we have. Costs will not be lessened and there are not even provisions to see that all citizens receive health care. Meanwhile, everyone continues to age with or without health care coverage.

When I continue to think about my own aging appearance, however tempting it may be to preserve a more youthful look for just a little longer, do I really want to subject myself to cosmetic surgical mutilation, anesthetic risks in such a futile temporary pursuit of a false appearance? Observing those who have pursued such body changes, their appearance confirms ultimately nature prevails, since aging continues. Eventually, too many who have subjected themselves to seeking the eternally youthful appearance often begin to look like some grotesque caricature of themselves.

I know even these treatments and cremes enhanced by the most radical body alterations will not be enough to deter my body's aging. Would I wonder then, why on earth I didn't spend my money on something more important in my life -- for myself, or others? More importantly, why would I take even the slightest of health risks, much less spend my time on such frivolous pursuits with so much of importance left to be achieved in this world, so many more pleasures to experience before I depart?

Redhead's Aging Skin Questions

"You have such beautiful skin." Hah! What was the person who said that the other day thinking, as I quickly questioned in my mind that person's judgment? When I was young I had difficulty accepting compliments with a simple "thank you" as they didn't always match my own perception of myself. I've gotten much better over the years at being willing to accept praise, even if I privately think the speaker's words don't describe me. I've never considered I had "beautiful skin" as I compared my own to that of others I admired.

I was aware of so many with varied skin tone gradations from pearly white through olive, to a golden bronze, to others with skin color shades of the darkest brown and blue-black. These were much more attractive than my own. But I was always envious of those girls and guys, no matter their color, whose skin was as soft and smooth as the proverbial newborns. My facial skin never had that quality though I rather liked the few small delicate freckles sprinkled at the top of my cheekbones. But, my face lacked that quality of glass-like smoothness present on other parts of my body that symbolized the truly smooth "beautiful skin" I thought was desirable.

When I was beginning to pay attention to my facial skin as a teenager, all I ever saw were the zits that kept showing up periodically. We lived in a climate with a higher level of humidity than what I've known over the past thirty-five plus years, so I don't know if that contributed to the fact my face always seemed to have excessive oil, as did my hair, or if it was simply genetic.

I do recall some drug store products and others that were supposed to eliminate those offending skin anomalies, including a white creme in a jar and a tube ointment that were supposed to be curative. There were mixed opinions among users as to how effective those treatments and most others were. There were varying stories as to what might be the cause of these skin problems, also what to eat or not eat for prevention i.e. avoid chocolate, stop drinking milk, and additional remedies in other old wives tales, or mother's cure solutions.

If all those blemishes weren't enough, I also had a chicken pox scar in the upper center of my forehead. My mother must have been very concerned about protecting me from acquiring any visible body scars when I was small. My small pox vaccine was administered to a part of my body other than my arm because she knew the inoculation always left a scar. She thought it would never be exposed to view, not realizing the body covering bathing suits of her day would give way to those skimpy one piecers of my day, then the ultimate bikinis, and thongs of today. She would probably say now, why don't we all just become nudists and be done with it.

She always tried to reassure me that I did not cause that chicken pox scar by picking at the scab. I guess she didn't want me to go through life blaming myself for this disfigurement in such a prominent facial location. She said that scab fell off of its own accord, leaving the scar behind. The scar never particularly bothered me, so her concern was greater than mine. The reality is, I've never once had anyone note that pox scar, including my closest friends, who wouldn't have hesitated to inquire about the cause of any ghastly blemish had they noticed.

Since then, I have proceeded along the continuum of aging, as we all do. I don't know when, but one day some years ago, I looked in the mirror only to be shocked by this face staring back at me with two wrinkles at each mouth corner. These wrinkles running downward on each side of my face toward the lower edge of my jaw appeared to be erosions wide and deep as a river.

This sight was most distressing as I recognized myself. I could only conclude those wrinkles made me look like an unpleasant perpetually perturbed disgruntled grumpy person. Fortunately, when I smile and laugh those furrows disappear, a motivation for laughing a lot. The reality is I find humor in most any situation as I embrace a sometimes-quirky perception of life. I laugh easily, abundantly, frequently, sometimes even when I probably shouldn't.

Those wrinkly furrows were the first images that came to my mind when I was given that unbelievable, to me, comment about my beautiful skin. I must admit I did feel compelled to finally respond with words to the effect that there must be some mistake because, look at these cavernous wrinkles as I pointed to the corners of my mouth. The response I received was, "I've never even noticed those." Well, I thought, good for me focusing attention on that flaw, that's probably the first thing that person will notice about me from now on. I better not make that mistake again.

I just noticed in the mirror tonight, I have faint lines, or are they minute' creases... Wait! I think they are slight signs of wrinkles in my forehead. They go right through my chicken pox scar. Good heavens! Didn't that person even notice those the other day? Should I confront that well-meaning soul and point out these budding wrinkles to prove how mistaken the initial perception of the state of my skin actually was? I know the person doesn't have vision problems, doesn't even need to wear glasses and is not given to falsehood flattery. Perhaps the friend has a mental cog slipping, about which neither of us know. On the other hand, is it possible? Could someone actually perceive I have nice skin covering this redhead's aging body?

I'll consider what to do about these skin issues/wrinkles in my next post – botox injections, facelift, plastic surgery?

Unbelievable Mysterious Forces Persist

I hadn't intended to write any more on this topic after the post "Hotter than Hot...Murphy's Law," then the "Bottle Tree...Evil Spirits" follow up piece, but unexpected circumstances have developed.

Incredibly we're having hot triple digit days again, but what I really find unbelievable are the mysterious forces continuing to besiege me. This afternoon as I drove through town on Historic Route 66 I suddenly noticed the air temperature blasting full force from my auto air conditioner felt exactly like Lucifer himself was airing out his place into my car.

I immediately made a quick U-turn at the next intersection driving the two miles west directly to my gas station for consultation with one of my trusted mechanics. He said they could take my car right then, would check the systems integrity, inject Freon, if needed, and be done in an hour. I gladly relinquished my car key and altered my afternoon's schedule. There was one caveat, that a more serious mechanical malfunction could alter the plan. Fortunately, no leak was detected, though I still wonder how that Freon escaped. At least I was able to resume my day in my now cool car.

That bad juju is still here and the mojo I've employed just isn't working. There are huge footprints in my yard now as something ate the dried chicken feet. I exhausted myself trying to keep the candles lit in the wind. Local law enforcement told me to tone down the mojo music as the neighbors were complaining. Before all this I tried running around my coffee tables, discovered I couldn't jump over them as I thought, so had to give up on that. I only had one colored bottle, so earlier I had planted it in the ground to grow a bottle tree, but so far it hasn't caught root, much less sprouted more bottles. Those evil spirits are still out and about.

Maybe hoodoo isn't enough and Louisiana voodoo is needed. I don't think a rabbit's foot could be used any more. I noticed a full moon in the sky tonight. Perhaps I should resort to dancing nekkid in my backyard's moonlight, while chanting incantations. Surely that would frighten those evil spirits from any more deviltry.

Bottle Tree Captures Evil Spirits

My earlier recent post, "Hotter Than Hot..." referred to all sorts of unusual occurrences I've experienced recently. I was bemoaning the onset of mysterious forces attacking my car, malfunctioning household appliances, a non-functioning house air conditioning unit, a damaged yard water pipe to name just a few items. Some who commented could readily identify with my woes, as I expected. Others even related a litany of calamities I was grateful for not having experienced myself. I derived hope knowing they all had survived, actually overcome their obstacles, and lived to tell the tale.

One fact became very clear, actual final resolution of the varied problems I and others described, generally involved employing repair persons, and/or visiting store keepers, then ultimately transferring some form of monetary funds from ourselves to others. Personally, in this process I like to think I'm helping the economy despite impoverishing myself.

I noted some who commented about their experiences, also shared their various coping mechanisms. I soon realized the import of these informative offerings and am especially appreciative to each who shared. I have come to believe as a public service I am duty bound to briefly summarize what I've learned from them for my own and others possible future reference. I do stop just short of recommending some of these measures, since some refer to unusual less traditional methodology. In fact, some of their methods could even be thought of as unorthodox. However, I say, whatever works, is worth a try. But, I offer this caution and disclaimer, that if you undertake any of these actions, you do so of your own volition and at your own risk.

Joy at "Joy of Six" employs an interesting technique in times of disaster, but a coffee table is required. I believe her description suggests it's important to undertake this measure soon after first discovering major interior house destruction is underway. Actually it's quite simple, you just run round and round the coffee table, but she failed to disclose the length of time for which this must be continued. Also, I'm not clear about whether this action is to be done only in instances when unwanted water is spurting from wall pipes into various rooms in the house, or if the activity can be utilized for more ordinary catastrophes like a ceiling falling down. Perhaps she's still perfecting the technique.

Since I have two small rectangular coffee tables, I'm adapting her methodology to include aligning my tables in such a way I can include not only repetitively running around them, but jumping over them one at a time, should I ever encounter the problem she described.

I'm so happy I became a blogger and have an opportunity to learn all this from others.

Millie at "My Mom's Blog" quickly ascertained numbers were coming into play, citing the possibility the old saw about events happening in "threes" or that combinations might be at work. She's probably still trying to master how to overcome that challenge, as I haven't been able to figure it out either.

Pattie at "Texas Trifles" can always be counted upon to provide more exotic strategies that often have their roots in Deep South traditions, Texas folklore, or emerge from Louisiana's swamps. Some less well-informed individuals might discount them as simple myths. She clearly recognizes we should all be thinking more along the lines of preventative measures, though some of her suggestions can be instituted to ward off repetition of previous problems.

Reading of my woes, she instantly recognized the presence of "bad juju." She counseled my need for "mojo" to ward off evil spirits. A musical link she provided obviously set the right mood to initiate a search for just the right mojo. She reminded me of the possible benefits of dried chicken feet, candle lighting, but I failed to grasp the significance of her suggestion a "bottle tree" might be beneficial. I even naively suggested she must be confused (as she once erroneously thought I was) and was referring to the bottle brush tree.

Fortunately, Chancy, "Driftwood Inspiration" at quite knowledgeable herself about southern traditions, was intrigued enough to search for more information about the bottle tree. Thanks to Chancy for sending me this link to "Out of Nowhere" by Don Drane, with a colorful picture of a bottle tree.

You may see here, 74 yr old Charlotte Conner has an impressive looking "Blue Bottle Tree."

Then among the Mississippi Delta Artists there is the "Bottle Tree Man" who has a different variety tree.

Africa is the bottle tree's place of origin. The belief is the night's evil spirits are captured in the bottles, then destroyed when the next day's sunlight penetrates them as described in this Wikipedia article.

I'm sure there are many more ways to alleviate our woes, but these must suffice for now.

Father's Day Appreciation

Fathers revel in their loved ones expressions of appreciation.

Treasure and make time for fathers still living.

Recall life's shared moments with fathers who may now have difficulty remembering, or who have long since died.

When It's Hot, It Can Get Hotter ... If Murphy's Around

R&R -- Resolution and Recovery

"When it rains, it pours," or as I tend to think in my case, "When it's hot, it can get hotter" is much more apropos. I don't mean just the temperature. I mean the accumulation of various pressures taxing my usual optimistic outlook on life. Perhaps I could best describe the effects if I stated Murphy's Law is prevailing –

"Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong."

I am in the midst of R&R – "Resolution and Recovery" from a litany of trials which diabolically contribute to altering my mind's balance from its normal warped state toward one closer to insanity. Some lucky souls miraculously skim over life's edges never having the thrill of experiencing such similar adverse challenges. Others are burdened with much more adversity than what I'll describe here. "Everything is relative," as the saying goes.

Even now in my anguished state (and I am taking some dramatic license with that language,) I am reminded of how as a young adult, friends and I used a then common coping response to support each other through some of life's complications. We transformed even the most trivial life events we naively perceived as disastrous, from tragedy into humor -- matters we long ago learned to laugh about – and some were, truly, laughing matters compared to problems we encountered later in life.

We honed an underlying foundation of empathy for each other's adversities, that tempered one particular not-so subtle message we delivered, about life's ironies. That communiqué was expressed by shaping our hand into a specific position, then sometimes uttering a prescribed few sentences. We each understood this symbolic code meant we cared.

Sooner or later each of us required support for incurred woes, since life was simply exacting the usual price for our being. The individual describing their disruptive life-assaulting hard luck incidents, would soon see silent listeners make a fist with their thumb extended upward, bending forward at the first knuckle. The bent thumb would be rotating in a circle above the index finger -- moving round and round and round, much like yesteryear's broken record (or, CD today.) The intimation was obvious that the story's underlying message we were hearing was quite repetitious, like "a broken record." Eventually, the hard-luck storyteller and each of us would be smiling or even laughing at the ridiculousness of life.

Some tales of woe, such as I will now relate here, or for even more complicated havoc-causing matters, the listeners ceased to be silent as their thumb rotated. They responded to the storyteller's tragic tale, with mocking words in a tone of irony, sarcasm, and with underlying sympathy:

"I've been around the world many times, been subjected to listening to accounts of every hard luck experience known to humankind, but truly your story is the saddest I've ever heard."

The rotating thumb vision firmly visualized in my mind's eye, those words ringing in my ears, I begin my tale.

I have been inundated with all sorts of unexpected repair needs beginning with my car, which has likely been unintentionally victimized in my own driveway by a youthful skateboarder or bike rider losing their balance. They broke their fall with outthrust hands leaving two huge indentations on my car's fender.

Subsequently, a leaky washing machine and squealing dryer have successively followed each other in vying for my attention. Then the outdoor security light has begun requiring entirely too much personal manual adjustment. A pre-existing unresolved complex matter associated with a non-baking oven has been a continuing concern. Fortunately, I haven't often needed its use, thanks to stovetop cooking, a microwave oven, and restaurants.

Finally, the car has been repaired, but there's more. I have been able to resolve some pesky personal medical issues with positive outcome, after juggling some transportation complications only families of one experience. Along the way, I finally concluded the time had arrived to establish an appliance replacement hierarchy list.

No sooner had I read some reference data on my needed appliances, and I had begun venturing out to stores, when suddenly the weekend arrived. I didn't sleep well that Friday night as the room seemed warmer than I liked, but the thermostat showed the air was cooling, though slowly, and the blower was blowing. I realize now in my groggy half-asleep state, my raised arm's reaching hand, sampling the expelling air from the register near the ceiling, had failed to accurately discern the air's specific degree of coolness.

Saturday morning the house felt cool and comfortable, but by the afternoon, the indoor "resident baking hours" typically beginning around 4 p.m., revealed there was serious reason to believe the air conditioner was not working properly. Despite cleaning the air filter earlier, re-adjusting the thermostat, checking the circuit breakers, listening for the outdoor AC unit's motor to rev up, but hearing only silence, I recognized the equipment simply was not working. I was no longer deceived by air movement alone, since the blower inside quietly, lightly kept pushing what was clearly increasingly warm room temperature air through its registers. I felt miserably uncomfortable, hotter than hot, since ambient air outdoors was well into the triple digits.

A phone call to the AC installer reached only an answering machine. I knew then, that late Saturday afternoon, there would be no more service calls, that the weekend for me would be long and hot -- much hotter than I recall southwestern desert days from time in Arizona, Nevada, and various Southern California locales, or those miserable high humidity days and nights in the east at much lower temperatures. Our weather prognostication was for record-breaking high temperatures well over one hundred degrees through the weekend and continuing the first part of the following week. The predictions were correct.

The evening air outside cooled, but most of the breezes stayed there. Disappointingly, I discovered I was unable to open more than one or two windows, probably stuck since the house exterior had been painted. Trying to pry them open with a screwdriver, I soon discerned, was a project best pursued in daylight hours, so as not to damage the two-year-old paint job. I recalled the heat-filled years of my life before AC, even before evaporative or swamp cooling. I was younger then, but clearly, this adult had readily acclimated to this AC creature comfort.

For some reason my mind was suddenly filled with a mental picture of my joining polar bears at the zoo joyfully playing in a pool filled with big blocks of ice. Visualizing that wet cooling image I wish I could say my mind prevailed over matter. Actually, my reality was under complete control of the lonely blower that was now forcing the accumulating downward flowing unbearable attic heat to streak through each room from one room register to another, racing endlessly.

The next day, Sunday, I needed no convincing to leave my house during those late afternoon/early evening baking hours, I had erroneously voluntarily endured the previous day. Assuming I would even have been alert enough, quite debatable, I was in no mood to shop for any new appliances either. Why not phone a good friend with whom I was long overdue to visit and confess my situation? No one else could empathize on quite the same level given our history, share the ironic laughs in appreciation of the ridiculous impositions of life.

I admit I was jealous when the answered cell phone disclosed the occupants were on their way up the coast, testing their new air conditioned car by driving to a family meet at The Strawberry Festival. I soon, thereafter, took respite in the cooling of my own car as I drove to a more pleasant air conditioned environment where I could comfortably sit, read from an unlimited selection of new volumes, and eventually enjoy a hot latte of Seattle's Best.

Upon returning home later at night, I was delighted to discover stored in the garage two fans I hadn't recalled having earlier. I soon had the table fan ready to blow and the floor pedestal fan assembled in about thirty-five minutes. These long unused fans actually worked and had quiet motors. I survived the night with their welcomed circulation of the limited much cooler air that managed to penetrate the house.

Monday, I adjusted my work schedule to assure being home for the AC miracle repair worker. He arrived on schedule, his short red hair signifying a good omen to this graying redhead. What a disappointment when, two hours later, he had exerted his utmost skills, but had not been able to conjure a permanent AC fix so the unit could safely be used. His home office said three days later would be the earliest another AC trouble-shooter would be available to assess the problem in greater depth, despite my pleas. The days were still hot, but thankfully beginning to cool slightly. The next repairman arrived on schedule, discerning a rather serious rusting condition existed in an AC housing unit above the indoor furnace. He was confident this would necessitate simply a coil replacement, though hardly an inexpensive item with labor added.

I was less than happy when his home office told him a week or so would pass, due to their prior commitments, before my coil repair could be undertaken, again despite my cajoling. I was somewhat relieved when future weather reports predicted continued cooling, but there was uncertainty about the possibility of another hot spell soon after.

The following day, the gods and goddesses of kindness smiled on me and my service call was catapulted to the top of the repairman's list. I later learned the AC team had shown up at a customer's location with truck, equipment and manpower for a scheduled AC installation and were told the customer had suddenly changed their mind, no longer wanted AC. (Because it cooled off, I wondered?) I couldn't help thinking about how the lack of common consideration impacts the lives of others, but in this instance I benefited. As promised, my AC people had called me, since this last minute cancellation enabled them to repair my AC unit first thing the next day.

By this time, our area weather had not only started to cool, but the day the AC wonder men arrived at my home, the outdoor air was cold, wet, filled with falling rain. Notably absent was any sign of the sun or its warmth. I needed indoor heat, but could not turn it on since the furnace unit had to be left off through the duration of the AC repair. Six hours later, with the AC successfully tested and functioning, followed by my being able to turn on the furnace's heat, I was able to begin to thaw my frozen body.

I think now how acclimated this older woman has become from the younger one who knew years of winter days and nights living in below zero temperatures. The younger me would likely have guffawed at older me, saying words to the effect, "This isn't cold -- simply a welcome warm winter day. You've forgotten what cold is."

I had no sooner thawed than, suddenly, another new trial was added to the mix – resolve one issue, add a new one seemed to be the pattern. An exposed section of a backyard sprinkler system pipe was noticed to be providing a slight water spout effect into the air. Examination revealed a fragile rusting pipe's external horizontal surface above ground crumbling to the touch at intervals with breaks allowing fountain-like water leakage.

The pipe had to be replaced post haste ..... before the upward spouting water expanded to once-famous Dancing Waters proportions .....
(the multiple water streams manipulated with varying colored lights and synchronized "dancing" heights, sometimes accompanied by music. Cash paying customers viewed this visual and auditory sensory pleasing experience promoted as a "cultural" attraction in special tent shows at 1950's county and state fairs.)

Several days later even this water leak problem is corrected with a new pipe, but not without the old one first providing its share of resistance at each of several various connection ends, frustrating another helpful repairman.

Guess it's past time to get back to researching facts and figures on some new appliances. At least I now have a choice of hot or cold air for comfort in my own home. Morning's "June gloom" (when the sun doesn't emerge until around noon – I love it) is reported to be giving way to another heat wave coming. At least my backyard is absent the water leak.

Presently resolution of this indoor appliance rebellion takes precedence over all else, beginning with that leaky washing machine. The dryer has suspiciously stopped squealing – waiting to do -- what? Could anything else go wrong? I wonder how old the dishwasher is? Maybe part time work for me isn't enough after all!

I hear the refrain now – "I've been around the world many times...but truly yours is the saddest story I've ever heard."

(Post script: In true Murphy's Law form, when this post published it somehow appeared twice. Efforts to erase one copy were prevented when my computer mysteriously lost Internet connection. Ah, the irony of it all! But, finally nine hours later, the issue is resolved-- I think. What's next?)

Unique 2008 USA Presidential Election

Future Election Primaries

I'm glad to see the USA Democratic Political Party has resolved who they expect to nominate as their Presidential candidate, Barack Obama. The National Republican Party had settled on John McCain as their expected candidate some time ago. Both political parties will officially designate their candidates this summer.

The original competing prospective Democratic candidates uniquely reflected gender and race differences. The expected final two national political party candidates have differing racial backgrounds, but that's just one factor making this year's Presidential election special in our country's history. I recognize, respect and honor that racial factor difference, but I don't intend to dwell on it any more than I would imagine the candidates see the need to do so. I hope they'll be allowed to focus their campaign efforts elsewhere in these months ahead.

I'm anticipating an election campaign that has the candidates debating the important issues that affect our daily lives and those of our country internationally, especially since all are so inter-related in todays' global economy.

Also, I hope the candidates, pundits, media-types and political junkies make every effort to keep the rhetoric focused on the pertinent issues through civil discourse.

We learned this year how election primaries can thwart our candidate selection process. I continue to condemn any primary election arrangements in future campaigns that prevent the electorate in any State from having the opportunity to vote for all the candidates. Rules that deprive individuals of their votes may be legal, but we saw in Florida and Michigan how convoluted government and/or political party manuevering adversely affected the rights of voters to participate in a meaningful primary election. We observed the muddled efforts to correct the problem after the fact. I believe in the rule of law -- ethical and moral application of just laws. Just because something is legal does not mean it's right and such limiting rules need to be changed, amended, eliminated, or whatever to protect all legal voters.

Voters in every State should protest loudly and clearly LONG BEFORE primary elections, should there be reason to believe they may be deprived of a legitimate meaningful primary election -- especially if circumstances develop as they did in Michigan and Florida this year with the Democratic Party candidates. If political parties and candidates are serious candidates, then each voter's ballot should provide the choice of selecting those candidates.

Candidates with their political parties are equally responsible to be certain they get their name on all States primary ballots for the sake of the voters and accurate primary election results.

Before our next primary elections I would welcome hearing others perceptions of the pros and cons of the various ways in which State primary elections are conducted.

My local California area uses the confidential election InkaVote ballot. I understand some other States use a much more open interactive caucus forum with which I have no first hand experience.

Is one of these systems preferable or superior to the other, and why?

Are there any other State primary election systems than these two types?

Just a reminder, we have about 21 more weeks until our November 2008 Presidential election date.

Lest anyone doubt it, this is a watershed year for change with much at stake for the everyday citizens of our nation and our democracy. We already know much about the Presidential candidates positions, but let's be certain we clearly understand their issue differences.

We want to make it strongly clear to all those chosen to represent our interests:

We demand accountability and expect our rights to be protected.

Personal Memorial Day Perspective

Unexpected Connection to Book

Full Fathom Five

Amazing to me how quickly businesses rush to be first, even to the point of skipping over what's important. Am I missing something? Doesn't Memorial Day come before Father's Day? I entered a couple of national chain brick and mortar bookstores this weekend expecting to see some sort of display of books and DVDs that would reflect a Memorial Day sensibility, or some reference to veterans. Instead, I came face to face with an attractive arrangement of books promoting Father's Day. Isn't that in June? Guess there just isn't time to celebrate Memorial Day this year. Couldn't we do both?

Am I old fashioned wanting to concentrate on honoring the veterans that have given their lives for our country before progressing to whatever the next holiday may be? I didn't move the date up from the traditional 30^th to the 26^th (date changes each year, now,) but I've adjusted to go along with it. Are others more preoccupied with just the long weekend?

The very first war in my lifetime began during my childhood. Subsequent police actions (as one war was called) followed by other declared wars that came later, all seemed quite different to me from that first one I knew, World War II. I'm sure the differences among all those conflicts were of little consequence to the many individuals who were maimed, those with no physical scars but whose lives were forever altered, and especially for all those who had their lives permanently taken from them. What about their families – children, spouses, other friends and relatives?

Nevertheless, that first war of my lifetime, World War II, has forever been deeply imbedded in my memory. I believe that without a doubt the existence of this country, free, as we know it to be, depended entirely upon our forces prevailing in that war's outcome. Fortunately, we did prevail. We actually believed, as did those who gave their lives, that WWII would be the war to end all wars.

Those we honor this Memorial Day have died believing they were doing their utmost to preserve our nation's freedom, in whatever war they served. This commemoration begins with those who fought in the Civil War extending through the present time.

About those bookstores I mentioned above, I was disappointed Saturday when they had no special display of books focused on Memorial Day. There were various special display sections labeled Biography, Memoirs, New Releases, New Hardbacks, Fiction, Non Fiction, other general categories, along with Paperbacks. I noticed mixed into some of these groups were a few books associated with WWII , Korea and Viet Nam in addition to various other collections on tables and bookshelves at the front of the store.

Unexpectedly, even to myself, as this was not my pre-arranged plan, I was able to promote the idea at both stores of featuring a special table or display for Memorial Day, especially to include some books about WWII. Whether or not the suggestion resulted in any action remained to be seen. The idea did seem to come as a surprise to those in both bookstores, with the Manager in one store saying he guessed their corporate people didn't think of doing that, as the word his store received was to promote Father's Day. Maybe they could do both.

I mentioned I had noticed an attractive book display when I walked in the store. I told him, "That's nice, but Father's Day isn't until June. Memorial Day is coming up now." I added, "WWII memoirs, such as Full Fathom Five, are especially significant. Also, fewer and fewer of these Veterans are still living from whom we can learn the lessons of history. Honoring those no longer with us on Memorial Day is especially important for families, those Veterans remaining and all of us. What too many people today don't realize is, that you, I and this store might not even be here like this, if it hadn't been for the men like those WWII Vets we honor."

I was surprised that Saturday to learn the Mgr. at that same bookstore had responded to my query of a week or so earlier and ordered for his shelves some copies of the new book, Full Fathom Five, about which you can read in my previous post. I was delighted when he told me he had received the copies, so I suggested that book and those select titles I noticed on other tables could quickly and easily comprise a display to honor Memorial Day.

Maybe it's too much to expect such a display actually materialized, but I believe I have to speak up about what is important to me. Maybe this will be important to others, too. One thing I have learned in my lifetime is not to remain silent, or just to complain, then wonder why there is no change in the status quo.

I want to explain how I unexpectedly developed a special personal interest in the book, Full Fathom Five. I learned a year ago when talking about this book with one of the most significant men in my life from the time I was a young girl that he had not just been in the Navy during WWII, but was part of the U.S. Navy's Submarine Service – a group consisting entirely of volunteers.

This relative, a decade my senior in age had not strongly emphasized his military duty with the U.S. Navy was actually part of the Submarine Service, when I was growing up, as far as I had known. Maybe I hadn't understood there were various services within the U.S. Navy; perhaps he was modest, or he was just conditioned to follow the automatic general secrecy nature adhered to by those in that Service even long after WWII ended, as the author, Mary Lee Coe Fowler, discusses in her book.

My family member entered the U.S. Naval Service directly from high school in 1943 about the time Mary Lee's father, Commander Coe's active military career was regrettably and tragically ending somewhere in the South Pacific. (I prefer to think Jim Coe and his crew remained on duty for the remainder of WWII, wherever they became lost in the Pacific Ocean.) Ultimately my relative was among personnel assigned to the Admiral in Command of the U. S. Naval Force in the South Pacific, Seventh Fleet, Task Force/Group 71.

I sent my loved one a copy of the book once I realized what a significant connection existed for him with this book's contents about the U.S. Navy's Submarine Service. He had just completed reading Full Fathom Five, the book, when I spoke with him on the phone this weekend. He was impressed, saying the facts in the book, many with which he was quite familiar from experience and extensive reading in recent years, are correct based on his knowledge. Also, he noted he was pleased to have his memory refreshed with the account of the transition of communications (his specialty area) from the Philippines to the transmitters (as he recited over the phone to me the call letters) where he and others were stationed in Australia sending and receiving all transmissions with our submarines in the South Pacific.

He spoke of the U.S.S. Orion submarine tender; named various submarines, including Bluefish, Bullhead; described encountering the Bluefish again after WWII and coincidentally providing maintenance on her when he was in the U.S. Naval Reserve living on the East Coast. Like many others, he was well aware of the special importance of the South Pacific submarine fleet when intelligence information revealed the Japanese fleet was steaming toward Australia. Those in the Submarine Service have stories to exchange with each other of those tension-filled treacherous times during which he was a Radioman stationed on land in Perth, Australia.

Last year through Mother's Day and the first anniversary of my husband's death I recall visiting him and his wife. He was reading quite incessantly at the time, showing me many books which he was still thumbing through their well-worn pages. The books had to do with WW II's Submarine Service, Pigboats, and he talked of author Roscoe (noted in Fowler's book.) He had sought reference listings during these years of all the U.S. Navy's submarines and detailed information about them along with their personnel. He was especially concerned with listings of those submarines and men lost at sea, and any subsequent information, including the fact some once-lost submarine remains have been located in recent years.

He mentioned having earlier begun to research Submariner web sites, also that he had started writing his own memoirs of those times. Unfortunately, medical issues resulted in his having to discontinue independently performing both activities.

He talked about when stationed in Perth, Australia, each time he requested assignment to submarine duty, he was generally turned down by his commanding officer. His officer told him his technical and radio transmission skills were of more vital need on land. He would have been a recipient of some welcome incoming messages from South Pacific submarines and would have been listening intently for some that never came.

He has been interested in all known South Pacific submarine records and stories. Also, he's keenly interested in any new information about long lost submarines located in recent years. The Bullhead and crew would be of special interest to him should it ever be located, since after the boat left its Australian berth the boat's crew was never heard from again, he said.

I cannot imagine what life would have been like without him all these years. I'm glad our mother and I did not have to experience such loss. My heart goes out to the orphans, the Mary Lee Coe Fowler's of the world, their families and all submariners.

I offer this Memorial Day tribute to all those whose presence is with us only in spirit and memory, whatever war in which they had their lives taken from them, but I especially think of those in WWII. Though we may honor this May 26^th date, I'm sure I'll think of this tribute again on the more traditional date of May 30^th -- the date I have been accustomed to recognizing for so many years.

"Full Fathom Five" Special Story

"Full Fathom Five" is a title that has intrigued me. I first encountered the title as a blog a few months after I began reading some blogs a couple of years ago. I eventually learned how and why this title with Shakespearean origins became of such significance to blogger, Mary Lee Coe Fowler, a writer, teacher of English and ESL, stimulating her to write this book.

Mary Lee disclosed she had never known her father, Commander James Coe, who honorably served in the United States Navy Submarine Service during World War II. He was one of the multitudes of U.S. servicemen who had their lives taken from them during that war, including those lost at sea like her father, Commander Coe and his crew.

She never knew Jim Coe as he had returned to duty before she was born. Her brother's and sister's memories were limited as they were quite young, too, when their father left to fulfill his military assignment, ultimately in the Pacific. Mary Lee's ability to learn about her father from the time he was lost at sea was complicated by her mother and others not speaking of him, especially with the children, from the time he was declared lost. Only after her mother's death, and as a mid-life adult reading Shakespeare's "The Tempest," did the author receive the impetus to actively undertake discovering who her father was.

The author's youthful perceptions of this military man who was also her father were influenced by other factors. She was maturing as a young person of Quaker background whose peace-seeking values during the turbulent sixties, in the midst of an increasingly unpopular Viet Nam war, contributed to her formulation of a questioning attitude toward any and all military personnel, motives, actions then, and of other times.

Finally, in her mid-years, determined and curious to know this man, this unknown person to her, she sought information from those who knew her father and mother. She contacted men and women family friends, military men with whom he graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, those with whom he served and those he commanded during WWII. She gradually began to piece together a view of various aspects of her father's personality from personal accounts described to her, based on events others shared with him, harvested from their memories.

His professional persona also emerged as fellow Annapolis graduates and other naval personnel related stories from their experiences with and about him. Official records and other naval documents contribute to the authenticity of facts discussed in the book. A striking picture of this naval officer, her father, reveals one of which she and the family are rightfully proud.

Whatever the personal and professional composite perspectives reveal, they are, at best, a tantalizing portrait of Jim Coe, her father, with which she must be satisfied. And yet, I wonder if there might be times when she wishes, "Oh, if only I could have known him." Or, "I wish he could have known me...my family....." Reflections on earlier years must invite memories of past instances when crossing her mind are thoughts like, "I wish I could have turned to him for counsel and comfort, or given him solace....."

I think based on conclusions drawn from some of his own reported and documented actions, he would be pleased with the manner in which his life, beliefs, values are presented here. His dedication to the United States Navy, and especially the Submarine Service, is above reproach. He more than fulfilled his duty, but he did not just blindly serve. He worked behind the scenes in a constructive manner toward correcting inequities that needed changing.

Like her father, the author, too, has examined issues research revealed affected daily life and survival for him and his crew(s.) This was especially so of those matters known to be of concern to her father, some of his crew and other officers, in her effort to present a true picture of certain known facts. She shares an appreciative humor for her father's own introduction of subtle levity into a serious issue which attracted unexpected attention from fellow Submariners and Naval Brass.

Analysis and reasoning enable her to make some logical inferences, drawing conclusions and describing conjectures that are worthy of consideration. She refers to known information that has provided distressing facts about some military decision making processes, possible deficient military equipment, imprudent choices based on political issues that may have resulted in the death of submariners.

I was impressed with the fact our country had such valiant warriors as her father, his crew and the other Submariners. Valiant warriors is what they were, those who persisted in performing their duties to the utmost of their abilities in a dedicated, just and honorable manner despite obstacles not of their making.

I find it deeply regrettable any of them had to function under less than optimum conditions. Regret, however, is insufficient for any of those whose lives were forever altered, or who did not survive at all, just as it is for their loved ones.

Thank you for conducting this search for your father, Mary Lee Coe Fowler.

Thanks to all those who shared their impressions, stories, memories, facts, documents.

Thank you for sharing Jim Coe and yourself in Full Fathom Five -- A Daughter's Search.

I'm sharing this early in a tribute before Memorial Day, especially to Submarine Service veterans, those lost at sea and all these orphan families. Those who are interested and intrigued by both the personal search of the author and the well-written laypersons descriptions of the U.S. Navy's Submarine Service will have an opportunity to order, possibly even receive this book to begin reading Memorial Day.

(Yes, this is a blatant book promotion from which I have nothing to gain, nor is the author even aware I'm doing so. I am clearly impacted by the nature of this story for more reasons than I've described here that I may write about later. I've also requested my local chain bookstore(s) feature a few copies in their brick and mortar stores (you might wish to do the same) though the book can be ordered online including at Amazon.com.)

Time To Talk

I recall that Saturday, May 13, 2006 morning standing by my husband's bedside, still absorbing the fact of his unexpected death during his sleep. The understanding and supportive police officer stood quietly across from me at the far corner of the foot of the bed. He had arrived at my home within a few short minutes in response to my emergency 911 phone call, after I discovered my husband's lifeless body whose facial skin was already cool to the touch of my fingertips and lips. The officer had offered his help with various questions as to what I might like him to do, or what did I want to do ... whatever. I just recall his calm, rational manner, but I cannot bring to mind many of the specific words exchanged between us.

I'm sure he must have inquired about the circumstances of my husband's death which I vaguely recall describing to him as I, too, was trying to make sense of it all. I think I told him of my husband having just seen his doctor the previous morning for a follow-up visit. For the prior two to three years, my husband had periodically undergone various tests to determine whether or not he had a small abdominal aortic aneurysm. Sometimes the aneurysm appeared to be present, sometimes not, but the medical action plan had been to track the small bulge for any increase in size. Tracking had been an ongoing problem since the bulge often was hidden from view during ultrasounds. The definitive angiogram or MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) tests could not be administered since he had other serious medical problems making either test unsafe for him.

My husband had told me the Dr. said the results of this most recent ultrasound once again failed to reveal the aneurysm's presence, but they could not conclude it no longer existed, much less know its current size. Once I made that 911 call, I know I remained on the phone with the operator until the police officer arrived. I know I phoned each of our children, reaching my son immediately, leaving a message for my daughter for our later conversation, but I cannot recall making those calls, when in the sequence of activities I made them, or receiving calls returned. I do remember my son saying he would immediately begin making arrangements to fly home. He arrived later that night. My daughter and granddaughter came home at a mutually agreed upon later date, but we had frequent phone contact daily until then. I don't recall whether that day or later days I phoned others significant in my life.

I knew I must remain strong for my children and myself. I was very good at that with lots of experience. Always before for me, once the crisis was over would be time to emotionally let down. This time proved to be the same only to a degree, but different in so many other ways including the process that lay ahead of adapting to my life being forever changed.

Later the officer went outside to direct the emergency teams. I expected their arrival would be heralded first by the large red fire truck with sirens screaming, soon followed by a small red paramedic truck, from having experienced that scenario before numerous times when I had to call them for my mother. This time, when they arrived on my street, there was no siren since I presume they had been forewarned there was no life in the balance here. An advance directive clearly specified no extraordinary means were to be taken to prolong my husband's life, but he was past the point of having such techniques administered anyway.

Before the officer went outside to direct paramedics to our house, I stood by my dead husband's side, thoughts racing through my mind of those hours from the last time I had spoken with him, had seen him breathing peacefully in his sleep, until the moment I found him. So many words came to mind. For much too long there had been sensitive topics around the edges of which we skirted, that might gradually emerge from time to time. There were those topics with other issues of more recent vintage where the rocky barriers had only begun to be worn down, allowing our words to begin sliding more easily over their once razor sharp edges.

I told the officer, as though somehow he could call back my husband and we could rectify this matter that was pressing on my mind, "There was so much we needed to talk about...so much that we hadn't had an opportunity to yet say...."

In retrospect now, I pause to think, that fateful Saturday the 13^th day he died was the same day and date we had begun our first full day as husband wife so many decades ago. We were married on the preceding Friday night the 12^th -- the exact same day and date I shared my husband's last wakeful living moments, two months shy of our forty-third wedding anniversary. Just imagine, in forty-three years, we still had much love and laughter to share, so much more we needed to talk about.

Mother's Day Thoughts

(The aging washer is leaking,
The dryer is squeaking,
Mother would appreciate
the humor of this happening today.)


Mother, I wish you could experience the world today. You always said you had no fear of dying, but would be reluctant to go because you didn't want to miss anything. I have the same view for myself. You saw much change in your lifetime. I think of you and these thoughts of your first twenty-one years come readily to mind.

born in the nineteenth century
horse and buggy days
daughter of a prosperous farmer
fence lines clear of weeds
indicating a good farmer

father performed outdoor chores
matching work horse pair
plowing, harrowing, discing,
cultivating, planting
grain, corn and garden

threshing parties
sheaves of oats, barley and wheat,
corn shucking,
hay raking,
fork tossing hay in mow

raising chickens and ducks
roosters, hens, drakes
cows with calves
pigs with piglets
sheep with lambs

harvesting crops
root cellar storage
butchering and dressing meats
milking the cows
collecting honey, beeswax

pets and progeny
mares with foals
mouser cats with kittens
herder/guard dogs with puppies
chicks and ducklings

mothers work indoors
wood stove for cooking
baking bread
bearing and raising children
nursing the ill

food preservation and canning
apple, cherry, peach trees
blackberry, gooseberries
jams, jellies
herb collection like mint leaves

gathering eggs
cream separating
making cottage cheese
churning butter
making smearcase

sewing and mending
pattern and dress making
yarn for knitting, crocheting, tatting
quilting designs, stitching, needle point
hooking rugs

recitation of poetry
story telling using elocution skills
piano playing and singing
games, riddles, reading, writing
stereoscopes and pictures

candles to electricity
hand pump priming for well water
eventual party line phone
two longs and a short ring
outdoor plumbing - two or three holer

children's playhouse
curtains, tea set
miniature furniture
china head dolls
dressing cats and kittens

winter's heavy woolen clothes
mothballs
dry cleaning non-existent
deodorant yet to be
large tubs, spit baths

playing church piano and organ
dating mostly for church social functions
breaking rules by sneaking off with date to go dancing
coming home snuggled under blankets in horse drawn buggy
horse required no guidance -- always knew the way home

family, friends, classmates,
boyfriends, neighbors die
Influenza Pandemic of World War I
Influenza Epidemic of 1918
World War I

automobiles and airplanes coming

passing the Boxwell proficiency exam
requirement for high school attendance
moving into town to live with a family providing
them household services in exchange for room and board
high school graduation

acceptance and enrollment in "Normal School"
graduation after two years
teaching in one room school house
women given the right to vote 1921
mother legal age that year -- always voted thereafter.

My mother knew from her own mother, my grandmother, who advocated in her farm community for women's rights, supported by my grandfather, the challenges to achieve Women's Suffrage (right to vote.)

The 19th Amendment giving women the right to vote was first introduced in the United States Congress in 1878, passed by both Houses in 1919 with that same wording -- 41 years later.

Progress can be slow.

She would have loved to have participated in the primary elections this year. She would be listening to the candidates words closely. She would be giving strong consideration to the state of our country internally, our status in the world. She would recognize the serious issues our nation faces -- that these problems must be resolved, such as health care, our infrastructure deterioration, domestic economic condition, the war(s) in which we're embroiled, the need to preserve each citizen's rights and freedoms, to name just a few matters.

She would be pleased when the focus stays on these campaign issues. She would be angered when efforts from any candidate, their supporters, or the media introduced misleading sound bites, negative innuendo into the dialogue. She would marvel at the unique combination of political party candidates from which we will choose our next President of the United States.