Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Rape is a four letter word. (On Demons I've seen up close and personal)
I've looked into the eyes of a soul-less being. It presented itself as human but when I looked into it's eyes, there was nothing there but darkness. There was nobody home behind those eyes. There was no spark of humanity, compassion, hope, help, nothing. Just a profound blackness.
Losing Amy Winehouse
This girl was an amazing talent. Heartfelt lyrics, soulful music, what was not to love about her? My Tears Dry on Their Own, Back to Black, this young woman had a phenomenal life and career ahead of her, but she opted out. She just quit.
It's too painful to consider how this could be.
It's too painful to consider how this could be.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Napoleon Pignosity or is that Pignocity?
A friend of mine, Carson, recently gave me a single word, Pignocity, to ponder. I have to admit, I googled it and came up with Napoleon Pignocity (Pignosity?) who appears to be an actual pig (white, sort of like Napoleon from Animal Farm, but I won't hold that against him.) I asked her to come up with a story to explain the word, Pignocity, and we'll just have to see what that story entails. If I get an answer, I'll post it.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Why I read the St. Pete Times, but especially the Comics every day.
A few years ago, I subscribed to The Tampa Tribune. I even worked for this newspaper for a few years. My brother-in-law worked there for about twenty years. I had friends there, colleagues there, and then, the world changed.
When the focus of the newspaper changed to reflect a “younger readership,” focused more on instant messages, advertising as pop ups, and an inattention to the written page (their words, not mine) I cancelled my subscription. Shrink the newspaper? Heaven’s to Murgatroyd, (my words, not theirs), this delusional decision left me no choice. I’ve been with the St. Petersburg Times since and have never looked back.
Why, the St. Petersburg Times? Well, because they are not obliged to any person or organization, save The Pointer Institute. The Tampa Tribune is owned by Media General. A nice conglomerate more interested in investing in its pulp mills and television stations than honoring the written word, the blurb (or “factoid”) has replaced a story with detail, honesty and integrity that you can now only absorb in bits and bytes. Yikes! The Pointer Institute is NOT for sale. (At least not that I’ve seen.) They reinvest in developing writers, scholars, and hiring people of character, allowing them to write with honesty and integrity and share their personal truths. You don’t have to believe a word that’s written there, but you can trust that what’s written there is not bought and paid for. That, I guarantee.
I don’t like anyone to tell me what to think. That’s why I like getting more than bits and bytes in my intellectual fodder. And, that brings me to the Comics.
The world of news is terrible. Mothers and fathers kill children for reasons none of us will ever understand, Government foments war on citizens, and people commit war in the name of (well, you name it: religion, injustice, what they perceive God wants, and becausetheyfeellikeit!) After I read the paper, I look through the Comics. What could a grown woman possibly find there that reminds me of a perspective with which I can live? For Better or For Worse, Zits, Curtis, Classic Peanuts, Baby Blues, Sally Forth and Non Sequitur bring me back to my role as mother, sister, and child. The humor, wisdom, and
irony of life are certainly not wasted on me. I appreciate every panel, every word.
Dilbert reminds me that, though my career/job is absurd, I’m not alone. Hi and Lois, Hagar the Horrible and Garfield, are just there for spot gags. A “punny” relief for a woman who really does consider the “limerick” as the highest verse form.
I doubt you’ll ever publish this, but it’s important that I share this with the writers, editors, and managers of the St. Petersburg Times. I promise you, I will not give up on reading as long as you don’t give up on my generation.
With lots of love,
Sharon S. Graham
Aka ivannaretire@yahoo.com
I am not a crazy. Dan Ruth, Howard Troxler and a few others on your staff should remember me.
When the focus of the newspaper changed to reflect a “younger readership,” focused more on instant messages, advertising as pop ups, and an inattention to the written page (their words, not mine) I cancelled my subscription. Shrink the newspaper? Heaven’s to Murgatroyd, (my words, not theirs), this delusional decision left me no choice. I’ve been with the St. Petersburg Times since and have never looked back.
Why, the St. Petersburg Times? Well, because they are not obliged to any person or organization, save The Pointer Institute. The Tampa Tribune is owned by Media General. A nice conglomerate more interested in investing in its pulp mills and television stations than honoring the written word, the blurb (or “factoid”) has replaced a story with detail, honesty and integrity that you can now only absorb in bits and bytes. Yikes! The Pointer Institute is NOT for sale. (At least not that I’ve seen.) They reinvest in developing writers, scholars, and hiring people of character, allowing them to write with honesty and integrity and share their personal truths. You don’t have to believe a word that’s written there, but you can trust that what’s written there is not bought and paid for. That, I guarantee.
I don’t like anyone to tell me what to think. That’s why I like getting more than bits and bytes in my intellectual fodder. And, that brings me to the Comics.
The world of news is terrible. Mothers and fathers kill children for reasons none of us will ever understand, Government foments war on citizens, and people commit war in the name of (well, you name it: religion, injustice, what they perceive God wants, and becausetheyfeellikeit!) After I read the paper, I look through the Comics. What could a grown woman possibly find there that reminds me of a perspective with which I can live? For Better or For Worse, Zits, Curtis, Classic Peanuts, Baby Blues, Sally Forth and Non Sequitur bring me back to my role as mother, sister, and child. The humor, wisdom, and
irony of life are certainly not wasted on me. I appreciate every panel, every word.
Dilbert reminds me that, though my career/job is absurd, I’m not alone. Hi and Lois, Hagar the Horrible and Garfield, are just there for spot gags. A “punny” relief for a woman who really does consider the “limerick” as the highest verse form.
I doubt you’ll ever publish this, but it’s important that I share this with the writers, editors, and managers of the St. Petersburg Times. I promise you, I will not give up on reading as long as you don’t give up on my generation.
With lots of love,
Sharon S. Graham
Aka ivannaretire@yahoo.com
I am not a crazy. Dan Ruth, Howard Troxler and a few others on your staff should remember me.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
On Mom and Dad
Collective Memories of Mom and Dad
I'm hoping my sister, children, nieces and nephew will contribute to this portion of the blog, celebrating wonderful parents and grandparents. I feel especially blessed because I am the elder sibling. My sister, Janice, is about nine years younger than I am. From a generational perspective, it's almost as if we had two sets of parents. I had the younger, more energetic parents, and she had the more affluent, ones. I think I got the better deal. (Sorry, Jan) I also had the unique experience of living with our maternal grandparents, Elizabeth and WC French, for the first few years of my life, and seeing living the interaction between the two.
I'll begin at my earliest memories. I really don't remember being born in Tampa. I do remember a few things though. Maybe these memories are based on what I was told, but I don't think so. I remember being in a playpen, calling for Rockie. (He must have lived across the street.) I was told I called him "Ockie," but I was pretty young. My mom says I began speaking at six months. If any of my children had begun speaking at six months, I would have freaked out. Lucky for me, mom and dad took this as normal. I am told my parents took me to the Falk Theater for a movie (6-9 months) and I began screaming. To keep me quiet, Dad took me to a playground (must have been near the University of Tampa) and put me in a swing to quiet me. I was only there awhile until I fell out. Reportedly, I said, "Whoops, clumsy baby," after the fall. This story has been recounted many years. I believe it to be true.
While still in Tampa, I had the experience of Mom placing me on a pony for a picture. Years later, I discovered my boss, Nilo Menendez, had his picture taken on the same day, in the same place. Apparently, Mom liked the little house Nilo's parent's rented and the day they moved out, Mom moved in. (She didn't tell Dad, though.) After work, he came home to the wrong house. Mom apparently even moved the washing machine without his help. She was a total work horse. Still is. Mom claims I was sick, despite being dressed in a cowgirl outfit for the picture, but also said, I only cried when I was taken off the horse. For years, I was a horse fanatic.
My first memories of Miami and living with my grandparents was the placement of my crib. It was adjacent to the window on the side of the house where my grandfather began digging the pool. My earliest memory of a toy was a white elephant, plastic, spotted in primary colors, and stuffed. I also remember biting the edges of my crib. I'm pretty sure I chewed on the elephant too. They say I bounced in my crib (like bouncing on a bed) and did so until I bounced right out of it. While my grandmother worked at Little River at the telephone company and my grandfather ran the gas station, mom kept house. When she left for the grocery store, I remember my grandfather staying with me, giving me a beer, and when mom came home she found me, plastered, under the kitchen table with a cat by the tail. (I have loved cats ever since - beer pretty much too.)
I have great memories of my grandfather. He would bring me things like a doll from the Seminole Indian Reservation. I treasured that doll for a long time. His friend, Bucky Lovelace, also taught me Spanish. I learned my numbers 1-10 en Espanol, before I hit first grade. Bucky was wonderful. When we moved to our first house, away from my grandparents, he occupied a trailer on the back of our lot. About that first house, though. I refused to use the bathroom there. Don't know why, but it was pink. I didn't trust it. I don't remember how long I held out, but must have given in by the time I was three or four. My grandfather made me a small wooden bench that matched my bedroom. I still have it.
I loved my grandfather. In fact, I spent an entire summer hiding out in his bedroom. It was the only air-conditioned space in Miami I knew of. Apart from waiting for Saturday cartoons like Mighty Mouse and programs like Roy Rogers and Sky King, I learned to make spit-wads that summer. Back then toilet paper came in beautiful pastel colors; yellow, blue, green, pink, etc. I don't think anyone noticed until late that I chewed that colored paper into tiny spit wads and thrust them up to the ceiling in his bedroom. Guess adults didn't look up that much. Back then, the ceilings were plastered, so removing my spit wads must have made for some really frustrated adults.
Even though my grandmother worked at the telephone company, she was always good for a game of canasta (yes, she taught me canasta with two decks of cards), plus graham crackers and milk, AND, she would even let me pretend to shave her legs. (She would let me rub pink cream on her legs, she would remove the straight razor, and I would scrape the cream off her legs.) I think we talked about how much she loved Liberace, and she would also let me play with the "falsies" in her bra drawer.
Years later, I would NEVER have need of the knowledge of "falsies" having inherited my breasts from my grandfather's side of the family, but felt better for having known what they were.
My grandfather was never anything but nice to me. He made bets with me, he knew I would win, like, my learning to say the alphabet backwards and winning silver dollars from him: he was NOT nice to my dad. He made bad jokes about my father and his hair. I think my grandfather actually resented my dad for taking my mom, who was the best caretaker they had for their home. He tried to belittle my dad in any way he knew how. My crazy grandfather was probably jealous of a man who cared enough about his family to stay with them, love them, and never try their love.
My grandfather loved practical (and impractical) jokes. As far back as I can remember, he had a monkey named, Sam. He kept a "sucker dollar" list on his gas station store ceiling (people who had been "suckered" our of a dollar bet) and he even made "Life" Magazine once, when, as a promotion, had a woman sit on duck eggs in an effort to hatch them. My dad said he used to also purchase airplane fuel at a discount and sell it for a lower octane at the gas station, and jalopies used to run like crazy on it.
My grandfather's claim to fame were: 1) He was shot in Chicago during a gang war and carried the bullet with him 2) Was bit by a rabid dog as a child and had 21 shots in his stomach to prove it 3) His sister was pinched by a ghost in the hotel they ran outside of Chicago 4) Always kept a monkey named, Sam.
He was, I discovered later in life, an unfaithful husband who caused my grandmother a lot of heartbreak. When he got sick with multiple myeloma, later in life, I was there with my grandmother. His pain was so great they could no longer support his constant need for shots of morphine, they gave him a partial lobotomy. He thought I was my mom. It was truly sad.
Labels: Trenton and Carolyn
I'm hoping my sister, children, nieces and nephew will contribute to this portion of the blog, celebrating wonderful parents and grandparents. I feel especially blessed because I am the elder sibling. My sister, Janice, is about nine years younger than I am. From a generational perspective, it's almost as if we had two sets of parents. I had the younger, more energetic parents, and she had the more affluent, ones. I think I got the better deal. (Sorry, Jan) I also had the unique experience of living with our maternal grandparents, Elizabeth and WC French, for the first few years of my life, and seeing living the interaction between the two.
I'll begin at my earliest memories. I really don't remember being born in Tampa. I do remember a few things though. Maybe these memories are based on what I was told, but I don't think so. I remember being in a playpen, calling for Rockie. (He must have lived across the street.) I was told I called him "Ockie," but I was pretty young. My mom says I began speaking at six months. If any of my children had begun speaking at six months, I would have freaked out. Lucky for me, mom and dad took this as normal. I am told my parents took me to the Falk Theater for a movie (6-9 months) and I began screaming. To keep me quiet, Dad took me to a playground (must have been near the University of Tampa) and put me in a swing to quiet me. I was only there awhile until I fell out. Reportedly, I said, "Whoops, clumsy baby," after the fall. This story has been recounted many years. I believe it to be true.
While still in Tampa, I had the experience of Mom placing me on a pony for a picture. Years later, I discovered my boss, Nilo Menendez, had his picture taken on the same day, in the same place. Apparently, Mom liked the little house Nilo's parent's rented and the day they moved out, Mom moved in. (She didn't tell Dad, though.) After work, he came home to the wrong house. Mom apparently even moved the washing machine without his help. She was a total work horse. Still is. Mom claims I was sick, despite being dressed in a cowgirl outfit for the picture, but also said, I only cried when I was taken off the horse. For years, I was a horse fanatic.
My first memories of Miami and living with my grandparents was the placement of my crib. It was adjacent to the window on the side of the house where my grandfather began digging the pool. My earliest memory of a toy was a white elephant, plastic, spotted in primary colors, and stuffed. I also remember biting the edges of my crib. I'm pretty sure I chewed on the elephant too. They say I bounced in my crib (like bouncing on a bed) and did so until I bounced right out of it. While my grandmother worked at Little River at the telephone company and my grandfather ran the gas station, mom kept house. When she left for the grocery store, I remember my grandfather staying with me, giving me a beer, and when mom came home she found me, plastered, under the kitchen table with a cat by the tail. (I have loved cats ever since - beer pretty much too.)
I have great memories of my grandfather. He would bring me things like a doll from the Seminole Indian Reservation. I treasured that doll for a long time. His friend, Bucky Lovelace, also taught me Spanish. I learned my numbers 1-10 en Espanol, before I hit first grade. Bucky was wonderful. When we moved to our first house, away from my grandparents, he occupied a trailer on the back of our lot. About that first house, though. I refused to use the bathroom there. Don't know why, but it was pink. I didn't trust it. I don't remember how long I held out, but must have given in by the time I was three or four. My grandfather made me a small wooden bench that matched my bedroom. I still have it.
I loved my grandfather. In fact, I spent an entire summer hiding out in his bedroom. It was the only air-conditioned space in Miami I knew of. Apart from waiting for Saturday cartoons like Mighty Mouse and programs like Roy Rogers and Sky King, I learned to make spit-wads that summer. Back then toilet paper came in beautiful pastel colors; yellow, blue, green, pink, etc. I don't think anyone noticed until late that I chewed that colored paper into tiny spit wads and thrust them up to the ceiling in his bedroom. Guess adults didn't look up that much. Back then, the ceilings were plastered, so removing my spit wads must have made for some really frustrated adults.
Even though my grandmother worked at the telephone company, she was always good for a game of canasta (yes, she taught me canasta with two decks of cards), plus graham crackers and milk, AND, she would even let me pretend to shave her legs. (She would let me rub pink cream on her legs, she would remove the straight razor, and I would scrape the cream off her legs.) I think we talked about how much she loved Liberace, and she would also let me play with the "falsies" in her bra drawer.
Years later, I would NEVER have need of the knowledge of "falsies" having inherited my breasts from my grandfather's side of the family, but felt better for having known what they were.
My grandfather was never anything but nice to me. He made bets with me, he knew I would win, like, my learning to say the alphabet backwards and winning silver dollars from him: he was NOT nice to my dad. He made bad jokes about my father and his hair. I think my grandfather actually resented my dad for taking my mom, who was the best caretaker they had for their home. He tried to belittle my dad in any way he knew how. My crazy grandfather was probably jealous of a man who cared enough about his family to stay with them, love them, and never try their love.
My grandfather loved practical (and impractical) jokes. As far back as I can remember, he had a monkey named, Sam. He kept a "sucker dollar" list on his gas station store ceiling (people who had been "suckered" our of a dollar bet) and he even made "Life" Magazine once, when, as a promotion, had a woman sit on duck eggs in an effort to hatch them. My dad said he used to also purchase airplane fuel at a discount and sell it for a lower octane at the gas station, and jalopies used to run like crazy on it.
My grandfather's claim to fame were: 1) He was shot in Chicago during a gang war and carried the bullet with him 2) Was bit by a rabid dog as a child and had 21 shots in his stomach to prove it 3) His sister was pinched by a ghost in the hotel they ran outside of Chicago 4) Always kept a monkey named, Sam.
He was, I discovered later in life, an unfaithful husband who caused my grandmother a lot of heartbreak. When he got sick with multiple myeloma, later in life, I was there with my grandmother. His pain was so great they could no longer support his constant need for shots of morphine, they gave him a partial lobotomy. He thought I was my mom. It was truly sad.
Labels: Trenton and Carolyn
Saturday, July 31, 2010
I will miss you, Uncle Joel
Dear Uncle Joel
I know adults never realize what impact they have on children but so often the smallest things leave the greatest memories. For me, it was you, wiggling your ears, first one side, then the other. This was incredible. It seemed like the most amazing act any human could do. I tried so hard to wiggle my ears, concentrated on trying to raise my scalp, one side, then the other, but it never worked for me. Never, ever. I don't even know if your own children experienced this magic. I can only assume they tried and maybe one of them, or one of your grandchildren, was able to make this magic their own.
I heard you passed away today and that makes me so sad. You are my father's younger brother, and that loss is huge to me. Not just for myself, but for my cousins, their children and their childrens' children.
I love you, uncle, Joel, and pray that you are resting in the arms of your parents, your children, and will be there when my time comes. Time here is short and every gift is meaningful.
With love,
Sharon
I know adults never realize what impact they have on children but so often the smallest things leave the greatest memories. For me, it was you, wiggling your ears, first one side, then the other. This was incredible. It seemed like the most amazing act any human could do. I tried so hard to wiggle my ears, concentrated on trying to raise my scalp, one side, then the other, but it never worked for me. Never, ever. I don't even know if your own children experienced this magic. I can only assume they tried and maybe one of them, or one of your grandchildren, was able to make this magic their own.
I heard you passed away today and that makes me so sad. You are my father's younger brother, and that loss is huge to me. Not just for myself, but for my cousins, their children and their childrens' children.
I love you, uncle, Joel, and pray that you are resting in the arms of your parents, your children, and will be there when my time comes. Time here is short and every gift is meaningful.
With love,
Sharon
Friday, September 11, 2009
Top Five for my Demise, Redux
OK, so my youtube links no longer allows most of my links for the selection. That's ok. If you can find the following songs, play them and think of me when my time on this mortal coil is past. And please be sure to thumb your nose at BMI and Ascap, just for me.
Song number one is "Mary's Prayer" by Danny Wilson, circa 1987.
Song number two is "Losing my Religion" by R.E.M.
Song number three is "Subterranean Homesick Blues" by Bob Dylan.
Song number four is "Still Crazy After All These Years," by Paul Simon.
Song number five is "Kodachrome," by Paul Simon.
If I could add a sixth, without messing up the rhyme, it would be "The Boxer." Bob Dylan did this song on his "Self Portrait" album. For years, I thought he wrote it, but again, it was done by Simon and Garfunkle.
posted by Sharon Graham @ 5:40 PM
Song number one is "Mary's Prayer" by Danny Wilson, circa 1987.
Song number two is "Losing my Religion" by R.E.M.
Song number three is "Subterranean Homesick Blues" by Bob Dylan.
Song number four is "Still Crazy After All These Years," by Paul Simon.
Song number five is "Kodachrome," by Paul Simon.
If I could add a sixth, without messing up the rhyme, it would be "The Boxer." Bob Dylan did this song on his "Self Portrait" album. For years, I thought he wrote it, but again, it was done by Simon and Garfunkle.
posted by Sharon Graham @ 5:40 PM
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A New Day
I don't express too many political views. But, I am a witness to what's happening in the world, and I have to say, America is due, maybe past due, for change. I'm glad Obama won the election. I'm glad because he seems the most articulate, compassionate, and graced candidate we could have hoped to lead us. In the waning days of the election, I think his opposition lost their perspective. The one thing that rang true with Barack Obama was his integrity, his love for his family, and, I really believe his best intentions to run our country with honor, integrity, and grace.
He has been left a difficult position, in terms of our own country and the world. I have faith that he will do his best to help us- regain our place as a leader among countries based on integrity (and not on what we can finance), establish our country as financially secure (can someone please tell Wall St. to take a 6-week vacation?), and make sure our future is securely grounded in our childrens' education, their strength, and not their position as economic fodder for a government that just doesn't give a damn anymore?
He has been left a difficult position, in terms of our own country and the world. I have faith that he will do his best to help us- regain our place as a leader among countries based on integrity (and not on what we can finance), establish our country as financially secure (can someone please tell Wall St. to take a 6-week vacation?), and make sure our future is securely grounded in our childrens' education, their strength, and not their position as economic fodder for a government that just doesn't give a damn anymore?
Monday, August 18, 2008
If Home is where the heart is, where are all the other body parts?
Home is where the heart is...
...and therein lies the rub. (As Shakespeare would have so aptly put it.)
If this is indeed an extended Epitaph, where does one dispose of the component body parts? Hmmmm. Head could go almost anywhere, except, I think it might be better off put in the concrete beneath the NEXT City Hall Plaza building. Perhaps brains will have a more positive influence in death, than they have had in life. To wit: No more freakin' Super Bowl bids! In fact, NO MORE BS about Economic Impact unless it's reality-based. (Now there's a curse!)
Send my right arm to my daughter who might need it should she choose to have a child. That right arm should protect everyone within her sight. Send my left arm to my youngest. He will need to learn protection from sinister folks, because he's the baby, despite the fact he has a grin that would make a canary quiver. Send my legs for "kickin' butt" to Eric. Now, you might think Eric can kick his own "butt," however, I think I would prefer to serve that role as he's a big lost teddybear.
As for my heart, just send it off to rest in the Stephen's Cemetery in Mantachie, MS. My heart was always there anyway.
...and therein lies the rub. (As Shakespeare would have so aptly put it.)
If this is indeed an extended Epitaph, where does one dispose of the component body parts? Hmmmm. Head could go almost anywhere, except, I think it might be better off put in the concrete beneath the NEXT City Hall Plaza building. Perhaps brains will have a more positive influence in death, than they have had in life. To wit: No more freakin' Super Bowl bids! In fact, NO MORE BS about Economic Impact unless it's reality-based. (Now there's a curse!)
Send my right arm to my daughter who might need it should she choose to have a child. That right arm should protect everyone within her sight. Send my left arm to my youngest. He will need to learn protection from sinister folks, because he's the baby, despite the fact he has a grin that would make a canary quiver. Send my legs for "kickin' butt" to Eric. Now, you might think Eric can kick his own "butt," however, I think I would prefer to serve that role as he's a big lost teddybear.
As for my heart, just send it off to rest in the Stephen's Cemetery in Mantachie, MS. My heart was always there anyway.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Anti-Resume
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Anti-Resume
I was recently told, in order to get an interview, I had to submit a resume, just following the Memorial Day Weekend. I did not do this. It may have cost me a job, but it got me to thinking, what on earth would they have learned from a one-page resume that was NOT on the stupid job application? So, then I began thinking about how much better off potential employers would be if they researched a potential employee's ANTI-RESUME. This document would include ALL THE THINGS YOU HAVE NEVER DONE ON THE JOB.
So here goes:
Sharon S. Graham
ANTI-RESUME OF QUALIFICATIONS
College:
Graduated Cum Laude from the University of S. Florida. Cheated? NO Cheated upon? YES
Formal Career:
1970-1975 - Tampa Hillsborough Public Library System (various branches) . I did NOT slough off work for coworkers, I only closed a library once, when the children waiting for the pool to open next door paid me a visit and knocked over five large library shelves, stole from my purse, and generally terrorized me. (My co-worker was arrested that morning for shoplifting, that's why she never showed.)
1975-1977 - Got married instead of committing to graduate school. Honestly thought marriage would save me from a lifetime of drudgery. (OK, I was REALLY NAIVE!!!) so my next career was with the Museum of York County, SC. I did NOT have any affairs with coworkers (although some strange people suspected me of this). I did get lost retrieving goats from Pineville one time. I got sent to West Chester State College to learn to be the Planetarium Director for the Museum. I had the BEST BOSS EVER, Chris Houmes, at the museum. If she wasn't there I wouldn't have lasted 6 months. Thanks, Chris!! I learned that I liked the non-poisonous snakes better than little rodents, as the little rodents always bit me, and the reptiles never did. (Although crossing the Catawba Bridge in sandles, with a small alligator on the floorboard on the passenger's side of the VW Beetle, always made me nervous. I did LOVE Timothy the Chinchilla. Petting him was like caressing a cloud. (How anyone could consider making such a lovely creature into a coat appalled me!)
1977-1983 - Charlotte Public Library System. OK, lets see what I did NOT do there. I did NOT contribute to the paranoia of a coworker that sent him over the edge. He got that way all by himself. I did NOT deliberately go to a retirement party at Belks for a coworker, then pay for, but miss my meal, running back as fast as I could, only to get back to the computer 15 minutes late to a boss who said, "Well, we wondered if you were ever coming back!" (Thanks, Carol). I admit to playing 21 questions with the typists, but still will not admit to missing any typos while I did so. I also admit to being, "The Mad Librarian." Jane Parker & Kitty Hughes, I have missed you greatly over the years.
Informal Career: (1972-1983)
I had a few other jobs. I was a shampoo girl in Charlotte, NC. An illegal one, but I did a good job and it bought the groceries. I was also a bartender at the Holiday Inn at Carowinds. It lasted until they thought I should wear a costume like some goldrush bimbo, at which I drew the line. I did a lot of construction work too: waterproofing, roofing, painting, etc. I worked a lot. I never sloughed off a job, nor did I steal, nor did I slack.
In 1983 I had my daughter, Liz. It snowed the day she was born.
Before I left the hospital with her, I knew I had find our escape.
Back in Brandon, in 1983, my beloved Brother In Law David, was working for the Tampa Tribune. He knew they had an opening coming up for an NIE coordinator, so I went for it.
I got the job and worked there from 1983-1985. I ran the High School Journalism Workshop and Spelling Bee, plus worked on some NIE textbooks. I won't say I never cursed out the Trib's computer system when it lost 22,000 correctly spelled words I had placed in the system. Everything was lost. I just started over. I LOVED my coworkers. Probably the best, most creative opportunity I ever had. I was allowed to do promo ads, slide shows, just, was free to be as creative as possible. (Thanks, Roger!) I did NOT take the job for granted and appreciated every opportunity they gave me. I do admit to overhearing a conversation in the ladies room, shortly after I started. It was about weight loss. I commented that I had lost over 160 pounds of ugly fat. The women exclaimed, You Didn't! HOW?? I simply replied, "I divorced him."
1985 - Present
I've worked for the City of Tampa, first, as the Franklin St. Mall Administrator (dealing with daily vendors, daily entertainment, and some special events) in the Franklin St. Mall district. What haven't I done in this position? I haven't cheated a soul. Have tried to give potential vendors honest advice, reserved a space - permanently - on Franklin St. for a vendor who will not be coming back, have dealt with zealots, bigots, pimps, and even the Klan. Have I caved? No. My philosophy is to treat everyone equal under the law. And that's how it's been. No special favors, no gifts, no presents, not nothing, not even a hot dog, because, I can't be bought, not that anyone would try. I would never accept even the appearance of it. I would like to believe I have the trust of my vendors that I've treated them the same. If not, I would like to hear from them. I've worked with promoters from all across the country and I believe they feel the same. I hold the same standards for everyone (unless, of course, I am told not to by my superiors). And that happens too.
I'm ready for a new challenge. I am accomplished at many things, just not avarice, distrustfulness, gossip, cruelty, meanness, faithlessness, lust, etc. I do think, though, in my current position, I am in danger of loosing my humanity. I really can't bear to hear about yet another "Good cause, non-profit, you know organization." I do favor cats over dogs, but, have an abiding interest in Cesar Milan.
The Anti-Resume
I was recently told, in order to get an interview, I had to submit a resume, just following the Memorial Day Weekend. I did not do this. It may have cost me a job, but it got me to thinking, what on earth would they have learned from a one-page resume that was NOT on the stupid job application? So, then I began thinking about how much better off potential employers would be if they researched a potential employee's ANTI-RESUME. This document would include ALL THE THINGS YOU HAVE NEVER DONE ON THE JOB.
So here goes:
Sharon S. Graham
ANTI-RESUME OF QUALIFICATIONS
College:
Graduated Cum Laude from the University of S. Florida. Cheated? NO Cheated upon? YES
Formal Career:
1970-1975 - Tampa Hillsborough Public Library System (various branches) . I did NOT slough off work for coworkers, I only closed a library once, when the children waiting for the pool to open next door paid me a visit and knocked over five large library shelves, stole from my purse, and generally terrorized me. (My co-worker was arrested that morning for shoplifting, that's why she never showed.)
1975-1977 - Got married instead of committing to graduate school. Honestly thought marriage would save me from a lifetime of drudgery. (OK, I was REALLY NAIVE!!!) so my next career was with the Museum of York County, SC. I did NOT have any affairs with coworkers (although some strange people suspected me of this). I did get lost retrieving goats from Pineville one time. I got sent to West Chester State College to learn to be the Planetarium Director for the Museum. I had the BEST BOSS EVER, Chris Houmes, at the museum. If she wasn't there I wouldn't have lasted 6 months. Thanks, Chris!! I learned that I liked the non-poisonous snakes better than little rodents, as the little rodents always bit me, and the reptiles never did. (Although crossing the Catawba Bridge in sandles, with a small alligator on the floorboard on the passenger's side of the VW Beetle, always made me nervous. I did LOVE Timothy the Chinchilla. Petting him was like caressing a cloud. (How anyone could consider making such a lovely creature into a coat appalled me!)
1977-1983 - Charlotte Public Library System. OK, lets see what I did NOT do there. I did NOT contribute to the paranoia of a coworker that sent him over the edge. He got that way all by himself. I did NOT deliberately go to a retirement party at Belks for a coworker, then pay for, but miss my meal, running back as fast as I could, only to get back to the computer 15 minutes late to a boss who said, "Well, we wondered if you were ever coming back!" (Thanks, Carol). I admit to playing 21 questions with the typists, but still will not admit to missing any typos while I did so. I also admit to being, "The Mad Librarian." Jane Parker & Kitty Hughes, I have missed you greatly over the years.
Informal Career: (1972-1983)
I had a few other jobs. I was a shampoo girl in Charlotte, NC. An illegal one, but I did a good job and it bought the groceries. I was also a bartender at the Holiday Inn at Carowinds. It lasted until they thought I should wear a costume like some goldrush bimbo, at which I drew the line. I did a lot of construction work too: waterproofing, roofing, painting, etc. I worked a lot. I never sloughed off a job, nor did I steal, nor did I slack.
In 1983 I had my daughter, Liz. It snowed the day she was born.
Before I left the hospital with her, I knew I had find our escape.
Back in Brandon, in 1983, my beloved Brother In Law David, was working for the Tampa Tribune. He knew they had an opening coming up for an NIE coordinator, so I went for it.
I got the job and worked there from 1983-1985. I ran the High School Journalism Workshop and Spelling Bee, plus worked on some NIE textbooks. I won't say I never cursed out the Trib's computer system when it lost 22,000 correctly spelled words I had placed in the system. Everything was lost. I just started over. I LOVED my coworkers. Probably the best, most creative opportunity I ever had. I was allowed to do promo ads, slide shows, just, was free to be as creative as possible. (Thanks, Roger!) I did NOT take the job for granted and appreciated every opportunity they gave me. I do admit to overhearing a conversation in the ladies room, shortly after I started. It was about weight loss. I commented that I had lost over 160 pounds of ugly fat. The women exclaimed, You Didn't! HOW?? I simply replied, "I divorced him."
1985 - Present
I've worked for the City of Tampa, first, as the Franklin St. Mall Administrator (dealing with daily vendors, daily entertainment, and some special events) in the Franklin St. Mall district. What haven't I done in this position? I haven't cheated a soul. Have tried to give potential vendors honest advice, reserved a space - permanently - on Franklin St. for a vendor who will not be coming back, have dealt with zealots, bigots, pimps, and even the Klan. Have I caved? No. My philosophy is to treat everyone equal under the law. And that's how it's been. No special favors, no gifts, no presents, not nothing, not even a hot dog, because, I can't be bought, not that anyone would try. I would never accept even the appearance of it. I would like to believe I have the trust of my vendors that I've treated them the same. If not, I would like to hear from them. I've worked with promoters from all across the country and I believe they feel the same. I hold the same standards for everyone (unless, of course, I am told not to by my superiors). And that happens too.
I'm ready for a new challenge. I am accomplished at many things, just not avarice, distrustfulness, gossip, cruelty, meanness, faithlessness, lust, etc. I do think, though, in my current position, I am in danger of loosing my humanity. I really can't bear to hear about yet another "Good cause, non-profit, you know organization." I do favor cats over dogs, but, have an abiding interest in Cesar Milan.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I think my blog is one long epitaph
It dawns on me that my blog is like one very long epitaph, but, who better to write my story than me? Maybe people who tell me the things we share on the internet will live on forever as some strange binary message to be interpreted at some much later date are telling me the truth. If so, that's cool.
Speaking of epitaphs, my favorite is one by Dorothy Parker:
"She hated bleak and wintery things alone,
All that was warm and quick, she loved too well.
A light, a flame, a heart against her own,
It is forever bitter cold in hell."
The title of that is simply "Epitaph."
This is the same Dorothy Parker, who wrote: Razors pain you, Rivers are damp, (you know, the ode to suicide that ends, "you might as well live..."
I don't know what made Dorothy so ambivalent with regards to life and death. Maybe it was fear. She must have had a good Catholic upbringing. I'd like to think so. At least, if you're Catholic, you can confess at the last moment of your life (have candles lit for you and your sins), confess, be forgiven, and make it through the pearly gates provided you are honest in the end. But, if she was raised as a Southern Baptist, forget it. She knew she was a sinner and doomed from birth. I was raised that way, and have frequently thought that suicide is a more fitting end than any other for a sinner. "Shoot me now!" Have I not said that a thousand times during my life?
Anyone who has ever committed a mortal sin, whether Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, or any other denomination has to wonder, what now? Does our spirit demand reparation when our soul departs? I have to wonder.
I think if we remain as ghosts, that's probably what the Catholic's refer to as Limbo. It's between places. I just hope they're wrong about babies and "unsaved" souls. That would be too cruel. Southern Baptists, on the other hand, are just all black and white about it. Babies and children before the "age of awareness" (or whatever they call it) are saved; all others, whether they've "heard the message of Jesus, or not," well they're just doomed.
When I learned this as a child, I was offended. How could God abandon any child who didn't have the opportunity to learn? To know about Jesus. This just sort of made me mad. No, this just made me mad, period.
Don't get me started on the Southern Baptist's take on the souls of animals, and whether or not they meet us in heaven.
Maybe that's when I lost it. Maybe, I started to read Mark Twain's "Letters From the Earth" and found a more compassionate and human view of Adam and Eve. And maybe I found in Mark Twain a better apostle than any I'd read about in the bible.
I would love to find redemption. I would love to find absolution. But I won't ever accept those things at "any cost." Like Mark Twain, if the only folks in heaven are sitting around on clouds, playing harps, badly, then, like him, maybe I belong elsewhere.
Speaking of epitaphs, my favorite is one by Dorothy Parker:
"She hated bleak and wintery things alone,
All that was warm and quick, she loved too well.
A light, a flame, a heart against her own,
It is forever bitter cold in hell."
The title of that is simply "Epitaph."
This is the same Dorothy Parker, who wrote: Razors pain you, Rivers are damp, (you know, the ode to suicide that ends, "you might as well live..."
I don't know what made Dorothy so ambivalent with regards to life and death. Maybe it was fear. She must have had a good Catholic upbringing. I'd like to think so. At least, if you're Catholic, you can confess at the last moment of your life (have candles lit for you and your sins), confess, be forgiven, and make it through the pearly gates provided you are honest in the end. But, if she was raised as a Southern Baptist, forget it. She knew she was a sinner and doomed from birth. I was raised that way, and have frequently thought that suicide is a more fitting end than any other for a sinner. "Shoot me now!" Have I not said that a thousand times during my life?
Anyone who has ever committed a mortal sin, whether Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, or any other denomination has to wonder, what now? Does our spirit demand reparation when our soul departs? I have to wonder.
I think if we remain as ghosts, that's probably what the Catholic's refer to as Limbo. It's between places. I just hope they're wrong about babies and "unsaved" souls. That would be too cruel. Southern Baptists, on the other hand, are just all black and white about it. Babies and children before the "age of awareness" (or whatever they call it) are saved; all others, whether they've "heard the message of Jesus, or not," well they're just doomed.
When I learned this as a child, I was offended. How could God abandon any child who didn't have the opportunity to learn? To know about Jesus. This just sort of made me mad. No, this just made me mad, period.
Don't get me started on the Southern Baptist's take on the souls of animals, and whether or not they meet us in heaven.
Maybe that's when I lost it. Maybe, I started to read Mark Twain's "Letters From the Earth" and found a more compassionate and human view of Adam and Eve. And maybe I found in Mark Twain a better apostle than any I'd read about in the bible.
I would love to find redemption. I would love to find absolution. But I won't ever accept those things at "any cost." Like Mark Twain, if the only folks in heaven are sitting around on clouds, playing harps, badly, then, like him, maybe I belong elsewhere.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The Grandfather as an Eccentric and Trickster
Peeps. (Not the marshmallow treats, my Grandfather)
Peeps. AKA PeePaw. This was my maternal grandfather. He was the trickster. He would pretend to drink tabasco sauce from the table. My cousin Steven would mimic him, getting a large mouthful of tabasco sauce in the process. Peeps thought this was funny. He kept monkeys. He called every one of them Sam. He would give Sam a lit cigarette, only to have Sam apply the lit cigarette to his rear end, scratching with it. Again, this was thought of as funny. Our "Sam's" always had large cages, probably 20' by 10' by 10' in size. They were well provided for, given fruit, and monkey chow, but they weren't happy. Sometimes Sam ran away. One time, aunt Doris and I tried to lure Sam down from a large tree (an Australian pine) in a neighbor's yard with a bar of soap. (For some reason Sam liked to eat soap.) I think aunt Doris caught him (by his slight but strong tail) and we took him home. Poor, Sam. He might have developed his own tribe of Monkeys in south Florida (near the Opa Locka Airport) and might have become famous (as far as monkeys go) with his own indigenous tribe. Alas, this was NOT to be.
Peeps had a gas station (my dad said he thought Peeps would buy excess airline fuel at a much higher octane and put it in his tanks). Dad said, Peeps' customers' old jalopies ran like crazy on that super high octane. I remember when his gas station had gas at 19.9 cents per gallon. Peeps also had a restaurant, right behind the gas station. I'm pretty sure they called it Frenchy's.
Frenchy's was one stop burger joint. It was an outdoor cafe with barstools all around (more like a bar than a burger place, but, it was a work of art in development. My mom worked there for a time. He also had a waitress with one blue eye and one brown one. She was the most incredible woman I had ever seen. He had a "bunny hop" contest right after it opened so it must have been Easter. He also had a postcard made of the place.
My grandfather was sort of like Ernest Hemmingway in his time. He was certainly larger than life. He was a stranger in a strange land, Florida in the early 1930's. He disappointed his wife and younger children at every turn (he was a major womanizer, an alcoholic, and had an abiding disrespect for the family unit) but, still he had a certain charm.
Labels: Life on the Edge., PeePaw, Peeps
Peeps. AKA PeePaw. This was my maternal grandfather. He was the trickster. He would pretend to drink tabasco sauce from the table. My cousin Steven would mimic him, getting a large mouthful of tabasco sauce in the process. Peeps thought this was funny. He kept monkeys. He called every one of them Sam. He would give Sam a lit cigarette, only to have Sam apply the lit cigarette to his rear end, scratching with it. Again, this was thought of as funny. Our "Sam's" always had large cages, probably 20' by 10' by 10' in size. They were well provided for, given fruit, and monkey chow, but they weren't happy. Sometimes Sam ran away. One time, aunt Doris and I tried to lure Sam down from a large tree (an Australian pine) in a neighbor's yard with a bar of soap. (For some reason Sam liked to eat soap.) I think aunt Doris caught him (by his slight but strong tail) and we took him home. Poor, Sam. He might have developed his own tribe of Monkeys in south Florida (near the Opa Locka Airport) and might have become famous (as far as monkeys go) with his own indigenous tribe. Alas, this was NOT to be.
Peeps had a gas station (my dad said he thought Peeps would buy excess airline fuel at a much higher octane and put it in his tanks). Dad said, Peeps' customers' old jalopies ran like crazy on that super high octane. I remember when his gas station had gas at 19.9 cents per gallon. Peeps also had a restaurant, right behind the gas station. I'm pretty sure they called it Frenchy's.
Frenchy's was one stop burger joint. It was an outdoor cafe with barstools all around (more like a bar than a burger place, but, it was a work of art in development. My mom worked there for a time. He also had a waitress with one blue eye and one brown one. She was the most incredible woman I had ever seen. He had a "bunny hop" contest right after it opened so it must have been Easter. He also had a postcard made of the place.
My grandfather was sort of like Ernest Hemmingway in his time. He was certainly larger than life. He was a stranger in a strange land, Florida in the early 1930's. He disappointed his wife and younger children at every turn (he was a major womanizer, an alcoholic, and had an abiding disrespect for the family unit) but, still he had a certain charm.
Labels: Life on the Edge., PeePaw, Peeps
When Charm is Not Enough
I honestly don't know when my grandfather's charm became lackluster for my grandmother. For my mother, I think it began when she told her father she was marrying my father, and he gave her $20.00 and suggested she buy sheets with it. Please bear in mind, my mother, the younger of her siblings had managed to care for the family (my grandmother HAD to work for the phone company), for probably twelve years. In that time, her daddy had acquired another daughter (in Nashville) and had joined the Merchant Marines, leaving my grandmother and the children in desperation, while he blithely headed off for San Francisco.
Early on in my life, I was taught that my grandfather was not the best of guys. Still, he gave me my first beer at almost just over a year old and enjoyed the show when my mother returned to find me holding the cat by its tail, giggling, under the dining room table. To this day, I can remember how angry my mother was.
Frankly, Peeps was NOT to be trusted.
My grandmother was induced to remarry him at the urging of my Aunt Doris and Uncle Buddy. These were the older siblings who put Humpty Dumpty together again... My mother and Uncle Bobby were NOT pleased. (Think they did not want to move to Miami, and besides, they, along with my grandmother, had gotten their lives together again.)
For the life of me, I can't imagine what really made my grandmother try again. He was simply NOT salvageable. But, he was charming, funny, evil. They were married three times and divorced twice. To each other.
You know, when I think about it, perpetrator of the multiple marriages; his damaged children were. I think, based on my experience, every child must want the puzzle of a broken family fixed. To have the pieces match, to fit the broken pieces back together at last. To have one cohesive picture.
Ironically, that can never be.
Right now, I'm looking for a missing aunt. For all I know, Peeps, gave her away when my grandmother was sleeping. I really wouldn't put it past him.
My dad found her birth certificate, Cora May French, b. 5/13/1927 in Chicago to our grandparents, Elizabeth Louise Campbell and Winford Clifford French, in Cook Co.
Dear Aunt Cora May,
I want to find you for NO OTHER REASON than to tell you, you have family that exists and loves you, today! You were named for my grandfather's sister. We want nothing from you, just to know your life has been filled with love.
Labels: Cora May French 5/13/1927
Early on in my life, I was taught that my grandfather was not the best of guys. Still, he gave me my first beer at almost just over a year old and enjoyed the show when my mother returned to find me holding the cat by its tail, giggling, under the dining room table. To this day, I can remember how angry my mother was.
Frankly, Peeps was NOT to be trusted.
My grandmother was induced to remarry him at the urging of my Aunt Doris and Uncle Buddy. These were the older siblings who put Humpty Dumpty together again... My mother and Uncle Bobby were NOT pleased. (Think they did not want to move to Miami, and besides, they, along with my grandmother, had gotten their lives together again.)
For the life of me, I can't imagine what really made my grandmother try again. He was simply NOT salvageable. But, he was charming, funny, evil. They were married three times and divorced twice. To each other.
You know, when I think about it, perpetrator of the multiple marriages; his damaged children were. I think, based on my experience, every child must want the puzzle of a broken family fixed. To have the pieces match, to fit the broken pieces back together at last. To have one cohesive picture.
Ironically, that can never be.
Right now, I'm looking for a missing aunt. For all I know, Peeps, gave her away when my grandmother was sleeping. I really wouldn't put it past him.
My dad found her birth certificate, Cora May French, b. 5/13/1927 in Chicago to our grandparents, Elizabeth Louise Campbell and Winford Clifford French, in Cook Co.
Dear Aunt Cora May,
I want to find you for NO OTHER REASON than to tell you, you have family that exists and loves you, today! You were named for my grandfather's sister. We want nothing from you, just to know your life has been filled with love.
Labels: Cora May French 5/13/1927
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Mary's Prayer - by Danny Wilson
The song, Mary's Prayer, is very special to me. I met Daryl at the Islands Club, a little bar on Davis Islands twenty years ago. This song was on the jukebox. It was very basic, film noir kind of place. The exterior had a Moorish design with minarets and tile. It must have been built when the Islands were (I think in the 1940's). The entire island was dredged out of Tampa Bay and built into an island community.
I got into the Islands Club the first time, when I was only 17. Don't tell Mom, Dad, Eric or Chris. It was really a basic bar on the inside with only a handfull of pool tables, a big clunky bar, and a ladies' room with graffiti that rivalled that of the Hub in downtown Tampa. I'll probably never share all my adventures at the Islands Club, but I will share that today, it is a retirement home. I hope they kept the jukebox. It had Mario Lanza mixed in with the likes of Danny Wilson.
p.s. As many of you already know, when I finally retire (I mean the BIG sleep, not from work) I want to be crisply fried up and scattered in several places (don't worry, I'll leave the longitude & latitude designations) but for my send-off, I want a little party for my friends. The song, Mary's Prayer, is on my playlist.
Carpe Diem!
I got into the Islands Club the first time, when I was only 17. Don't tell Mom, Dad, Eric or Chris. It was really a basic bar on the inside with only a handfull of pool tables, a big clunky bar, and a ladies' room with graffiti that rivalled that of the Hub in downtown Tampa. I'll probably never share all my adventures at the Islands Club, but I will share that today, it is a retirement home. I hope they kept the jukebox. It had Mario Lanza mixed in with the likes of Danny Wilson.
p.s. As many of you already know, when I finally retire (I mean the BIG sleep, not from work) I want to be crisply fried up and scattered in several places (don't worry, I'll leave the longitude & latitude designations) but for my send-off, I want a little party for my friends. The song, Mary's Prayer, is on my playlist.
Carpe Diem!
Friday, June 8, 2007
High Flight
To Slip the surly bonds of Earth...
The following poem is called High Flight
by Jon Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Pilot Officer, RCAF ---- 1941
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence; hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, Up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
In December 1941, Pilot Officer John G. Magee, a nineteen year old American
serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force in England, was killed when his Spitfire
collided with another airplane inside a cloud. Several months before his death, he
composed his immortal sonnet "High Flight," a copy of which he mailed to
his mother in the United States.
The following poem is called High Flight
by Jon Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Pilot Officer, RCAF ---- 1941
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence; hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, Up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
In December 1941, Pilot Officer John G. Magee, a nineteen year old American
serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force in England, was killed when his Spitfire
collided with another airplane inside a cloud. Several months before his death, he
composed his immortal sonnet "High Flight," a copy of which he mailed to
his mother in the United States.
Atlantis slips the surly bonds of Earth
Tonight, at 7:38 p.m., Atlantis left Cape Canaveral for a little hook-up with the Space Station.
The weather was rainy here, so the cloud cover prohibited a viewing of this momentous event. Sad for me? Yes. Why? Well, I've been watching lift-offs since I was a child. John Glenn's circuit around the earth, that happened right after Sputnik's launch in 1959. John Glenn's orbit gave me a great deal of hope. Perhaps we might not be vicitms of Cubas's (and the evil USSR's plans to "bury us") Cuban Missle Crisis after all.
I begged my Dad to build us a "fall out shelter." Dad had to demonstrate the inefficiency of "going underground in Miami," by using a post-hole digger to show me that, in Miami, one could not dig beneath 6' without finding the water table. Believe me, I was a smart kid, but I was not so smart as to come up with another solution to this horrible problem. His solution? Faith. It simply wasn't going to happen. God would not reveal the "End Times"so this "so-called threat," was only that, a "threat." Dad doesn't know this, but he helped me live through months of "emergency exercises," wherein we had to find our bus (for me it was route 9), duck and cover exercices wherein I knew I would be fused to the underside of my desk like the gum already stuck there, and well, I love you, Dad, but, reality taught me that maybe it was better to exist at "ground zero" than to live on the perimeter.
The weather was rainy here, so the cloud cover prohibited a viewing of this momentous event. Sad for me? Yes. Why? Well, I've been watching lift-offs since I was a child. John Glenn's circuit around the earth, that happened right after Sputnik's launch in 1959. John Glenn's orbit gave me a great deal of hope. Perhaps we might not be vicitms of Cubas's (and the evil USSR's plans to "bury us") Cuban Missle Crisis after all.
I begged my Dad to build us a "fall out shelter." Dad had to demonstrate the inefficiency of "going underground in Miami," by using a post-hole digger to show me that, in Miami, one could not dig beneath 6' without finding the water table. Believe me, I was a smart kid, but I was not so smart as to come up with another solution to this horrible problem. His solution? Faith. It simply wasn't going to happen. God would not reveal the "End Times"so this "so-called threat," was only that, a "threat." Dad doesn't know this, but he helped me live through months of "emergency exercises," wherein we had to find our bus (for me it was route 9), duck and cover exercices wherein I knew I would be fused to the underside of my desk like the gum already stuck there, and well, I love you, Dad, but, reality taught me that maybe it was better to exist at "ground zero" than to live on the perimeter.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
OK, so as a blogger, I'm not so consistent.
OK, so as a blogger, I'm not so consistent.
But, I do like to think I'm providing quality over quantity.
I'm really proud of everything on my site so far. It's like a very slow diary. So, you must wonder, how am I coping with my life some months after my last post. Well, I am still crazy, still sweating f0r NO GOOD REASON (thank you menopause, so very much!!!) I'll try to catch you up quickly. Liz, formerly of Atlanta, is now in San Francisco. Parenthetically speaking, what a wonderful city! Daryl & I went out during spring break (Eric & Chris were supposed to go with us, but, whither Eric goest, or refuses to goest, so goest or doesn't goest Chris... you figure it out.) Right now, Eric is 17 and Chris is 14. One idolizes the other... again, you figure it out.) I didn't want to "kick against the pricks," (this, believe it or not is a Biblical reference -- thank you Constance Bartels) so, the boys stayed home, and Daryl & I went alone. Liz and Brian have a wonderful apartment and two gracious cats (Fleury and FBlanche - F1 & F2 to me) so we had a great time, sans plaintive teenage boys. The payback, you ask... Well, we have a little roadtrip planned for this summer. Two Schuette nieces are getting married and, well, we're all going.
San Francisco has the BEST CLIMATE ON EARTH FOR MENOPAUSAL WOMEN. I didn't break a sweat even ONCE. San Francisco has hills though. I like walking downhill, but uphill, well, that's what the busses are for. I'm happy that Liz is living in such a wonderful place -- great shopping, great food, great sights, totally groovy place. Plus, they pay people really well there. Unlike Florida whose pay scale is comparable to that of the tenant farmers in the Grapes of Wrath.
But, I do like to think I'm providing quality over quantity.
I'm really proud of everything on my site so far. It's like a very slow diary. So, you must wonder, how am I coping with my life some months after my last post. Well, I am still crazy, still sweating f0r NO GOOD REASON (thank you menopause, so very much!!!) I'll try to catch you up quickly. Liz, formerly of Atlanta, is now in San Francisco. Parenthetically speaking, what a wonderful city! Daryl & I went out during spring break (Eric & Chris were supposed to go with us, but, whither Eric goest, or refuses to goest, so goest or doesn't goest Chris... you figure it out.) Right now, Eric is 17 and Chris is 14. One idolizes the other... again, you figure it out.) I didn't want to "kick against the pricks," (this, believe it or not is a Biblical reference -- thank you Constance Bartels) so, the boys stayed home, and Daryl & I went alone. Liz and Brian have a wonderful apartment and two gracious cats (Fleury and FBlanche - F1 & F2 to me) so we had a great time, sans plaintive teenage boys. The payback, you ask... Well, we have a little roadtrip planned for this summer. Two Schuette nieces are getting married and, well, we're all going.
San Francisco has the BEST CLIMATE ON EARTH FOR MENOPAUSAL WOMEN. I didn't break a sweat even ONCE. San Francisco has hills though. I like walking downhill, but uphill, well, that's what the busses are for. I'm happy that Liz is living in such a wonderful place -- great shopping, great food, great sights, totally groovy place. Plus, they pay people really well there. Unlike Florida whose pay scale is comparable to that of the tenant farmers in the Grapes of Wrath.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
I'm mad as a hatter and I Can't Take It Anymore
I'm mad as a hatter and I Can't Take It Anymore
Hatters, Mad as... They used to use mercury to form felt hats. I'm not sure how the mercury was used, but, I'm menopausal, my personal mercury (temperature-wise - that is, is off the charts.) I grew up in south Florida. We lived on the edge of the Everglades. My Miami playground included rock pits, cow pastures, and HaulOver Beach. I don't know how this beach got it's name, but, from childhood, I do remember getting tar-balls stuck on your feet, or worse, on your swimsuit. There are a few things that stick in my mind about that beach: First, that you parked away from the beach and went through a tunnel under the road to get there; Second, that there was a fishing pier at the beach, and one of my earliest memories was of a shark caught at the end of the pier - that was brought up and displayed on the pier with a beer can in its mouth (beer cans in the 1950's were made of steel and made a good support for a shark's mouthful of teeth); Third, that my parents always set their blankets near the pier and we always swam in the water near the pier.
Beaches in Florida are unique from place to place. The sand is truly different - wherever you go. At HaulOver (and South Beach) the sand is comprised of crushed shells. Miami's sand is sticky and salty. In Daytona, Ormond, and Cocoa (areas in the middle of the east coast) the sand is more compact, dense, so you can drive over it. On the west coast, south of Tampa, the beaches along the Gulf Coast are silkier, less sticky, and in some places - like just south of Sarasota, are so soft and fine, it's like walking in powdered sugar. For the record, best places for shelling are anywhere from St. Pete Beach (south end) to just south of Sarasota.
I love my memories of Florida. I believe I have been very blessed to live in and see some of the most incredibly beautiful places on earth. But, my world has changed dramatically. Over the last five decades, I've seen our home become more and more like northern residential areas; zero lot lines, condominiums crowding public beaches, paradise lost.
I will be an expatriate soon. I just hope those who follow appreciate what is left.
But, they will be drilling for oil, just like Texas, off our coast soon.
Hatters, Mad as... They used to use mercury to form felt hats. I'm not sure how the mercury was used, but, I'm menopausal, my personal mercury (temperature-wise - that is, is off the charts.) I grew up in south Florida. We lived on the edge of the Everglades. My Miami playground included rock pits, cow pastures, and HaulOver Beach. I don't know how this beach got it's name, but, from childhood, I do remember getting tar-balls stuck on your feet, or worse, on your swimsuit. There are a few things that stick in my mind about that beach: First, that you parked away from the beach and went through a tunnel under the road to get there; Second, that there was a fishing pier at the beach, and one of my earliest memories was of a shark caught at the end of the pier - that was brought up and displayed on the pier with a beer can in its mouth (beer cans in the 1950's were made of steel and made a good support for a shark's mouthful of teeth); Third, that my parents always set their blankets near the pier and we always swam in the water near the pier.
Beaches in Florida are unique from place to place. The sand is truly different - wherever you go. At HaulOver (and South Beach) the sand is comprised of crushed shells. Miami's sand is sticky and salty. In Daytona, Ormond, and Cocoa (areas in the middle of the east coast) the sand is more compact, dense, so you can drive over it. On the west coast, south of Tampa, the beaches along the Gulf Coast are silkier, less sticky, and in some places - like just south of Sarasota, are so soft and fine, it's like walking in powdered sugar. For the record, best places for shelling are anywhere from St. Pete Beach (south end) to just south of Sarasota.
I love my memories of Florida. I believe I have been very blessed to live in and see some of the most incredibly beautiful places on earth. But, my world has changed dramatically. Over the last five decades, I've seen our home become more and more like northern residential areas; zero lot lines, condominiums crowding public beaches, paradise lost.
I will be an expatriate soon. I just hope those who follow appreciate what is left.
But, they will be drilling for oil, just like Texas, off our coast soon.
Monday, February 6, 2006
i cAn't TakE IT anymore
Lawrence Ferlenghetti wrote...
"Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powderblue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
and German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
iceskated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jinglebell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest of
Second Comings."
This is my sentimental favorite reading in lieu of The Night Before Christmas.
I also love Ferlenghetti, for his "Dog" poem that starts out, "The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality..." It's another lengthy piece but certainly worth reading.
I think Ferlenghetti's first line about Christ climbing down from his bare tree, is almost painfully evocative and poignant.
I really love those writers from the "Beat Generation."
"Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powderblue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
and German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
iceskated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jinglebell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest of
Second Comings."
This is my sentimental favorite reading in lieu of The Night Before Christmas.
I also love Ferlenghetti, for his "Dog" poem that starts out, "The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality..." It's another lengthy piece but certainly worth reading.
I think Ferlenghetti's first line about Christ climbing down from his bare tree, is almost painfully evocative and poignant.
I really love those writers from the "Beat Generation."
Thursday, February 2, 2006
A Good Man is Hard to Find
"A Good Man is Hard to Find" - Flannery O'Connor
Flannery O'Connor is one of my favorite writers. She grew up in a small town, and - maybe because of small town characters, or maybe because of small-town happenstance, she realized that anything could happen. A criminal meets a small town family dominated by a mean-spirited grandma. Whooo-wee, Helzapoppin! The crazy grandma leads her family into a confrontation with a criminal who has nothing to loose. The grandma has an epiphany, but it comes, it's simply too late. She realizes (ironically only after she has led her family into a death trap) that the criminal could have been her own son, "Bailey boy." I love this story, especially the part where she smuggles her cat into the car.
Flannery O'Conner. She was born before her time.
Flannery O'Connor is one of my favorite writers. She grew up in a small town, and - maybe because of small town characters, or maybe because of small-town happenstance, she realized that anything could happen. A criminal meets a small town family dominated by a mean-spirited grandma. Whooo-wee, Helzapoppin! The crazy grandma leads her family into a confrontation with a criminal who has nothing to loose. The grandma has an epiphany, but it comes, it's simply too late. She realizes (ironically only after she has led her family into a death trap) that the criminal could have been her own son, "Bailey boy." I love this story, especially the part where she smuggles her cat into the car.
Flannery O'Conner. She was born before her time.
Friday, January 6, 2006
Sunday, January 1, 2006
News of the Weird From Florida
The following was was taken directly from the Metro Section of the Tampa Tribune, January 1, 2006.
"LOXAHATCHEE - Years of sneaky visitors cracking open car windows in hopes of an intimate encounter with the king of beasts has caused Lion Country Safari to finally erect a fence between visitors and residents.
Roaming lions, warning signs and admonishing keepers couldn't persuade visitors to stay in their cars with their windows rolled up at the drive-through wildlife park. Some visitors even got out to feed the lions.
Officials at the Palm Beach County park have considered a fence for years, fearing a serious injury or a lawsuit. In November, they erected the barricade, the first in the park's 38-year history. It encloses the beasts where they can roam free on a 660 foot long island.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..."
"LOXAHATCHEE - Years of sneaky visitors cracking open car windows in hopes of an intimate encounter with the king of beasts has caused Lion Country Safari to finally erect a fence between visitors and residents.
Roaming lions, warning signs and admonishing keepers couldn't persuade visitors to stay in their cars with their windows rolled up at the drive-through wildlife park. Some visitors even got out to feed the lions.
Officials at the Palm Beach County park have considered a fence for years, fearing a serious injury or a lawsuit. In November, they erected the barricade, the first in the park's 38-year history. It encloses the beasts where they can roam free on a 660 foot long island.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..."
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Monday, July 11, 2005
Postcards Rejected by the Florida Tourism Board
Quaint Florida Fixer-upper
For Sale Cheap Only $250,0000
Saturday, July 9, 2005
"The corn is as high as an elephant's eye..."
This photo (sans elephant) was taken at Ray's farm in Staunton about a week ago. I photoshopped the elephant into the scene, just for fun.
The drought has been pretty long standing and we're hoping some of the drenching rain we're getting here in Florida will head north and help the midwest farmers out.
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