THE HAYSTACK PRINCIPLE

You’ve heard of the saying that searching for something was like looking for a needle in a haystack. My latest experience has enlarged that concept to the highest degree, as far as I‘m concerned. I was married 57 years ago and I immediately started the craft of sewing, copying my mother who was a gifted seamstress. She had to engage in that craft because she had to dress four girls in the most up to date and beautiful dresses that could be made. We would travel to a nearby town almost every Saturday, meander through the big city department store, and Mother would look at expensive dresses, always keeping the impressions in her mind. Her intent was to create the same dresses for her daughters that were displayed at the expensive store. She would then go to JC Penney or Montgomery Ward stores who had a fabric department, buy material similar to the expensive creations we had viewed; and, lo and behold, in a few days we all had new beautifully created frocks. My memories of her from those days are of her sitting at the Singer sewing machine late on a Saturday night putting the finishing touches on one of the dresses or sitting in a chair under a dimly lighted lamp while hand sewing the hems of all four creations so they could be worn to Sunday School at First Baptist Church the next day. None of us appreciated her labors until years later when we, ourselves, started sewing. Her value increased in our eyes considerably as we realized the labor that was involved. After getting married I loved sewing my own clothes. Many years later as my children grew, the most enjoyable thing I would do was make darling dresses in current styles at the time for my daughter. It was like making doll clothes for the most beautiful real life doll. For several years I even made T-shirts for our boys as well as our daughter, my husband and myself. Halloween costumes were my annual creations during October. I tell you that background to let you know that I was always sitting at the sewing machine also, just like my mother did when I was growing up. Two things that a seamstress cannot do without are needles and thread. I always had many colored spools of thread but the needles proved to be a problem for me. I was always losing the needles. It was a consistent habit of mine to always put the needles into my one and only pincushion, which I’m sure I must have bought during the first year of my marriage.

  It was about the size of an average orange. It was thickly padded, like every other pincushion, and the covering was green velvet. The problem that began to emerge after a few years was that I never could find a needle, even though I had placed them into the pincushion when I finished my hand sewing. It became apparent that there had to be a needle eating ogre in our house or there was something around whose intent was to drive me nuts with curiosity about what happened to the previously used needle. I would occasionally go to the fabric store and buy another package of needles, which usually held about five needles of various sizes. Some were embroidery needles, too big to sew hems or tack on frilly lace, so those needles were rarely used. Sometimes the smallest needles had tiny eyes through which the tread had to be forced. Very often I would spend ten minutes laboring at getting the colorful thread all the way through the tiny eyes, then having to do it all over again after the long length of thread was used. Another contributing factor to the frustration was that we had cats for pets and it was a puzzle to me why the cats seemed to always take an interest in my sewing. One or another of the cats would always hop onto the sewing table and slap the pin cushion around, sometimes biting at the straight pins and pulling them out. So I blamed the cats for the disappearance of the needles, wondering if those darn cats had caused the needles to fall into the carpet. However, nobody in the household had ever complained with a piercing scream that a needle had been stepped on and was making its way into the inner sanctum of his or her foot. I had other things to worry about during those days, so I just took it as a matter of fact of life that there was a mysterious needle fetish belonging to some invisible being in our household. Occasionally, if I was desperate, I would push on the top of the pin cushion and cautiously feel on the opposing side. I could always feel the sharp point of a needle. The thin little metal shaft had to be completely submerged into the middle of the pincushion, so I would get my tweezers and make a desperate attempt to put enough pressure on the top of the pincushion so that a hidden needle would be peeking out the other side enough that I could take the tweezers and pull out the needle. Most of the time that maneuver worked. Other times, I would give up and go to the store and buy another small package of needles. Heaven knows, I would need them in the future. That scenario went on for years, my going on a treasure hunt, looking for a needle that I could have sworn I had put back into the now aging pincushion. The playful cats occasionally made their way to the top shelf where I kept the pincushion and I would find it on the floor with straight flatted pins strewn around the area. I made sure that I picked them up and put them back into the pincushion. It was strange that I never found a needle on the floor. Perplexed? Yes, I was. It only took 57 years to solve the mystery. Now that I’m older I have time to spend in solving life’s big problems, like is there a God, is the universe going to end at any time soon, why do men love to go to war, why do men always capture the remote control like they own it, why does a dropped vitamin always end up under the cabinet even though it had to go uphill to get there, and where did all my needles go. I finally had some time to decipher that last 57 year mystery. Recently I needed to take a few inches off of a pair of jeans and hem them, so I got the navy blue thread out and grabbed the infamous faded green pincushion. You guessed it --- nary a needle in sight. Okay, I was faced with deciding if that pincushion was so old that I didn’t mind sacrificing it to solve the problem. Besides that, I didn’t want to go to the store and buy another package of needles when there might be one or two needles hidden inside the pincushion, ones I wasn’t able to retrieve during all the years. I marched myself defiantly into the kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife I had and started sawing on the faded green velvet pincushion. Nothing is holy after all those years and it had served its purpose. The filling inside of the pincushion resisted the butcher knife but I was a woman with a purpose. I applied more and more pressure. What in the world could that filling be composed of to be so stubborn? I had imagined all these years that the filling was shredded foam of some sort. Those insides were definitely not foam. The butcher knife finally broke through the faded green velvet and pierced into the filling. Out poured a combination of some sort of sawdust and finely ground leaves. Well, one mystery was immediately solved, part of that stuffing must have been ground catnip and that’s why the cats had such a fascination for it. I already felt empowered with that knowledge, that the cats weren’t weird at all, they were just normal cats drawn to catnip or some other cat loving plant. Then suddenly the innards of the pincushion revealed some thin, silver metal objects with small eyes in one end. Good, I thought, as I reached for one of the obvious needles, now I have something with which to sew. As I moved around the sawdust and ground plant particles, more needles appeared. Then more and more needles were visible. I was astounded, though now I know I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, there were 57 years of disappearing needles for which to account. I picked out more and more needles of various sizes. There were even two sewing machine needles among the others. I took a little break from retrieving the lost needles from the sawdust and plant matter because I certainly didn’t need a vast number of needles that day. But, the thought came that I might as well get all of them and put them in the new pincushion I had bought a few years ago but rarely used because I didn’t want to abandon the told green one. I didn’t want the green one to have feelings of rejection. After all, it had been so loyal. I finally found all of the needles, took the sawdust and ground plant matter and put it in with some dirt in a flower pot. The task of putting the newly found treasure of needles into the new pincushion became laborious so I put the task aside and decided to finish the job later while I was watching television. No, I’m not easily distracted from a task, but this one was too ominous to complete in one sitting. If you think I’m a weakling for quickly abandoning the project, stick with me for a few more lines of the story. The reason it took two sittings to complete the task is that the final count of needles that were nestled inside of that pincushion were 68. It was a needle swallowing pincushion, helped in its quest by the cats in the house who had probably pushed the needles down inside as they were slapping it around. The old saying of looking for a needle in a haystack is passe to me. Looking for 68 needles in a pincushion fits my 57 year adventure to a T. I will never run out of needles. Maybe I can sell some of them at a garage sale. They’re precious to me now. They hid for years and years right there in that old faded green pincushion. Each needle holds fond memories of creative garments I lovingly sewed for my family. Sixty-eight? Yes, I said 68 needles. How that pincushion that was the size of an orange held all those needles is a mystery to me. Maybe now I can solve the mystery of the jumping - bean vitamins that have the talent of hitting the floor when dropped and then bouncing uphill under the cabinet. I really do have an active mind, not always worrying about things, but vigorously searching out reasons behind every unexplainable phenomenon. Inquiring minds always want to know. The truth of the Haystack Principle is that we must be careful in looking for a needle in a haystack. There might be a vast number of needles with sharp points ready to prick you, or you might be overwhelmed with what you find in that haystack. It might be just what you’re looking for, or it might be something you don’t want to know. Sometimes inquiring minds don’t need to know. I’m 68 needles richer but I’ve stopped making creative garments. What project can I find that requires using 68 needles? One just might show up. I’m up for the challenge.

THE GIANT AND THE WHITE PETAL PILLOW

My precious granddaughter Lindsey, her guy friend Major and their college friend named Richard came to see me Friday night. They are typical college students, completely enamored with college life. Major is a really nice fellow. I've grown to love him because of his wonderful character. Just to show you what I mean, he was sitting across the room from Lindsey and she accidentally dropped something. She started to pick it up and began to reach down for it. Major, who never hesitated in the story he was eloquently telling, hopped out of his chair and told her that he would get it, ran across the room, picked it up and handed it to her, returning to his story without an interrupted pause. “Wow,” I thought. Used to, when I dropped something it was always greeted with a laugh and maybe a sarcastic comment such as, “Well, clumsy,” or “Can’t you hold on to anything?” I was shocked at Major’s impromptu gracious act and I was enamored with his respect for Lindsey. Now to the theme of this story, the giant and the pillow. Their friend Richard is from a very small town in Oklahoma. He looks to be about 6’4” tall, and is huge, with a big cranium, wide shoulders, thick torso and legs The guy had on shorts because it was a warm day before the last cold front came in. His calves were giant, even bigger than My husband's dad's calves were and they were huge. Well, this guy’s legs were enormous, as was his body. He was a football player and I’m sure he was a very scary opponent. He also was of American Indian descent, making his looks even more ominous because of his size. Lindsey told me they had measured and that Richard’s ankles and calves are bigger than her thighs and she has very shapely thighs. I tell you that lengthy description because of something the young man did. Lindsey and Major had shown Richard all around my house, even the basement and bomb shelter. He seemed impressed, but his interest centered in on the most unlikely thing in the house.

He picked up a decorative pillow that was given to me by a friend. I have that pillow sitting on one of my antique chairs in my entryway.. The pillow is constructed with layer after layer of soft, white felt fabric cut into petal shapes, all layered together and forming a beautiful flower. Richard, that giant of a young man, looked to me so strange holding that white, frilly pillow. He caressed it like it was a rare object, even put it up to his cheek to feel the softness on his face. I was bowled over with his freedom in showing the feminine side of his nature, especially since he was such a massive young, sports minded man. He continued to hold it lovingly as if it was a piece of valuable art or a treasure. When they all left, I kissed Lindsey and Major, like I always do, and I also kissed Richard. I had to stand on my tiptoes and he had to bend way down to receive the kiss. His gentle eyes showed he enjoyed the loving attention from me. He had blessed me with his show of sensitivity when he embraced the frilly, white pillow, so I was compelled to place a big kiss on his cheek. His stature reminded me of the professional football player who did needlepoint, Roosevelt something, who was about the same size. I sound like it doesn’t take much to excite me, but for some reason that visit from the young people was a real gift for my heart, with Major being so gentlemanly with my precious granddaughter Lindsey and with Richard being so sensitive and gracious. I felt filled with love when they left, like I had been in the presence of unusual young people who give love and respect so freely. Lindsey is always very loving, but the young men were a surprise in their virtuous actions. While they were here, Richard and Major gave me good advice about my ailing computers and we discussed the upcoming Super Bowl at length, but I will never forget their actions, with Major and his gentlemanly respect for my granddaughter and Richard with his confident appreciation and admiration of the most unlikely object, a frilly, white decorative pillow. Maybe we can clone them.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

There are so many opportunities in our daily encounters with people to find joy and appreciation. One such opportunity happened to me this week. I was at Big Lots shopping for birthday gifts, had made my selection, plus a few other unintended purchases, and I was standing in line to check out. The person in front of me had quite a few items, too, so the wait was longer than expected. It worked to my advantage or I would have missed a good laugh. A very pretty young lady of about 25 walked up behind me in the company of a strikingly beautiful little girl of about three or four years old. The little beauty had long, black hair, lily white skin, big blue eyes and was dressed in her Sunday best dress. She was a picture of health and happiness. Most three or four year old kids who are forced to wait in line are not patient like this little beauty, nor are they so well behaved. The little one was intrigued by the Halloween suckers at the end of the counter. She would pick one up, make a remark about it and show it to her mom. She never asked for one, never begged for the candy which was plentiful on the aisle. She was engrossed in the animal shapes of the suckers. Her mom was patient with her, not once sharply telling the little girl to put down the suckers. The mom knew her daughter and knew that the child would handle them with care and place them back in their proper place, which she did. That exchange between mom and daughter went on for about five minutes as the lady in front of me seemed to have some trouble writing her check. When the elderly lady’s purchase was complete, I knew the little girl needed to have her waiting time shortened, so I told her mom to go ahead of me and check out. Her mom was grateful and thanked me. The little girl joined in the graciousness and thanked me also. The mom told the child to put her desired purchase, which was clutched in her small hand, onto the counter so that the checker could ring up the price. The child laid it down and I was surprised that it was a package of Chap Stick. I was expecting a toy or maybe some candy because of the patience of the little one. It was almost like there was a 30 year old inside the body of the small child. The checker rang up the purchase and informed the mom of the price, who began searching in her purse for the right change. The little black haired, well mannered little girl stood staring at the checker with a look of concern on her face. Then the innocence and childlikeness came to the surface. She said to the checker, who had very dark maroon lipstick on her large lips, “Did you know your lips are dead?” Her little voice was full of concern, not criticism. She wanted the lady to know something was obviously wrong with the checker’s mouth, something to which the checker might be oblivious, that maybe her lips had died on the way to her work day. The checker was a good sport and laughed loudly, as did the mom and me. That was a surprise to the little girl because of the amount of concern she had for the lady. I appreciated the reaction of the mom. She quietly said, “Sweetheart, this presents an occasion for some instructions when we get to the car.“ That was quoted with a sweet, loving voice, not one of stern chastisement or harsh discipline. The mom and daughter walked out the door with the same sense of mutual love that had been shared by them while waiting in line. The mom knew how to handle the situation, with love and patience. As they walked out the door, the checker again erupted into loud laughter, telling the people in line behind me what the innocent, caring little beauty had commented with such concern for her. I’m sure the little treasured girl learned a lesson from her loving mom, one given with gentleness. I learned a lesson, too. I’m throwing away all of my maroon lipstick, not wanting to cause nightmares for any small child who might think this woman’s lips are dead, too.

JEANNIE'S EXTREME MEASURES

     Jeannie works like a man, constantly cutting, trimming, cleaning out brush, painting, cleaning houses, doing carpentry work, manicuring flower beds, etc. You name it, she does it. She's a work horse, a human dynamo. She's aways looking for more work and uses most of her money on her family, sons, their wives and grandchildren. Her sons are good workers, too, with as many talents as their mom has.
     Grandchildren are another matter. I have a feeling that she spoils her grandchildren just like she spoils her animals, the pit bull especially. However, she handles things in a wise manner sometimes with actions that speak louder than words.
     Jeannie related to me an incident that she handled which caused my opinion of her to go up about 50%.
     Her teenage grandchildren, lovely though they are, always come to her house while she is at work slaving away at the houses of her clients, and the grands eat the food she has in her refrigerator. Her philosophy is what food that's there that's hers, it's their food also. It's my philosophy, too. My casa is your casa, and all of that.
     A problem arose lately when it became an overwhelming burden. The grands never took their dishes into the kitchen and washed them, so Jeannie had to be welcomed home after a hard, hard day's work and was welcomed home by a house adorned with dirty dishes, caked on spaghetti sauce, dried fried egg yoke, half eaten cereal bowls -- well, all moms and grandmothers know what I'm talking about.
     Jeannie had asked over and over that the grands please take the dirty dishes into the kitchen and wash them, not too much to do for the grandmother who grants their every wish. In one ear and out the other, like so often happens with young people.
     One day last week the proverbial you know what hit the fan. Jeannie got home from work where she was helping build a deck and a fence, at my house in fact. It had been a long, hot day and she had kept up with her son, the carpenter, as they toiled all day in the hot sun. There was still work to be done when she got home, unloading the trailer which carried the old rotten lumber they had laboriously loaded from my rebuilding project.
     Again Jeannie was met with dirty dishes all over the house. That was too much this time. Since words had never worked, Jeannie decided to take desperate measures. She took all the dirty dishes and threw them in the trash barrel outside.
    The next day, same thing, Jeannie took the dirty, crusty dishes that had been left in the house and threw them in the trash barrel.
    After a few days of that, there were no more dishes in the cupboard.
     When she got home there were a few grandchildren there to tell her that there were no dishes in the house so they couldn't eat. Just the point Jeannie was trying to make. She graciously told them that all the dishes were in the trash barrel and if they wanted to eat something they better go to the trash barrel, get a dish and wash themselves that dish on which to put their food.
     Talk about a valuable lesson. Can you imagine having to go into a smelly trash barrel and retrieve a few dishes with dried, caked on food and having to wash those dishes before you could eat? That would ruin the appetite of anyone. Her strategy worked. The emphatic words from the past never worked but the extreme measure of the grands getting the dishes out of the trash barrel worked. No paper plates and cups, she said, they had to get the dishes and utensils out of the garbage if they wanted to eat.
     Desperate times do require desperate measures. Jeannie's methods worked. Every time the grandchildren are tempted to leave a dirty dish on the coffee table or on the floor or in the bathroom, those grands will think about reaching into the dirty, smelly trash barrel, groping around inside it to get a dish and fork, take them inside, scrape them and scrub off all the caked on food before they can eat a single bite of their grandma's food.
     Experience is the best teacher, especially when it means reaching into a smelly trash barrel to learn a lesson. Jeannie taught her grandchildren through experience because they chose it rather than heeding her words.
     The grands didn't know that she had s few dishes and utensils for Gramps and her stashed away and hidden from the sight of the grandkids.
     We do that so often with our Heavenly Father. We don't heed His instructions, don't follow his guidance and then we learn by an unpleasant experience. Some of them might be groping in a smelly traxh barrel for a dirty dish that we have to clean before we can even take a bite of food. Sure would be better if we would listen to God and heed his teachings. It would save a lot of unpleasantness of having to learn by experiences which have dirty, smelly backlashes.

My Duck Dynasty Day

     Jeannie's son Mark is an excellent carpenter, very thorough.
     However, I wouldn't want to tackle with Jeannie in a dark alley if she didn't like me. She's very deternined, a good worker and a good business woman.  She and her great big son Mark are rebuilding the deck and the fence around my pool.
     Jeannie and I went to Lowe's yesterday. I put all the lumber, concrete, screws, etc., on my Lowe's credit card because I got a 5% discount and I wanted to make sure things were on the up and up.  Mark and Jeannie tore out almost all of the rotten decking, broken hot tub, fence, rotten poles, bracing, etc. yesterday. The guy at Lowe's said that they would deliver the lumber/supplies early this morning.
     While we were at Lowe's Jeannie had her "spoiled baby" pit bull in her car. She can't leave him at home (I can hear all of you laughing at this red neck story) because he tears up her house. She has been leaving him in her car while she works but he started tearing up the inside of the car. He won't leave her side. Anyway, Jeannie told me that she was going to get the cement and poles and bracing on her trailer in case Lowe's didn't get everything delivered before they got here to work this morning. 
      While we at Lowe's ordering and paying, Jeannie kept having to go outside to check on her baby (five year old pit bull with a head the size of a bowling ball and twice as hard) in her car. When I finishing paying at Lowe's, Jeannie said she was going to get her trailer and come back to Lowe's and get the necessary supplies so Mark could get a head start this morning.
     Later in the day yesterday she said she didn't get the stuff, but was going to get it early this morning on her trailer so Mark could get started rebuilding the deck this morning.
    This morning when they came, she said that they would get the holes dug for the poles, take up the rest of the rotten poles and bracing and Lowe's would be here by then.
    Nada. Lowe's is known here for that, a different time table than their customers.  They have a horrible delivery reputation.
     At ten o'clock Jeannie called them and they said that they had other deliveries ahead of mine. Said it would be two o'clock. Jeannie was livid by now.
     At about 1:00 this afternoon she was griping about them not delivering when they said they would.  I graciously reminded her about the fact that she said she was going back to get what Mark needed to get started, the concrete, the new poles and 2X6s for the bracings when we were there yesterday and she also said late in the day yesterday that she was going to get them this morning. She said that she couldn't get her other sons to unload the firewood off of her trailer. I told her she better get them hopping and then she could get the stuff that Mark needed and bring them here like she said she was going to do.
     She did that, came back after lunch with her trailer loaded with the stuff that Mark needed.
     By this time she was really livid, no delivery from Lowe's.   She called Lowe's and the lumber guy said that they couldn't figure out what all she took with her, so they completely unloaded the delivery truck and started all over minus the list of things they thought that she took. While she was talking on the cell phone, Mark and the pit bull were busy setting the poles in concrete at this time. Remember, the dog won't leave Jeannie's side.
     I called Lowe's and the head lumber guy told me they were loaded up and ready to come this way. By this time it was funny to me, a real red neck (whom I really and truly love), comedy of errors situation.
    They finally delivered the huge load of stuff. You can imagine how much lumber it was with replacing the under bracings, the poles, the decking and the fencing all the way around the pool.
      So it's all delivered now and Mike, Jeannie and the pit bull (tied to one of the secured poles) are all out there doing more work.
     By the way, I bought them cheese burgers from McDonald's for lunch, cheese burgers for Mike and the pit bull and a chicken sandwich for Jeannie for lunch. No kidding, I did. I told them I would buy them lunch. They told me to get two cheese burgers for Mike, one cheese burger for the pit bull and a chicken sandwich for Jeannie. I really did serve lunch to the three of them.
     With all of that going on, I decided to vacuum the floors to let off a little steam.  Darn new sweeper only picked up a little bit of dirt.  The joke is on me.  I just looked at the new sweeper.  It said "Carpet Cleaner."   Yeah, it's been a real red neck and now a red faced day for me. 
     I might not watch Duck Dynasty tonight. I lived it today.

CELL PHONE PACKING MAMA

                                        CELL PHONE PACKING MAMA


                                                                                    T. Wieland Allen

     Okay, so I slid down the basement stairs on my tummy without a sled several months ago and all of a sudden I’m accident prone to my loved ones. It wasn’t a legitimate fall, just that the house slippers went out from under me as I ran down the stairs to the basement to get something.
     It’s not like I’m a decrepit old lady who falls all the time and needs to be monitored by one of those Life Line necklaces. I’m healthy. I mow and manicure my huge lawn, take care of a big house and pool, run a business and write several blogs. I’m young for my age, which is 77 years old. The slide down the stairs resulted in a broken bone in one foot and a broken big toe on the other foot, plus a few bones broken in the smaller toes. I have quickly healed from that unfortunate occurrence.
     Since the day of the fall, all of the people who love me are concerned about me and have been talking about making sure I don’t go sledding unintentionally again inside the house without a sled and break a hip, a leg or an arm. I genuinely appreciate all of the concern.
     I knew after the fall that my adult children were secretly thinking about assisted living places for me, even though they didn’t voice it to me. I told them that I would move to an island and get me a hunk of a native guy and let him wait on me the rest of my life before I moved to an assisted living complex while I‘m still totally active. In one of those complexes I wouldn’t have dirt in which to dig. I haven’t decided whether I’m part gopher or part horticulturist, but digging in the dirt seems to be my favorite past time.
     Don’t tell anyone, but maybe the hunky native guy is not too far fetched now that I just returned from a cruise and found the perfect island. I’m keeping that secret from my adult children lest they keep closer eyes on my traveling.
     I really do appreciate the efforts to help me in my active life. I have been advised many, many times to carry my cell phone with me at all times in case I fall again. See, they seem to think that I make a habit of falling. Heck, anyone can break something. My precious young niece merely stepped up on a curb and broke the same bone in her foot.
     Please don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to know that so many people are concerned about my safety.
     Carrying the cell phone from room to room and outside became a burden to me since I’m not really a phone person.
     I’ve worked 40 years answering a business phone at all hours of the day, so a respite from that seems pleasant to me. I understand the concern of my children and grandchildren. They are interested in my well being.
     Lord, deliver me from trying to remember to take the cell phone from room to room. It was always in the previous room in which I was engaged in either working or cleaning. However, when it was in another room, I’ll have to admit that I felt a little insecure without it being in close reach.
     One of my sisters graciously suggested that I put the cell phone in a fanny pack and then it will be accessible to me at all times. Well, Sister, you know me well enough to know that when I put a fanny pack on my waist that my buttocks grows about five inches, sticking out in all directions. I told her, after eating all the great food on the cruise, that I felt like if My derriere got any bigger I would topple over backwards because of the unevenly distributed weight gained from all the fabulous food. I don’t know why it always goes to that region of my body, but it does. So the fanny pack is out. My fanny is packed enough.
     It finally came to me that I can use the slender and small passport holder to hold my cell phone, keeping it close to me. It has a shoulder strap that goes over the head and rests on the other shoulder. It’s not burdensome or heavy and certainly doesn’t call attention to the area of the body which has become popular to highlight in the past ten years. There was a time when the backside of a woman’s body was girded-in by a tight girdle. I’m still locked into that ‘50s and ‘60s thinking related to fashion acceptance. No bells or ribbons on the real “bottom” for me. Mine doesn’t need to be spotlighted.
     After three days I feel relatively used to the cell phone being cradled in the passport pouch which is hanging around my neck at all times except at night. Then it rests on the night stand next to my bed in case I need to call someone for assistance.
     Do I feel more secure? Yes, I feel more secure, but I also feel like a mailman with the pouch hung around my neck and hanging loose at my side. I think of myself as Mailman Meme, Mailman Grandma or Mailman Mamma.
     I thought about referring to myself as US Postal Mamma, but that might be misinterpreted as me being a pistol packing mamma. I’m absolutely not a gun toting mama. If that’s your current identity, bully for you. I’m just not prone to use guns for protection when I know that the name of Jesus carries more power than any assault rifle. I read in the Bible that every knee in heaven and earth will bow at the name of Jesus. I had a friend who was being restrained by a man who was going to rape her and she merely said, “In the name of Jesus,” and he pulled up his pants and drawers (her word for underwear) and ran out the door. So I have more confidence in that name than I do in guns. If your confidence is in artillery, who am I to advise you to the contrary?
     So today I do feel like Mailman MeMe or Mailman Grandma with the cell phone hanging around my neck. At least I know where my cell phone is when I need it. Only problem is, the only calls I’ve gotten on it are from a security company who wants to put a system in my house and the other call came from a charity, of which I’ve never heard, who wants my money. Lord, deliver me from those kinds of calls.
     So my children and my other loved ones knew best. I do feel more secure as Mailman Mama with the cell phone hanging around my neck and down my side, ready to answer if someone calls and ready to use in an emergency.
     It’s really wonderful to be so loved and protected, but I’m still waiting to find the hunky native guy to wait on me hand and foot. I wonder if he would wear the passport pouch with my cell phone around his neck instead of me? I don’t plan to let him out of my sight once I locate that island again and find him. I know the cell phone holder will fit perfectly around his neck. He will be cheaper than any assisted living place. He will be better to gaze upon than the old skin which my brother-in-law correctly named which was abundantly displayed on the bodies that we observed at the outdoor pool on the Lawrence Welk cruise.
     Please, Lord, also deliver us from having to again look at bikini clad and Speedo clad proudly displayed “old skin.” Yuck.

AMEN, EDAN, AMEN

     Out of the mouths of babes can come some amazing things. Most of them are not usually conflicted with bad memories which cause shadows on the psyches of the children. They see things with pure hearts, like Jesus said when He said. “To the pure in heart, all things are pure.”
     At six years old Edan sees life as a series of enjoyable adventures, especially when it involves playground jaunts. She is definitely a city girl but is not limited with parks in close proximity to her house.
     On a recent trip to visit Edan and her parents, she and I were spending an entire day together without parental involvement. The day began about two hours earlier than her usual holiday morning arousal with the proclamation of “Are you ready to start our day together, MeMe?”
     Of course I was, and wishing we could spend more frequent days together which are ony limited by the fifteen hundred miles which separate our residences.
     The morning was spent playing with her many Christmas gifts, mostly crafts of some kind. After lunch the playground beckoned us since it was a sunny day outside.
     Edan skipped all the way to the playground while I followed behind, hampered only by a healing broken foot or I would have skipped along with her.
     Her first venture on the play structures was on a U shaped metal ladder which was anchored to the ground at both ends. She climbed on it, hung from it with both legs, then with one leg. While doing those ventures many times she also rehearsed over and over the words to the Do, Re, Me song from the Sound of Music. She was determined to get it right. That rehearsal took about 25 repetitions, all while she was playing on the ladder. Her singing the words were done with a vibrato voice with very dramatic and sustained emphasis on the words, all which cracked me up. I was able to temper my laugher so as not to intimidate her.
     Swinging on the swings in the background was a young baby who was being gingerly pushed in the swing by her mother. I know they were enjoying the repetitive song that Edan was singing many times, determined to get it perfect.
     When Edan went to the big slide I admired the baby in the swing. The mother and I conversed for a few minutes about the beauty of the baby. Edan joined into the conversation asking the mom the age of the baby and if she could talk and if she could walk, etc., about which six year old girls always seem to have an interest.
     I exited the conversation as Edan and the mother of the baby began a long, drawn out dialogue with Edan contributing most of the conversation. She asked the mom if the baby goes to day care to which the mom answered, “Not yet.”
     Edan assured the mom that it was a good thing for the baby to go to day care since she had made really good friends at day care and they are still good friends even after going to different schools. The mom was gracious enough to act interested in Edan’s assessment of day care.
     After about fifteen minutes of the adult’s and six year old girl’s verbal exchange I sensed that the mom wanted to move on to another area of the playground with the baby in tow. She excused herself and walked away with her seven and a half month old baby.
     Edan told them goodbye, then infomed me that she was getting a little chilly so we should make our way to her home which was a few blocks up the hill.
     As we exited the playground Edan graciously proclaimed, “ There are a lot of very, very nice people in the San Francisco area, MeMe."
     My reply was, “Amen, Edan, Amen.”
     We started up the hill and my precious granddaughter suggested to her Oklahoma grandmom that we practice talking “British” while we walked home. I’ve never talked British before but I didn’t want to let her think that I was too inhibited to attempt it. So I chimed in with the only British phrase I could think of at the time. I said, “Bloody good idea.” That was a new phrase for Edan, so I had to explain what it meant. Then she began to talk with the most affluent British accent I’ve heard a six year old attempt. She talked “British” all the way home.
     I agree with Edan, “There are a lot of very, very nice people in the San Francisco area,” one of which is a very loquacious little girl whom I get to claim as my granddaughter. She’s a precious product of the San Franciso area and its culture, one of tolerance, respect and inclusion. Edan is a perfect example of the nice people in the San Franciso area. I know the mother of the baby agrees with me. She’s probably telling someone right now about the darling little girl who assured her of the benefits of day care for her baby.
     I've found that that's the way the people I've met in San Francisco are, always reassuring, just like Edan. 



Edan does that, she reassures everyone, just like all the nice people in the San Francisco area.