They don’t call it the “Boob Tube” for nothing . . .

A month or so ago I woke and realized my TV had been ON all night, and also knew why I’d had nightmares. Not the first time either, and so I began watching my use of TV and at least, started turning the dang thing OFF before going to sleep. .

First thing I noticed,  after I’d been out shopping or such, was that when I walked back into my home, before even putting down my purse, I turned on the TV. Didn’t know what was ‘on’, didn’t know what was coming ‘on’, and didn’t even stop to note what came ‘on’. No, I just automatically clicked the button and went on my way.

TV, I found, had become a habit. I also discovered something else. I had walked into my home happy, relaxed, even humming to myself, which is a good clue to anyone’s inner mood.

But within 10 minutes, I wasn’t happy, wasn’t humming, but felt depressed and inwardly saying, ” War, terror, and crime are everywhere, Even right here in this valley, people do awful things. Life is not good.”

I wasn’t watching or even listening to what was on TV, and half the time, was in another part of the house, but it was ON, and I was allowing whatever was there, to infiltrate my mind. The dire tone of the speaking voices, if not their actual words.

You know the reason of my mood change, too, for in those ten minutes I had allowed the outside TV world to change my inner world. I had allowed that voice reporting the news, to take away my joy.

So I walked back to the Toob, bravely turned it OFF and began to get myself back to the ‘Ethel’ mood. And, for one entire month I didn’t turn it ON. Not once. And it was good.

And no, I don’t live or even want to live in a vacuum. I want to know what’s going on in the world, and if watching TV could help the Ukraine situation, or any of the emotionally troubled people who kill others, I would watch TV 24 hours a day. But my watching doesn’t have one bit of influence on anyone, or anything, except me.   And it does change me, my day, my inner mood, my inner joy, and not for the better, either.

Now, if it were my job to meet with Obama and world leaders each day, then it would be my job to know what was going on each moment, and I’d do it. But that job is for Obama and his Aides, not mine, and we all know that they don’t get their info from TV.

So, I asked myself, what’s the use of going around feeling depressed over something I can’t help, change or control???

And I know what some of you are going to say, for I’ve said it, too. “Oh, but I keep it on Channel 7, 9 or 11 and they have great programs”. And, most of the time they do.

But what I’ve found is that, not too long ago, I spent much time, sitting like a statue watching others play, work, love, sing, study and worship instead of Ethel playing, working, loving, singing, studying and worshiping. I had been like a blob, letting someone else do ‘my stuff’, for me. Did I think osmosis would do the trick???

So what have I done? Well, I’ve found myself singing more, even some on the songs I remember Mom once sang. Nice. And I found myself with a sense of detachment when others moan about Ukraine, Afghanistan, and all the Middle East unrest. I’ve studied more, brought out DVDs that I haven’t touched for a long time, and listened to the old Irish ballads that I love, Johnny Cash, Tennessee Ernie Ford, et al, and it’s been great.

I found that the more involved Ethel became, the better Ethel felt. Far better than listening to someone else do it. And my private meditations are far better, for Ethel, than hearing someone else’s prayers and preaching on TV. I know they’re wonderful, but it’s me, Ethel, that I’m working on, and my own private prayers do the most  for me.

Yes, the day came when I actually began looking to see ‘what’s on’ TV, but not just turning it on without making a conscious choice. It’s becoming fun. At least for me, Ethel, that is.   See ya next week.

ethelbrad@comcast.net

It’s a ‘doo-hicky

       TV changes and forms our language. A word used in some manner today, and liked, will be world wide tomorrow, and if not liked, dropped just as swiftly.

We forget how powerful TV is. At one time everyone in the USA spoke the same language, but did it differently. The Western Twang; the Latino of the Southwest, and soft, smooth words of the Southern States, were all unique, and used only in their own areas.

Some so beautiful they were like music to us, but once TV brought those differences right into every home and office, they were criticized, ridiculed, called hillbilly (or worse), and soon, within a blink of an eye were gone and, sadly, within but a few years all regional personality of our language was lost.

But the words and phrases hung on with that generation and my sister, Bernice Ursenbach and I started remembering the ones Mom and Dad used, and I betcha you heard these in your childhood homes, too.

When Mom was preparing a meal, she was fixing dinner, or, if just a snack, she was fixing a bite or two. And when the meal was over, did your mother ask you to side up the table? Meaning to clear off the used dishes? Ours did.

There was always a what-cha-ma-call-it, a hoot-en-nanny, or a ‘doo-hicky around, and they’d ask one of us to go fetch one of them. And when some overweight person dieted and lost some of the poundage, did your parents say that the person had fallen off? Yes, and everyone knew what was meant, too.

If someone or something was middling it meant they were someplace between the worst and the best. Just middling, they’d say. And if someone were playing Possum they were acting as if asleep, and usually to get out of doing some task they didn’t like. And piddling around meant they were wasting their time, and someone who was frugal was called tight.

To tote meant to carry; to wait on meant to assist, and just might be the basis, or derivative, of Waiter. Being feisty meant one was ready to fight; and one who was laid up was sick and unable to work. And I can still hear my mother saying so and so had been laid up for a week, (month, year). I betcha all these were familiar to you, heard as a kid, but not in use today.

       Caught with their pants down meant they were utterly surprised over some unexpected event. Barking up the wrong tree meant someone was trying to do something that was never going to work; and dying or dead on the vine meant some idea had had a good start, but was never to be completed.

If you were told you better go plow new ground it meant that what you’re doing isn’t working and you might as well stop it, and try something else. Scarce as hen’s teeth meant non-existent; and came with your tail a-dragging meant you were utterly beaten and worn out.

Ready to Talk Turkey meant you were ready to bargain; to go hog wild meant to have a great celebration; to go off half-cocked meant you knew only part of the situation; and if someone were three sheets to the wind‘ it meant they were drunk.

If someone were too big for their britches it meant that person had a big ego and thought he was more important than he really was; and, to finish the thought, needed to be whittled down to size.

And then there are two, and I think they’re saying the same thing, about some hoped-for event, but voiced their thoughts from 180 degree different angle. One was if the good Lord’s willing, and the creeks don’t rise and the other, come hell or high water. See??? Same thoughts, but my oh, my, in what different ways.

Maybe you’ll recall some of the above differently, but I hope they make you smile, for as casually as we use the lingo of today, these were the lingo of theirs.

Feel free to Leave a Reply (just below), or email Ethel at ethelbrad@comcast.net

Experts are firm when they tell us that it is not sleep that rejuvenates us, but it’s the dreaming that does the trick.

       If we think we never dream, we’d better hope we’re wrong. The experts say dreams are safety valves to our mental well-being (depression) and though we seldom know it, we dream many times every night.

We’re told that if we’re deprived of dreaming for three or four days (alright, nights) we begin to have mental disturbances. In other words, to be mentally healthy, we need lots of dreams.

Tests show we all follow the same pattern. Our first dream period begins about 90 minutes after falling asleep and lasts about ten minutes.

Then, in approximately hourly intervals, dream periods occur and each is progressively longer. The pattern differs with age, with the infant dreaming over 50 percent of its sleeping time, diminishing as they get older, until those over 65 have short dream cycles.

Older people, they find, may sleep longer than when younger, but their  dream periods are shorter. They often complain that sleep fails to refresh them, and they’re right, but it is the decrease of dream time that is making itself felt. Not lack of sleep.

Extensive studies have been made in recent years on sleep deprivation as well as dream deprivation, and the results are startling.

Observers identify the dream periods of volunteers, by noting the Rapid Eye Movement (REM) periods, which are the signs of dreaming. Results show that we dream far more often than what we remember, and this is the answer to all mothers who have wondered over their infant’s almost constant quick blinking during sleep.

If the sleeper is wakened during the REM period, he is deprived of the dream even though he is immediately allowed to continue sleeping. If all dream periods are interrupted for one or two consecutive nights, the sleeper begins to show depression, or other mental disturbances, even though the actual sleep time is as great as usual.

When deprived of dreaming for only one night, the volunteers felt no disturbance, but the next night their REM periods were almost twice as long as usual.

Experts are firm when they tell us that it is not sleep that rejuvenates us, but it is the dreaming that does the trick. And they carefully note that by dreams, they do not mean the ones caused by over-eating, or getting twisted in bedding, etc.

Some circumstances and illnesses affect the REM time. Much of the ‘hangover’ that follows a ‘big night out’ is traced to alcohol in the blood which, if too high a percentage, will not permit dreaming. And if continued over many nights, hallucinating will occur, and depression will linger until the blood is free of all traces of alcohol, thusly allowing  the person to have at least one long night of REM periods.

Psychosis, neurosis and other mental disorders are affected by lack of REM time, and experiments are now being made to find if some people are, for some reason, unable to dream and so have mental problems, or, if the mental disturbances come first and causes the lack of REM.

Either way, we better not say we never dream, because if we really don’t, the ‘little men in white coats’ just might come calling, to assist us  in getting some good REM time.  Dreams, we find, aren’t just funny things to tell and laugh over the next day at the office.

In other words, the experts tell us that if we’re depressed, we better keep track of our dream periods. They’re mental safety valves, and to great extent, control our peace of mind.

ethelbrad@comcast.net

Oh, Yes, but How Beautiful and True

     There is a tribe in Africa called the Himba Tribe, and is where the birth date of a child is counted not from when they were born, nor from when they are conceived but from the day that the child was a thought in its mother’s mind.

     When a woman decides that she will have a child, she goes alone into the forest and there sitting by herself under the trees, she silently listens until she hears the song of the child that wants to come.

     And after she’s heard, and learned the song of this child, she goes back to the man who will be the child’s father, and teaches it to him.

     Then, during the time they make love to physically conceive the child, they sing the song of the child, as a welcoming invitation and homing guide for it.

     When the mother is pregnant, she teaches her child’s song to the midwives and wise old women of the village.  Then, when the child is ready to enter this mortal world,  the women gather around the mother and sing the child’s song.  It it is the first sounds it hears, and remains forever imprinted upon its Soul  to  hear and be his or her guide.

     As the child grows up, the other villagers are taught the child’s song, and so, if the child falls, or hurts its knee, someone near picks it up and sings its song to it.

     Or perhaps the child does something wonderful, as going through the rites of puberty, then as a way of honoring this person, the people of the village gather and sing his or her song.

     In this African Tribe of Himbas, there is one other occasion upon which all the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village, and the villagers sing that person’s special song to the erring one.

     The tribe recognizes that the correction for anti-social behavior is not some punishment; but is love and their singing lovingly reminds the one of his/her true identity.

      They know and remind each other that when you recognize your own song, you have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.

      And the child goes on this way throughout its life. In marriage, the songs of the two, are both sung. And finally, when this child is lying in bed, ready to die, all the villagers know his or her song, and they sing—for the last time—that special song to that person.

      You may not have grown up as an African Himba, that sings your song to you at the time of crucial life transitions, but life is always reminding you when you are in tune with yourself and when you are not.

      When you feel good, what you are doing matches your song, and when you feel awful, there’s no match, all because you have forgotten your own song, and so are out of tune.

     In the end, we shall all recognize our own song and sing it well. You may feel a little warbly at some moments, but have no fear, for so have all the great singers.

     Don’t try to sing someone else’s song. Just keep singing your own, and you’ll find your song is your one and your only, wonderful way back to your Real Home. 

Thanks, Sylvia.

 The Mind Unleashed
www.themindunleashed.org

Open green fields, and the Silence within us . . .

       We know what Privacy means to us , but we’re also know that everything, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g about us, from birth to an hour ago, including our bank account, is there for wily ones to find, and the info sold to advertising companies. Without our knowing or permission.

And the dark strip on the back of our Charge Cards tells enough to give us a Stroke, and while those having access to that ‘strip’ are sworn to secrecy . . . well, ho, ho, ho, the right amount of money tells all.

As a child I learned one aspect of privacy. Our Mail Man told my Dad (and my little-big ears) that he had learned to tell where every envelope was going, just by looking at who the Sender was.

What really caught my ‘little-big ears’ was when he told which one of our neighbors got piles of mail from another Religion, and he grinned at my Dad as he said if he told the Mormon Bishop, that family would really be in trouble.  And from then on I viewed ‘that’ family with suspicion. Those kind of words shouldn’t be spoken around Innocent children. Well, ‘little-big ears’ don’t stay innocent for long.

As I got older my idea of privacy widened.  If someone helps with your housework, again your privacy is wide-open.  Yeah, even though you have strict rules against opening drawers or closed doors, the one who cleans your rooms, knows you.  Especially if they also do the laundry.

Anyone who works for you in ANY way, sees the magazines and books you read.  What stuff fills your frig, freezer or pantry, your kitchen and linen closets, medicine cabinets, and on down to the casual possessions in your den or garage.  Your home is where your life is lived, and your ‘stuff’ is in room after room, for your use, but anyone helping to see.

But there’s another side to privacy.  The crowded tenements and apartments of cities, forces people to the sidewalks and streets to get away from the crowded rooms, only to find the sidewalks and streets are also crowded. To release the tension they don’t even recognize, gangs are formed to strike out at anyone, or everything simply to release their angst.  And as that often sends them to jail or prison, their privacy is met in another manner.

I learned a lot as a Teacher down there, and saw that most inmates are absolutely terrified at the loneliness (privacy) of prison life, and nightmares and paranoid problems arise.   But there is a smaller group of prisoners,  from more affluent environments where personal space and privacy were taken for granted, and on entering prison are terrified with what to them is the utter lack of privacy.  They become easy victims of organized prison gangs.

We think of privacy in different ways.  To most of us it’s having a room, bed, private shower, or bath, and a quiet place to relax and read.  A state of life taken for granted but absolutely terrifying to one who has never in their life ever, ever, been alone, Just think, never in their entire life, been alone !

And another privacy once known and enjoyed by most people of our valley, but now gone, perhaps forever throughout the entire world,  are the ‘green fields we once knew’. There were acres of gardens, pastures, or undeveloped land, where we could stretch our eyes.  Large front and back yards, where kids climbed trees, played war, dug in dirt and water, found animals, as squirrels, snakes, bugs, each other, and innocently explored and learned about them all, too.

Remember? Before WW2, Kearns, and West Valley City didn’t   exist.  Taylorsville, Bennion and the Jordans, were groups of large green farms, centered with homes, barns and cattle.  Today’s countless streets, pocket-sized lawns, and wide Freeways were all open Green Fields, but now buried by concrete.  The heavy growth now sprawling  on all sides of the Point of the Mountain were lovely  open, green fields with trees and streams reaching to the hills and then to Utah Lake.  Bingham City and its huge Copper mine were isolated and circled by green fields.

Thousands of sorely needed homes and stores arrived, but with them, we lost privacy of open areas and the more bizarre crimes we see, I think, are the result of no open spaces where kids can run and play and get into all kinds of harmless mischief that kids love.  Where people relaxed without even aware they were relaxing. All because of those Green Fields that we once knew.

       Privacy, now found in so few places of the world, is not a luxury, but proven over and over to be a necessity for sanity.

ethelbrad@comcast.net

Pick only two . . .

           Of the countless columns I’ve written for newspapers and internet, three have remained favorites with readers and repeated every few years.

           One is of Alcoholism, another of a doctor’s unusual advise for young pregnant women, and then this bit of foolishness. I’ve titled it Good, Fast, Cheap, with the admonition that you can have only two. Never all three.

           Of course, when we need some household job done, we want all three. Why not? We’ll shop around and find someone who will give us Good work and materials; Fast in completion; Cheap as possible.

          It was a friendly Handy Man who told me about those words. He grinned and said, “Everyone wants those same three things. They want their job to be GOOD, FAST and as CHEAP as possible, But Ethel, no one ever gets them all.” I could see no reason why not, so he went on to explain.  

               “You can have your job GOOD and FAST, but no way will it then be CHEAP.

               “And if GOOD yet CHEAP is of vital importance, you can get those two terms, but your job wont be FAST.

                 “But, if FAST and CHEAP is necessary, there’s just no way you will get as GOOD a job as it could be.”

            I was baffled. He still grinned as he explained, and I finally had to agree, and grinned along with him.

           This is how it goes. The man you hire seldom does all the work himself, but hires other men, such as Plumbers, Electricians, and such, to do the work where they are experts. And, if you want the best workmen to do the job, and do it Cheaply, you have to catch them when their type of work is out of season, or they happen to have no assignments.

             When they’re idle they will sometimes work at a lower pay rate. But the catch is, you have to ‘grab’ them when they ‘happen’ to be free, or have a day or two ‘off’, and be happy to do your work. Experts are seldom idle, and so there is no promise of time, and there goes the FAST part.

              That’s how it goes, he told me. Getting GOOD material is always available, but GOOD workmen do not come CHEAP, and so your job wont be FAST.

              And he went on, “I can give you FAST and GOOD, too, for I can always get good materials and good (experts) can be called from other jobs, but I will have to pay them what they are earning, or more, to get them to come. And so there goes CHEAP.”

           Relentlessly, he continued. “So you want it Cheap and Fast, again that will be easy, but I will probably have to get Cheap (unskilled) workmen who are more often available, and so I can’t promise the job will be as GOOD. (well done) as if done by experts. And you might have to take medium grade material to meet your cost requirements.

            I had to laugh. Try as I did, like it or not, there is no flaw. The Good, but Cheap, wont be Fast, and depending on the size of the job, might take six months to a year to get done. The Good and Fast, you can get almost any day of the year, but it wont be Cheap, and the Fast and Cheap wont be as Good.

              If you want first class material, installed by experts, and not just learners,  and, at the same time done within a week or two, Cheap is the one that gets tossed out the window.

            Whether you have a small household job, a skyscraper, high river dam, ocean liner, or an airplane, it matters not, for when you get down to basics, it’s all the same. The three choices are facts of life.  Immovable.

           Public buildings are usually GOOD, but the other two, FAST and CHEAP, are seldom considered or simply get lost along the way. After all, it’s our tax dollars that pay the price, and the only way we can complain is how we vote the next election.

           We have no recourse, but to pay the price and hope the job lasts at least for a few decades.   We can bargain back and forth in our household jobs, but when politics get into the negotiations, the Fast and Cheap, I fear, are never even considered.                                                                                      

I am in it, but not of it . . .

I’ve written often of who I’ve been, but now find it most important to find out who I’m in the Process of Becoming. and find that everyone, aware of it or not, is doing the same. I take this seriously and think back on Shakespeare’s so oft-quoted words: “To thine own self be true,” and wonder, just who and what is my True Self.    

To begin with, we became what our parents and early teachers made of us. What else? But by the time we’re in our teen years, many of us find we don’t fit into their pattern but try to conform, guiltily thinking that to be different must be wrong.

The Process to find our own True Self is difficult for young people, but in some manner, (with me it was books), many of us find that we are not wrong, only ‘different’. And that’s alright. for if we’re uncomfortable with who we are, we, and no one else, has the power to change  or help us change to fulfill our inner deams.

We have initially been formed into what others wanted us to be, but for a successful, happy maturity, we must ultimately learn to respect, accept and finally love our difference.  And to  find out who and what we do want to be..  

I tell my journey. I was born one of five siblings, and different from all. I was pure Svenska, with white, straight hair, and surrounded by a dark curly- haired family. Mama must have felt God had made a mistake, but I would have fit smoothly into my paternal Swedish lineage, and thankfully, finally became mature enough to know I was not wrong, just had been born with my own Scandinavian genes.

Little by little, I learned I was not unique, and that there were many with my same physical, mental, emotional and even spiritual propensities. Needless to say, it was a deep relief to find I was not some odd, unique being and far from being the only one.

It was a blessing to me that from childhood I was a reader, and my father never once complained of the many trips to and from the Murray Library  that  I carelessly asked of him. It was an eye-opener to me, and shook me to my core, to find books explaining the thoughts and lives of thinking people from the different countries of the world.

There, but a mile from home, was where I found that I was not wrong, only different, and more important, held the power and shown the way to become the person I wanted to be.

Aware or not, we’re all Beings In Process, and I wish Teachers could let young students know that every second of the day, everyone is in the Process of Becoming a different person. And, of prime importance, it is everyone’s choice as to the kind of person they are becoming.

There is not a one of us who wouldn’t like to go back and live our lives over again, but with the wisdom we have gained along the way.  Not to be, I know, but when we reach the last decades of our lives, we don’t wish to be another  Einstein, but to have allowed our True Selves to meet and work with those who entered and continue to enter our lives.

So I ask myself. ‘Ethel, who are you now becoming?’  For none of us are through with the Process, which will continue until we enter The Next Room, where the machine, no longer needed, is discarded and Spirit, that ever-present inner Source, reveals Itself. 

I think I’ve caught a glimpse of the Goal, and shiver as I know that if I allow and grow, we all will, in some Higher Next Room, become One With The Source of All. You know that, too?   And that we’ll someday meet each other There?   What a blessed Process.

Addendum

 A few years ago I penned a small booklet I titled A Machine Called Ethel, and though I’d make changes in it to-day, the concept stays firm. I walk, talk and live in a ‘Machine’ called Ethel, but I Am not that machine. I use it, take care of it, could not continue in a physical body without it, but I am not it and it is not Me.   I think you’d like the book.

Please email Ethel if you would like a copy of ‘A Machine Called Ethel’.  ethelbrad@comcast.net

Who are you ?

Sometimes I’m asked, “Who are you?” and I’m tempted to reply that I’m lots of Ethels, and which one do you mean?

The name Ethel Bradford, only means I belong to a family of Bradfords and ‘labeled’, so people can tell me apart from others. And that Ethel has been daughter, wife, lover. mother, grandmother,  and twice a great-grandmother.

But you know, as I do, that all those ‘names’ are actually only labels, tags you might say, explaining what role I played or play in some one else’s life.

None of them relates to the Ethel who responds, or hangs up, on those who try to beguile or fill me with fear in order to get me to vote for the one who is paying them to make the calls.

And still different from that Ethel who tries to explain to another phone-voice, that I never buy or give money to those who ask by phone. And you wouldn’t want to know that Ethel who was once told, (in today’s explicit words) to perform some anatomically impossible act. Yes, I knew the words. but was shocked to hear them  aimed at me. I was tempted to respond in the same lingo.  I didn’t. but that too, is another Ethel.

To some I’m a Teacher, and there I smile, for I always learn more than I teach, because the teacher must ‘dig’ for more information than ever used, while all the students have to do is listen, doze, or not even attend.

I’m a different Ethel when met with anger or resentment, than with arms of love. Yes, and there are Ethels that I don’t especially like, but, at times we all play such roles, too.

I remember back when I was my Dad’s Flicka, his little Svenska girl, and though I didn’t know what those words meant, I knew it was an Ethel I liked being.

I’m not sure who I was to my mother, for she could not accept the Ethel who could not unquestionably follow her steps. I was a different Ethel than what she wanted, expected, and sadness came to us both. It caused me to try to give my sons deep character training, but also the freedom to use those values in whatever System they chose. And that my love for them would not vary an iota.

And sometime who we are is a puzzle. as with me to the one I’ve called Gram. She was my husband’s mother, so I was not her daughter, and yet she said I was her true daughter. It’s an Ethel I loved being, and am glad I was given that role to fill.

And then there’s the Ethel who is a student, for that Ethel keeps me forever stepping through doors that, with just a touch, prove not to be doors at all, but new territory to explore and widen my mind. This has become my favorite Ethel, for she points the way to the Ethel I am becoming as I eagerly step through those false doors with open eyes and mind.

To my surprise, and I wish I could tell every older person, but as I get older, I’m finding an entirely new Ethel. I eagerly reach to her with surprise and ask, where have you been all this time? And I’ve found that I had to wait until years of living, and stepping through those wide-open ‘closed doors’, would be needed to give me the bravery, joy, and wisdom to dare be the Ethel I never before was ready to be.

And the best part of it all, is to find that I, by the roles I play today, am also choosing who and what I will be tomorrow. And to know that this is not a ‘new’ Ethel, but one who’s always been with me, waiting to be discovered.

I’ve caught glimpses of that Ethel peeking out from behind the thousands of roles I’ve taken, but slowly found that no matter what name or camouflage I assume, IT is the real, never changing ‘me’. And, shiver, shiver, shiver, like you, It’s who I Am, always was and always will be. Yes, the names given me will vary but the real, final Role will always be the Ethel who is One with The Source of all. And some day, I hope we’ll meet each other there.

Probably not what you’d think . . .

      Most of us have a hobby. Something we turn to and enjoy in our idle time. Knitting has long been a favorite, oddly for both men and women, and other favorites run from skiing, bicycling, walking, painting, ham radio, a new language, and on and on, but not in a million years will you guess what’s rated as today’s most popular one.

I shook my head in disbelief, but when I took a moment to think it over, I decided it’s my hobby, too. Just never thought of it that way.

And the favorite one? For men, women, old, young, rich or poor???? Hold your breath, for it’s Shopping. Yeah, that’s how we spend most of our spare time. and if asked we’d all reply, “Oh, we’re just looking.”.

I agree, we’re just looking, but it’s at shopping centers where we ‘look’ and Shopping is the right name, for it’s seldom we fail to find something we didn’t know we needed, but did.

Don’t scoff and say you never go near a Mall, for that’s  okay, because lots of us don’t do our ‘shopping’ in malls. There are those who ‘shop’ for houses, and it doesn’t matter if they already own one, two or three homes, they spend time looking at houses. Old one, new ones. condos, apartments or duplexes. If they’re on sale, they go and look.  They like houses, that’s all.

Then there’s dozens of hobbies built around ‘wheels’. Motorcycles have long been a hobby for many, but bicycles have now passed them, and close by are racing cars, 4-wheelers, trucks, and then there’s the collectors of antique autos. This is a big one, requiring both space, and money. But just the same, there are lots of lookers, as well as the buyers.

It was the all-purpose shopping centers, where all manner of stuff can be found, and at all hours of the day, week or night, that put the crown on the hobby of shopping.

They’re handy. and have clothes, with many good labels available, as well as hardware, plumbing, car accessories, painting, home repairs, works of art, beauty aids, stationery. You name it, it’s there.

This is where teens go and prowl for it’s where their contemporaries hang out. and there’s always a handy spot to enjoy a soda, ice cream or such while the talk goes on, and friendships made. Retirees flock to the malls for their daily walk, and then spend an hour or two over talk and drinks. Yeah, that’s a great hobby, too.

I don’t know what a former generation did with their spare time, but it wasn’t what we do with ours. And also, can do under one roof, and with one swipe of a Charge Card, handle what it took our parents going to five or six different stores to accomplish. 

Shopping centers changed our lives and hobbies. We casually meet old friends, catch up on the news of what others are doing, and the counters are an ever-changing showcase of what we can do with or in our own homes, wardrobe, hair care, and on and on..

Sound familiar? You’re darn right it’s familiar, but who would have guessed it to be Americas favorite hobby? It long ago nosed out TV, reading, visiting, or any of those former hobbies.   Imagine. And to top off the list, I’m one of them, and betcha you are , too.

ethelbrad@comcast.net

One young family at work . . .

     You’re missing one of the most unusual and fascinating ‘programs’ on the Internet if you haven’t yet found The Eagle’s Story, from Berry College, Georgia.
 
       It’s one continuous viewing of the lives of a male and female Eagle who first came to the campus two years ago, and caught everyone’s attention, as they built a nest in a tall pine tree. When they came again last year, the college hoped the Eagles were calling the campus ‘home’, and so when the birds left for the year, they installed an infra-red camera and waited with bated breath, crossed fingers and wonder of wonders, their Eagles returned.
 
       By the time I ‘found’ them, an egg had hatched, the chick about a week old and immediately found myself clicking http://www.berry.edu/eaglecam/ many times daily, to see what was going on in the Eagle’s nest.
 
       It is not an ‘action’ program, but one of surprisingly constant change. Bringing in new grass, two eggs appearing, and then it was keeping them warm, exchanging hours of eating, sleeping, going and coming, bathroom duties, boredom, fighting off an intruder, to the hatching of one egg and then the utter devotion of the parents. The male the provider, the female the nurturer.
 
       There’s no chance of boredom, those Eagles draw you back, along with thousands of others, for a Click to keep track of what ‘your’ birds are doing.
 
       The male brings fresh fish, mice or such and the female, who, nine-tenths of the time, is absolutely nest-bound,   proceeds on an orgy of eating, and then tiny bit by tiny bit, she feeds her chick. And as the days pass, I see her offering larger bites to the chick, and today I see the eaglet reaching out to take its own bites. You can almost ‘see’ it grow.
 
       The pair are devoted parents. A rain and wind storm came and for hours she (?) made her body into a shelter for that chick. It was far more than just a breeze, and her body feathers became tossed and wet, but the chick did not feel the brunt of the storm, and when the gale was over the child was well examined, fed, and only then did the female take care of her own bedraggled self. I was enthralled.
 
       I must ask any reader to excuse my errors in this tale, for I’m no ornaethologist and so no doubt am far off-base as to if the male or the female does this, or does that, for I can’t tell them apart. But between the two of them, they manage wonderfully, and as I said, just stay with the Eagles. They are worth my blunders.
 
       Another thing, however, is that I swear the birds communicate.   I saw the male return one day with a fish and mouse, put them down and then, he and his mate, no more than two inches apart, looked into each other’s eyes for, almost two or three minutes without a blink, or movement. But there was communication of some sort, and so strong it was almost palpable right through the camera. It gave me goose bumps.
 
       Another time I caught the mother and babe doing the same thing.   Unblinkingly peering at each other. No movement, and again one knows that some thought or energy is going back and forth. You ‘know’ that one aware being is communicating with another aware being, and that they are far from stupid.
 
       The male comes and goes, and once (?) a day, the female leaves him in charge of the nest. For an hour or so, she flies afar, perhaps to stretch, breath deep, visit a stream or lake for water and a bath. Who knows? But other than this, the female lives her entire time in that small nest.
 
       So far the only time I’ve seen the chick alone was when the pair fought off a young male (?) Eagle who attacked the nest. Took about an hour to do so, and no aid was given by the watching college people, because to get a true film of the Eagle’s lives the birds must cope with whatever comes, as if in the wild.
 
       Berry College says that, if the infra-red light or camera should stop working, they still will make no repairs. Even if some horrible event should occur, the Eagles, although watched, photographed, hoped and prayed over every moment by the entire Student Body, are to be left on their own.
 
       Eagles mate for life and so have at least 25 years or longer with each other. The male is the main provider, and no matter what the chick needs in the early weeks, is, except for foraging for the food, under the female’s care. Hers to feed, cover from the cold, rain, wind, protect at night. Together they provide all that’s needed.
 
       As an uninformed viewer, I   know I’ll see their ‘jobs’ and responsibilities change as the Eaglet grows and becomes ready for other teachings, so I, along with the rest of the world, will watch and learn. Get on line and even if you only click in a couple of time a day, it’ll be worth it.
 
       Berry College gets our applause for their fascinating work that is capturing the eyes of the world. Huzzahs, over and over.

ethelbrad@comcast.net