Ethel has a new section of her blog called “Hour Crazy Language.” Go check it out and post if you want, it’s under the tab right next to the “Home” button.
The latest post there has some thoughts from Mr. Don Robinson, long time associate of Ethel’s, and long time newspaper man and writer.
Along time ago I wrote, “Marilyn walked the other day, and her whole world rejoiced”.
Today I write that Marilyn died the other day, and her whole world shed tears of sorrowful acceptance. And, not using the familiar trite words of, “You will be missed “, I use words, which to me are the correct ones: “Marilyn, you are missed..”
The day she took her first steps was later than with most children, because she had been born with physical problems, and it was a long time, filled with many operations, before the doctors had time, and Marilyn the stamina, to put their attention upon her twisted feet.
Marilyn was born to Wayne and Bernice Ohlin Ursenbach, a family of active people, and she fit perfectly into that category, except for having a body unable to support the inner dreams and talents that came with the package.
She was born a twin, and, the bonding between Marilyn and twin, Maurine, was classic, entirely over-riding any physical differences. The doctors had carefully explained to Marilyn’s parents that there is ‘no mercy in the womb,’ and if the position of one embryo is ‘better’, it never lets go of that advantage.
And so, there had been no mercy in the womb, and upon birth the doctors did not expect Marilyn to ever leave the hospital. But those doctors just didn’t know the Spirit that was Marilyn’s, and she fooled everyone. Everyone, that is, except her parents, and the day finally came when they chose to take her home to live, not to die, as the doctors expected.
Then, within a day or so, I stepped into their home where Wayne was holding Marilyn and as I called out my greeting, that little tyke, immediately swung around in his arms, to find the new voice. And in that instant, I knew that no matter what her physical problems might be, all else was sharp as a tack. She had had only a few days to get acquainted with the ‘family’ voices, but she knew immediately that this one was different. Not bad at all for a child the doctors had no hope for.
The years passed and when she came home from different operations, my sister saw that the twins had established a routine of their own. As soon as possible they would begin talking and Marilyn would, in detail, tell her sister what she had experienced, and Maurine, in turn, would give a similar report on what had been going on at home. Nice bonding.
And on one of those early days, Bernice, their mother, heard loud screams coming from her back yard and dashed out to see what was wrong, but all was well, for there were the twins, on the play area where she had placed them, and they were laughing as they were trying to see who could scream and make the most and loudest noises. That, too, was good.
Now it so happened that Marilyn had been born with five fingers on each hand, and lest you shrug as if to say, “So?” go back and read my words again. She was born with five fingers, not as most of us are, with four fingers and one thumb.
But for her it was normal and she got along well, but when she reached 8 or 9 years of age, a doctor called and told the parents that there had been an operation devised, to make that one finger into a thumb. Did they want Marilyn’s hands changed?
Knowing Marilyn’s strong mind, they asked her if she would like to have that operation, and after a few days thinking, she said, “Yes, I think so, but I want it on my Left hand, and then, if it doesn’t work, it will leave my Right hand, the one I rely upon, unchanged.”. Yeah, Marilyn had her problems, but she also had a keen, mature mind.
She came home from that operation, returned to school, and with no word of prodding from her parents, one day she told her parents she was ready to have the other hand done. No mind??? Her mind was far beyond many her age, and the results were good.
Marilyn’s life was also filled with joy and triumph. A graduate of Cottonwood High, and then from Brigham Young University, when the twins decided it was the right time for them to begin their adult, separate lives. It was also when Marilyn served an LDS mission, and again the changes were good for both.
The years passed, her siblings married, and with varied careers, their pathways branched out and soon made homes in all corners of the world. At the same time, however, some of Marilyn’s physical problems grew in scope, leaving her dreams undeveloped, and ultimately it was clear that it was best for her to live again with her parents. Even so, she was employed by Zions Bank until the day when she stepped out of her body and entered the next of God’s Rooms.
It was sometime in those years that Marilyn found me as a telephone friend, quite different from the older generation Aunt she had known all her life, and certainly not as a contemporary and, again, it was good. But in all our talks, as we exchanged “what we were thinking, or doing” never was there a word of regret, anger, jealousy of her siblings or anyone else. She was filling whatever ‘mission’ she had come here to fill, and doing it with acceptance and love. The two words of ‘if only’ were never a part of her vocabulary.
I learned the true meaning of courage, from Marilyn, like fortitude, laughter in the face of hardship and love for life. She became a great, silent teacher and I say “Thank you, Marilyn, for sharing many of your thoughts with me”.
And then, only a month or two before she left us, she found she had breast cancer, had a double mastectomy, and was getting ready for the second round of Chemo . . . when she silently said her Good bys and was, for the first time in her life . . . free from the burdens of a body that placed limitations upon her.
And so, Marilyn, at last you are free. Free from all physical restrictions and I see you, not walking, but running, dancing, laughing, traveling, climbing, all actions that, for so long, were for others and only dreams for you.
At long last you are free to go and come as you wish, Or to step out boldly alone, no longer dependent upon others for support. Free, and Thank you God Almighty, Marilyn is truly, finally and forever, free.
Godspeed you along your way, Marilyn, and know that a river of respect, acceptance, admiration and love, follows you every step of your way.
I was one of them . . .
I glanced up from my breakfast table and out the window saw, there on a stepping stone, was a Magpie eating its breakfast, too, and oddly, not more than two feet away stood a Robin intensely watching the action.
It surprised me to see those two ‘enemies’ so close to each other, yet also ignoring each other, and then saw, as the Magpie lifted its meal for another bite, that his meal was a still-living baby bird. There was no doubt that it was a baby Robin that had fallen from its nest. And the Mother Robin had to stand there and watch the cannibal Magpie ruthlessly eat it.
I hurried to my the door to chase that barbarian Magpie out of my yard, but stopped as I realized the baby would never live, and at the same time, another thought raced through my mind that halted me even more swiftly.
Like a flash, I had realized that there on my plate, waiting for me to eat, and which I had bought and prepared, were two sausage patties that had also come from a live animal. Yes, I knew my breakfast had come from a live pig that had been killed and turned into sausage, knowing full well that someone would buy and eat it, too.
And, dang it, I knew there was absolutely nothing different between me and the Magpie, except the different procedure in which fresh meat had arrived at each of our tables.
By then I’d lost all appetite for my sausages and decided they’d make a good meal for my cat. But what difference would it make?
Not too long ago, everyone in our valley, raised animals to be butchered and used for their meals. And I remember as a kid, when the neighborhood men would go to each other’s homes and work together to kill the animals they each had raised for that purpose.
Mom and Dad were very careful to see that we kids were in ‘the other side of the house’ from where the action was, but kids aren’t dumb, and I still remember the frantic squeals of our pig . . . . the one I had helped feed . . . . as the men caught and killed it. Yeah, they cut its throat, so it would bleed well, just as our Deer Hunting men do in the fields as soon as they get to the animal they just killed.
An awfully lot of people would immediately become vegetarians if they were in on the preliminaries, and even though the Hunt is fun, I’ve been around enough ‘hunters’ to know that the meat doesn’t taste good to them, until enough time has passed so they can separate the killing from the eating.
Sounds tough, doesn’t it? But Pioneer and country people lived close to life in all its forms and raising animals from just-born until they were large and aged enough to be good meat, was an accepted, and only, way of getting food for their tables. Just life and not even to be commented upon.
However, I didn’t like seeing it demonstrated, right there in my back yard, and especially while eating my breakfast, but I recalled my husband, going Duck or Pheasant hunting, and later, how the birds would appear on our table, and while I didn’t kill them, I was in on the preparation.
But I can tell you one thing. I could not eat a Mallard, Pheasant, Pintail, Teal, Quail, or Dove at my own table. However when my meat comes in a white plastic container and covered with plastic wrap, its far removed from the living animal it once was, and I buy and eat it.
Yes, and while roundly cussing myself with every bite, I also ate those wonderful sausages. It’s a vicious cycle, and I cringe when I know that there are some cultures where dogs, our Pets, also routinely appear on tables. It’s a funny world we live in, and I don’t mean ‘ha-ha’ funny, either.
On the soapbox . . .
Over the years as I’ve written a public newspaper column and now an internet blog, and learned there just isn’t one Public, but instead it’s thousands of individual people and they all have different ideas. Thank goodness.
I’ve written about many subjects and have been scolded, snubbed, praised, censured and given every other kind of criticism. When I’ve written about liking all kinds of weather, I’ve been scornfully told that weather can be terrible, heartless and cruel and that I am foolish for having such a view.
A sentimental, nostalgic column about Mother’s Day is always a catalyst for calls querying “What’s wrong with Fathers? And Grandmothers?” Not a thing, not one thing, but I can only write about one thing at a time.
A pattern for making an absolutely lovely, different, afghan brought complaints from those to whom ‘dc, sc, and yo’ were pure Greek, and recipes given too often bring complaints that, after all, ‘we don’t stand over a hot stove’ all day, so knock of recipes and write something stimulating.
So . . . I ran onto a stimulating book written quite objectively (I thought) about the LDS Religion (where I was born) and no one, no one, NO ONE liked it. But me. I was a traitor to my people; friends disapproved and said I should be ashamed of myself. A few non-LDS friends applauded my ‘bravery’ (oh, they don’t know me!) and, though I was only quoting from a book, wow, wow, wow.
I once wrote that I considered a deep, heartfelt tribute to the President of the LDS Church but made no attempt to hide the fact that he was 90 plus years ‘old’ but, you should have read my mail. Did they want me to write as if he were a teenager???
I wrote about the differences between sex and love and thought I’d have to leave town. Such basic emotions seemed quite an ordinary topic, but no, no, no. I was tempted to publish the letters I received. With names, included. Revenge would have been sweet.
I’ve written about dogs so often that everyone knows I have no patience with them. It’s no secret that I don’t like what they do my lawn and, once, even took physical means to put a stop to making my place a doggie ‘rest stop’. I’m not violent, but you’d have thought I’d castigated mother-love, apple-pie, the Fourth of July, and Christmas.
Well, lets see. I’ve mentioned a few times (quite a few?) that men don’t wear halos and that, in any marriage, there are days, (weeks, months, years) when you both wonder why in the world you ever thought that institution was so great. The roof fell in. I never knew there were so many ‘perfect husbands’ around here, and , believe it or not, one of them told me that, after all, it is women’s duty to adjust to life. No fooling.
When I get off on to some ‘weird’ subject such as reincarnation, I smile to myself, for even while I’m writing the words, I know there are going to be people shocked and appalled to think anyone in this valley could read and study such things. Much less write about them. But I smile again, for I am far from alone.
I’ve screamed about our government and been shunned with stern looks by both Republicans and Democrats. If I speak out for one Candidate, I’m told I’m stupid and no matter what I’ve said about any approaching item up for vote, I know I’m going to be ‘wrong’ for someone.
Which finally leaves me writing for no one but myself, and my ole newspaper boss, who was a most trusting, tolerant, open-minded man. “It’s not my column, Ethel, It’s you they’ll phone or write to. Not me.”
But, ya know, I loved and still do love hearing from you and save every letter sent, and if you don’t agree with me, have patience. If I tear into your favorite theme, just think, “Well, there goes Ethel on her soap box again. She’ll be back to normal next week”. And ever so often, I am. Bye.
A Silent Key* is still heard . . .
I thought I was long through with the tears that memories after a death can bring. That the hurts were all tucked away in closed rooms that I only glance in now and then. Almost as if they had happened to another person.
But the I received a start the other day that taught me no matter how busy and happy I am (and I am) the past is still a tangible part of me and–I suppose–always will be.
Now, you may or may not know that my husband, AW, was a radio ‘Ham’* and WR, one of our sons is also one. It’s a great hobby and a Ham will spend hours happily sitting at the dials, ‘chinning’ as they say, with people all over the world.
So WR called me the other day and said, “Hey, Mom, something odd just happened that I think you’ll like. I was on the air and when I finished with the fellow I was talking to, I twirled the dial to see if anything interesting was going on.
“All of a sudden I heard someone calling me and, when he signed off, I recognized him as W7NMK. It was Ray Larsen, one of Dad’s old pals and so I answered him.
“It was nice,” WR said. “Ray said he was also turning the dial, not really listening, when he heard my voice and he told me, ‘My insides turned over. All of a sudden the years vanished in one breath and it was AW back ‘on the air’. Yup, all of a sudden it was W7JYI on the air and there was AW chinning away. It gave me quite a turn.’
“’ I knew in a second, of course,’ Ray went on, ‘That it had to be you, one of AW’s sons (ham call sign K7EA), but for a few seconds I wasn’t really sure where or when I was. ’ ”
My husband, AW, of course is no longer with us, and so it’s been quite a while since his voice has been ‘on the air’. So when someone answered a call, just because he ‘knew’ the voice was AW’s, I was immediately engulfed in a round of memories.
We had many a good time in the radio ‘shack’** talking to people around the world, and it pleases me to know that WR now does the very same thing, but – – – in a way it hurts.
Yes, W6ITW and W7JYI, the station call letters of AW’s stations, were sent out thousands of times. He had a powerful station, that reached far and the friends he made were many.
Radio Hams, you see, are a breed apart. They sit over their dials, hamming away and the world is theirs. The friendships they make, although rarely ‘seen’, are most real.
I received letters for over two years after AW died from far away people who had just heard of his death and wrote in sorrow, saying they’d wondered why they hadn’t recently heard him on the air waves.
And Ray Larsen had good reason to know AW’s voice–even through the body of his son–for he’d been a friend of AW’s ever since he’d been a teenager, and had been a pallbearer at my husband’s funeral.
I used to wonder how memories could both bless and burn, but life teaches and I wonder no longer. I wouldn’t change one second of the delight my son gets as he Hams away, but it’s sad to know that the old W7JYI station, down in my basement, became long ago, a Silent Key.***
————————
*“Hams” are officially known as Amateur Radio Operators.
**Their Station is called a “Ham Shack”, the equipment is their ‘rig’, and their conversations with other Hams are called ‘Chinning’.
*** “Silent Key” refers to the piece of Equipment, (The Key) that the operator used to tap out the Dits and Dahs of the original Morse Code and became Silent, and sends out no more messages because of the Operator’s death.’
Today’s blog with the needed help of my son WR, aka K7EA
I’ve looked at clouds . . .
The sky outside my window was wonderfully blue and I found myself watching the globs of white clouds against that clear, blue sky and was suddenly 10 years old. Ten years old and playing again that old childhood game of ‘making the clouds go away’. And I’m glad to report, it still works.
Later on I was telling a few others about it, and was astounded to find that their childhoods hadn’t held that game. They really didn’t believe me, and laughed as if I were looney, but danged if three of them didn’t call me during the following week, saying things like . . . My gosh, Ethel, it works . . . Hey, it really does make them disappear . . . or, Ethel, I thought you were crazy, but you were right. You can make clouds go away.
I laughed and said, You know, every kid I grew up with did it. No big deal. It just was a fun game to play when there was nothing else to do on a nice sunny day.
But then, because it was new to so many of them, I thought that maybe some of you don’t know about it either, and dang it, no one should grow up and not know how to make clouds disappear. Here’s all there is to it.
Go outside on a nice day like we get here so often, when the sky if full of big and small white clouds against a blue, blue sky. A nice hot summer day is best, or at least more comfortable, but it works in winter just as well. But for heaven’s sake don’t try it on a storm cloudy day, cause you won’t be able to do it. Oh, I know the Indians, (both of America and India) can control those big rain clouds, but they must know some secret I don’t. Nope, I know my limits and don’t even try to compete with them.
But, anyway, find a nice lil ole cloud. For beginners try just a little wiff of a one. One standing all by itself so you won’t get all confused when it begins to disappear, and make you wonder if you’re still looking at the one you began with.
Okay, now look at it. Stare at it hard steadily for one, two or three minutes. Concentrate on it, and don’t let your mind wander and begin wondering what you must do later on, or could be doing right then. We kids would chant silly things like . . . cloud, cloud, go away . . . but it isn’t necessary. It just made us feel great.
But concentrate on that little cloud and mentally tell it to go away. Keep your eyes upon it with concentration and darned if, little by little, it does disintegrate right there before your own eyes.
Course, there are all kinds of explanations nowadays. I’ve read recently that we send out heat by our concentration and that heat reaches into space and vaporized (or whatever is needed) to make that cloud disappear.
I’ve also read where it is all will power. That God created all the world and everything in it and then gave us dominion over it. Maybe so, maybe so. I’m no expert on such things, so don’t ask me. I just know the results. Not the cause.
But the next time the fleecy clouds are filling the sky, with lots of clear blue sky in between, go outside, sit or lie down, relax, and stare and concentrate at some little ole harmless bit of fluff and do your stuff.
You’ll laugh. You’ll tell your kids. You’ll hesitate to mention it down at the office for fear others will think you’re weird, but that’s all right. Just tell them Ethel told you about it, and everyone knows I’m a bit weird, so no one will be surprised or hurt.
Your kids will think it’s neat too, except that probably they already know about it, and will think it’s funny that it’s new to you. They’ve probably been doing it for years.
Cloud, cloud, go away, come again some other day. You, too, just might be surprised. It’s fun, even if you’re not still a ten year old.
Right from Harvard University
The “Harvard Women’s Health Watch” mails out a monthly 8-page study on what’s good for women’s all-round health, while zeroing in on specifics at the same time. I look forward to it and today am passing along Seven Simple Ways for Women to Get Active.
They say we need 30 minutes of exercise, five days a week, and, yes, you can go to a gym, but those who don’t like gyms, or can’t exercise for an hour or even a half-hour at one time, don’t have to give up. You need a total of 150 minutes, but their research shows that shorter periods, like ten minutes, three times a day, give the very same good results.
Here goes and every woman can find one or two of these suggestions that will ‘fill their bill’.
1. Plant a garden. Ten minutes of ‘gardening’, three times a day, is a simple method. Digging, hoeing, bending, weeding, and carrying tools back and forth from house or garage to garden is hard work. Bending and lifting also work your muscles, but, with this one, please pay attention to your back and knees if you have arthritis. And, as a bonus, if you plant veggies, you can eat them later on and improve your diet.
2. Walk the dog. Dogs are wonderful exercise partners, and give you a daily reason to walk. Keep up a brisk pace but, for heaven’s sake, don’t call your dog’s ‘bathroom break’ as part of the timing. For you, that’s rest time, not walking.
3. Clean house. Cleaning isn’t fun and is a solitary task, but while you’re getting rid of dust, making a bed, and ‘making sense’ out of your freezer or frig, you’re also stretching and lifting, which adds up to getting fit. Forget the vacuum or electric mop, and scrub the windows, sweep the floor, reach up to dust the high corners. Be creative, and while reaching some high spot, stand on one leg, then the other. When making a bed, stand in the middle of one side and turn and bend your body to reach both the Head and Foot.
4. Make love. Sex is not only good for the relationship with your partner, it is good exercise. They suggest different positions (no, call them, not me, for specifics) tell you what muscles are used, and that it gets your heart pounding for aerobic results. If you have a history of heart disease, check with your doctor on this one.
5. Play with grandchildren. Whether at home or in the park, don’t just sit on a bench and watch them play. Get up and join them. Play Hide-and-seek; push them on the swing, toss a ball back and forth, and enter their activity. Good for the mood and muscles, and it will create a memory for them to cherish.
6. Take a dance class. Usually the class lasts more than 10 minutes, but think of the fun you’re having. It’s a weight-bearing activity and so contributes to bone strength while burning fat. If no classes, turn on some music and dance through your home. No one will see you, and anyway, who cares???
7. Walk the mall. Take a few laps around the mall before you begin to shop. Park your car as far as possible from the doors of the Grocery store and then briskly walk the aisles several times before filling your cart.
Mix and match these suggestions and make your own. Tennis, golf, stairs rather than escalator, short walk after lunch before returning to your desk, for it really doesn’t matter how you do those 30 minutes a day, all at once or in 10 minute increments. They work.
The Harvard people tell us to be realistic. Don’t expect a miracle as soon as you start, but make a beginning and stay with it. Some of their suggestions might not interest you at all, but just remember that for every 10-minutes of moving and stretching your body, you will burn from 40 to 60 calories.
For me . . . when I waken in the a.m. I’m all curled up in a nice, warm bundle and the last thing I want is exercise. BUT, I’ve found that if I begin wiggling my toes. Just the toes, I soon find my hands are also moving, and then, slowly but surely, my legs and arms (they seem to go together) and within a minute or so, my entire body is moving and there, flat on my back, my arms, legs, neck, shoulders, and all else are flinging around and I keep it up until in about 20 to 25 minutes I’m ready for whatever the day may bring.
And even is your weight doesn’t go down, you will be healthier because you’re using your body.
Remembering Mom’s Clothes Lines
There were usually 5 or 6 lines, each about 14 feet long, 5 1/2 feet high, and with long wooden poles that could push the lines UP so that the ‘wash’ wouldn’t brush against the ground and get dirty and yet allow the lines to be within easy reach for the one hanging the clothes.
These were unwritten rules, but every woman knew them by heart and followed them to the last word.
1. You WASHED the Lines each Monday, by wiping their entire length with a damp cloth to remove any accumulated dust that would soil the just-washed clothes.
2. Wash day was on a Monday. Only death or dying permitted any other day, and even then NEVER on a Sunday.
3. Even if it were sub-zero weather, clothes would ‘freeze-dry.’
4. You had to hang clothes in a certain order, always hanging whites (bed linen) with whites, shirts with shirts, sox with sox, towels with towels, pants with pants and so on.
5. And socks were hung by the toes, NEVER by the tops; Pants by the BOTTOM cuffs, NOT the waistband; and NEVER a shirt by the shoulders, but always by the tail.
6. Sheets and towels were hung on the OUTER Lines so that your ‘unmentionables’ could hang unseen on the middle Lines and some women, modestly hung their underclothes INSIDE pillow cases, shielded away from prying eyes.
7. There were Clothes Pin bags that you nudged along the Lines to be handy when hanging clothes, and to put those pins back in again, when taking down the dried clothes. It looked ‘tacky’ to see pins on empty Lines and also they would get dirty and so soil the next Monday’s wet clothes.
8. If you were efficient, you would hang the clothes up so that each item did not need two clothes pins, but would share pins by overlapping the corners of two items.
9. Clothes had to be OFF the line before dinner time, sprinkled and neatly rolled, placed in a clothes basket, and ready to be ironed on Tuesday. Never, never Monday evening.
_______________________________________
ODE TO MONDAY
A Clothes Line was a news report for people passing by,
For there could be no secrets, with clothes hung out to dry.
It also was a friendly Line, for neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by, to spend a night or two.
For then you’d see the fancy towels and sheets, upon the line.
And the special ‘company’ table cloths, with intricate designs.
And also of a baby’s birth, of those who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung so lovingly with pride.
The ages of the children could readily be known
And seeing how the sizes changed, you’d know how much they’d grown.
It also told when illness struck, as extra sheets were hung
With nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too, haphazardly strung.
They also said, “Vacation time”, when Lines hung limp and bare
And , “We’re back” was told, when crowded Lines had not an inch to spare.
New folks in town were scorned if clothes were dingey, gray
And neighbors carefully raised their brows and looked the other way,
But today the Lines are of the past for dryers make work less
And now, all that’s there within a house is left for us to guess.
But I really miss that way of life, ’twas such a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other well, by what hung on the Line.
( anonymous )
Reach Ethel at: ethelbrad@comcast.net
Ethel’s books at: WWW.BradfordDesigns.com
Was a good song, but not a good idea.
And so we dream. Every night you go to bed and dream and every night, I also go to bed and dream.
We laugh and often our first words the next morning are “My gosh, I had the craziest (weirdest, saddest, sexiest, wildest, most puzzling) dream last night” and then tell all about it.
But once you begin to understand the meaning of your dreams, you stop broadcasting them to the world, for it’s most akin to undressing in public. Rather, you share them with one you can trust implicitly, or save and ponder in your own silent heart.
For the fact is, if it’s a dream we remember, we can be sure it has a message. For us. The dreams that are the result of eating, or drinking too much, a sudden noise, or getting twisted in the blankets, are meaningless and soon forgotten. But pay attention to those you remember. It’s you, talking to you.
I once had a horrible dream, repeated three consecutive nights. Oh, there were differences, but all with the same message, bothered me, and finally sent me to a doctor. Three days after seeing him I was operated upon and said TYG many times over.
Our dreams, the experts tell, consist of the unconscious part of ourselves trying to communicate with our conscious part. My dreams are me, talking to me, and yours are you talking to you. Well, except for the ones mentioned above.
They are trying to give us a warning (see above) or where we could use help in our daily lives. And everything, every T-H-I-N-G, in that dream is us. If we see ourselves in a messy, cluttered house, that house is us, and the dream is telling us that something in our life, needs ‘cleaning up’.
And watch which room, bedroom, bath, kitchen, basement, garage, you’re in. It all has meaning. Your car is you, and if you are driving up hill, good for you, you’re on the right course, and if going downhill, pay attention, for in some way, you’re headed the ‘other’ way. Bathrooms are clean-up messages, and are worth pondering over.
Our dreams reflect the culture and thinking of the era we live in. When Freud first dipped into our dreams, he came up with the fact that 95% of dreams were concerned with sex. And he was right, too. For that day and age.
The world of his time was an inhibited place. with sex a big no-no. Unmentionable. So, his clients, in that locked-in-concrete atmosphere, had dreams of sexual freedom. But, I understand, in today’s world, where there is sexual freedom never before known, our dreams are gradually reflecting a desire for change. Of course there are exceptions, but I understand that ‘home, and picket fence’ are beginning to be reflected in dreams. Oh, not for you, or me, but that’s what the experts are finding. No fooling.
Not Puritanism. but ’tis said, that when the pendulum goes too far either way, in any aspect of life, our dreams nudge us toward what is ‘normal’.
We too are told to look at our dreams, as was Joseph, in Biblical times. And the same as Joseph, everything is in symbols, left for us to interpret, and dreams do not come with sub-titles. To-day, the majority of our dreams (like it or not), are not of sex.
But remember, dream symbols are explicit. Terribly explicit. Surprisingly explicit. Sometimes horribly explicit. So if you decide to figure out what ‘You are trying to tell yourself’ don’t hide half your dream as being ‘not nice’, or shiver and say, “I would never do that”. Take a second look, knowing it’s only a symbol, and that everything in that dream is you. Don’t toss it aside, for some part of you is struggling to where your dreams are pointing. And there are no Information Booklets.
Get your self a good dream book, (not from the supermart), and begin to pay attention to how you, are trying to bring harmony into your life. It’s sorta fun, and sometimes, as what happened to me, can be very good for your health. It’s one great big eye opener as to how smart we really are.
“The Dream Book”, by Betty Bethards, published first in 1983 and still going strong, is used as a textbook, and highly recommended. It cost $13.00 about 25 years ago. Try Amizon and get one for less than $5.00. It’s good stuff.
T.Y.G.
Today’s words began coming to my mind as I relaxed on my patio swing, and for some reason, I began remembering that right where I sat, and really not too long ago, is where Indians lived. And I mean my home-site is exactly where they also lived, sat, ate, walked, worked, loved, and slept. Yeah, in a different manner, but all else, the same.
The placement of my home is in the identical place where their home had been, and I also knew that the change from them to me, hadn’t been their choice. And a streak of guilt hit me like a ton of bricks.
I suppose my guilt actually began back in 1948 when we asked Joe Mash, son of Frank and Felicia, to plow a garden spot for us, and almost on what is now my east, and my son, Bill’s west lawn, Joe unearthed a circle of Teepee stones, still in place for their teepee, and to one side, there were scorched rocks ready for a cooking fire. It was rather like walking, uninvited into someone’s home.
I didn’t forget, just put the knowledge to one side. But a week or so ago, I decided that a certain storage shelf needed to be cleaned to see if it held anything worth keeping, and there I found several Indian mortar and pestles needed to grind their dry corn. Actually called the Mano, the grinder and the Metate, the dished out stone ‘bowl’.
And the guilt returned, for I knew that the ‘stuff’ I had saved, held in my hands and wondered over, was not mine, but were loved and well-used remnants from some Indian woman’s home. I was holding the very tools she had used hundreds of times as she cooked and cared for her family.
I had heard family members tell how, for many years, the Indians came back each Spring hoping that this time there would be room for them, but of course there never was and they were told to get away.
Our early pioneers found this spot as an ideal place to call home for the very same reasons those Original people, the Indians, made it home. We wouldn’t want to live in one of their Wigwams, but just the same, to them they were home, and just as we love our homes, they did too.
But, there were more of us, and in addition, (and more and more my words sound like today’s headlines), the primal cause of Indians leaving and our being here is that there were more of us and we had more guns. After all, the men didn’t build Forts, just to have something to do with their time. Nearby the ones casually spoken of, and were Fort Union, and Cedar Fort which had been restored to a certain point, and used as a tourist site.
Makes me wonder if, in many centuries to come, another group will see this lovely place and decide to call it theirs. And, also wonder what weapons they might have to force our descendants to move on, or become their vassals.
Oh, me, we think life is so permanent, but as I sit here, I suddenly know that ‘permanence’ is transient, ever changing. Dukka. Many, in various parts of the world, and even as I type these words, are being forced from their generations-held homes. And done so, by others who. right now, happen to have the larger stock of weapons.
But this road I live upon, which we have made and re-made, would not be recognized by Indian people, but nevertheless, it was their chosen location and their foundation that we built upon. The very place my home rests upon was a home-site for them, and for much longer than it has been for me.
And so, now it’s our turn. And in centuries to come, who’s next? Who knows. Who can tell. But while it is ‘our turn’ let us enjoy the moment and know that across Time, we’re sharing it with others.
When ‘we’ came to this valley, which is only a ‘blink of an eye’ in Time. ‘We’ planned to make this our home, and there were more of us, and also, ‘we’ had guns, and that made the difference. Even away back, when the weapons were nothing but arrows, clubs or big rocks, that made the difference.
Sadly, my words are true, and all history books we have studied, are ‘stories’ of people coming, overcoming, and forcing other people to move, change, or be killed. No? Well, maybe you’ve read different history books than I have, and, also, we must remember that history books are always written by the victors. I’ve found no History book, even The Bible, that tell of eras of peace, love and joy. Or maybe there never have been such epochs.
Either way, my words today are triggered by those Indian tools I have, which really are not mine, and yet would be of no use to any Indian woman, either, but, TYG, they have the Power to make at least one woman, me, stop, think, remember, regret, and pass those thoughts along to others. You.
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Inquiries have asked the meaning of TYG. So simple, so meaningful:
Thank You, God.