They came home for a while, but now live somewhere else . . .

        Everything that’s physically mobile has a built-in homing instinct.  Ocean fish, whales, etc. travel thousands of miles on annual treks; butterflies from the tropics to their second northern  homes; the swallows of Capistrano; ants, (the dang things) travel yards and yards, in single file, from their basic ‘home’ to wherever they sense food, and yet find their way back.

        I again saw proof of this Home Instinct this year as three Mallard Ducks came and sat stoically where easily twenty years ago their ancestors had been born and fed.  My heart went out to them and their loyalty, but  beautiful as they are, I wished them well and ignored them.  Well, I thought of having a Duck dinner, but that time, in this neighborhood, is long gone.

        It all began years ago, when I noticed that a Mallard hen had built a nest, close to my basement outer wall, hidden and protected in the midst of my bushes.  I watched her, and her visiting mate, with interest, and in a week or two there were fluffy baby goslings in my yard, and in response to their peeping and how sweet they were, I began giving them food, and chose a spot of  lawn where I could see them during the day.

        All went well, and within days I was feeding both Mama and Papa Duck and their five goslings.  Then the five ducklings began losing their Down and getting feathers and it was fun to watch. And, swiftly, it seemed, I had the parents and  five beautiful teenagers and then, almost suddenly, it seemed,  there were seven ducks coming and staring  expectantly at my door and gobbling up every crumb of food I put out. And I had to take a ‘second look’ to see which were the kids and which the parents. 

        Fun, and by then I’d found a shop in the old Cottonwood Mall that catered to food and the care of all genre of pets we bring to our homes, and I became a familiar customer, for seven ducks eat food, and I mean FOOD.  I explained to ‘my’ demanding ducks that  there was a pond right down in the pasture, (now the Golf Course) not more than a five second flight away, and where they would have both water and  natural food, but they didn’t hear me. 

        So, I cut down on the amount of food given them, and they began digging in the lawn.  I smiled, thinking they were getting worms and bugs, and when they had eaten all of them, the ducks would turn to the nearby pond.  But I then found the dang ducks were actually eating the ROOTS of my lawn and there was about a 12 foot patch that was quickly becoming NOT  lawn, but plain bare ground.  And they were pushing back the edges each day.

        In desperation, and torn between love of those sweet ducklings they once had been, and anger at the predators they’d become,  I asked the fellow at the Pet Food Mart what I was to do.

        He laughed  at my bewilderment, but then stopped chuckling long enough to tell me I had to simply stop feeding them.  He reminded me of all the signs around ponds, picnic spotsand in every Park that say,  “DON’T FEED THE DUCKS”. And then, he stopped laughing, got serious and  told me that unless I planned on my back lawn becoming nothing but a Duck Restaurant and Rest Room, I’d had to stop feeding them and force them to eat elsewhere.  They, he assured me, would not starve.

        He grinned as he assured me he’d be glad to keep selling me feed, but sooner or later, it would be either the Duck’s back yard or mine.  Really, he said, it boils right down to those choices.  Their yard or Ethel’s. 

        Well, I decided I wanted to use my lawn, and so, abruptly  I stopped feeding them, and they didn’t die, but they didn’t like it, either,  and let me know with their squawking.  It was a slow business, and their transfer of Feeding Stations did not come about without lots of protest, and, after a month or so, I watched them as they paused first at my Closed Shop, before winging over the hill and onto the Pond for nourishment.

        But that’s not the end of my tale. For the funny part, is that every Spring, Mallard Ducks come to my lawn and sit and wait right in the exact spot their ancestors  had landed and waited.

        They know where home base is and though a few scores of years have passed since I gave food to their forebearers, they still return.  Loyal as all get out, and though I hate to put a stop to their built-in instincts, I have to keep reminding myself that my purpose here on earth is not to feed  generations of Mallards.

        This year, for a couple of weeks,  they hung around each morning for at least two hours before flying off to get their breakfast.  But their instinct was true, and they were returning to their home and where every bone in their bodies told them there should be food. It hasn’t worked for a long, long time, but instinct still tells them otherwise.  That here, my back yard is still the point of their beginnings.

        I know what would have happened a generation or so ago.  My husband would have brought out one of his Shot Guns, probably just a 12 gauge one, and the Bradfords on east 4800 South, would have had Roast Duck for dinner.  It would have been good, too, for a lot of fancy Duck Food had gone through their Craws.

A Utah town of any name would be the same

        If you know your Pioneer ancestor was born right here in Zion, and yet the town listed on the Birth Certificate, can’t be found, take heart, you’re not alone.

        Original Pioneer farms were far apart and the name, was either  for the first family there, or for some outstanding feature of the area.  Changes came fast and were no big deal.

        My husband’s Birth Certificate shows him born in the family home, still in the same place, but on 1700 South.  Today, same place, same road, is 4800 South.  See?  

        Brigham Young had a marvelous plan for naming the streets, starting from a point at the southeast corner of the Mormon Temple grounds and going all four directions from that spot.  He divided the land into Blocks, and going south, every Block went from First South, to Second, Third,  Fourth and ended at Ninth South, because that’s where the city ended.

        Every foot of land  beyond was considered desert, but when  some man began a farm a few miles south, no matter how far,  it became 10th South, and the next farm, with no surveying,  became 11th South, and so, 4800 South was  the eighth street  south of that original boundary of 9th south.

        Then there is Redwood Road with nary a tree or a  family named Redwood anywhere near.  Well, Jess W. Fox, Surveyor of the Mormon Grounds, was asked to draw plans for a road from North Temple Street south to where 21st South now is.  He did, and named it Campus Lane, but no one liked  that, so they tried Fairbanks, which didn’t stick, either. 

        Finally ‘Redwood’, the nick-name the workmen had used from day-one, became official.  Thousands of  Surveyor’s Pegs were needed to lay out that road, and those pegs were made from Redwood trees because that wood could withstand the hard pounding needed  to drive them into cement-like ground, as well as hold up under all kinds of weather.  And so, the laborers who did the work, also named it.  Good for them.

        Mormon Wards were the center of Pioneer life, and were usually named after the predominant  family,  and when a ward  became too large, it was divided.  Many families settled west of the Jordan River, and so West Jordan Ward  became its name.  But in 1867  it was divided into many smaller ones and the communities of Bluffdale, Riverton, Herriman, South Jordan, Granger, Taylorsville, Hunter, and Pleasant Green were formed.

        Bluffdale was named after the high nearby bluffs above the Jordan Narrows, Taylorsville after the early Taylor family, and Brighton, at first Silver Lake, was named after Thomas W. Brighton who  built the first home at the top of  Big Cottonwood Canyon.

        Alta, high up in Little Cottonwood Canyon,  was the site of a silver mine, and one of my uncles, Lethair (sp?) Goodall, died along with others in a snow slide there.  And, as many of the miners were Spanish, they used their word for ‘high’ , namely Alta, to mark the spot.  The mines and the miners are long gone, but the name, Alta, is known  throughout the world as a Ski Resort and I’d bet that only one in a thousand knows that ‘Alta’ is of Spanish origin.

        Draper Ward opened in 1867, surveyed and planned by the same Jess Fox.  He divided the land into farms, numbered each one, put those numbers on slips of paper, and eligible men picked a slip from a hat Fox held, and, like it or not,  that was where they would live.  They called it South Willow Creek, but soon was re-named Draper after one of those early Settlers.  Willow Creek still lives on, but now just as  an area of the far southeastern part of our valley.

        So. Cottonwood ward was divided, forming Union, after Fort Union; and Granite, after the rock mined nearby to build the Mormon Temple.   Once there were many  smelters in the valley with the one in Murray being the only one that continued through the years,  but one of them, built  upon sandy soil,  became the  Sandy City we know today.

        I like the humor that oftrn crops up in staid journals, and so, with apologies to who ever wants them, Sandy  was,  at that time, known as the Red Light District of the valley.  Oh me.

        Midvale (another smelter town) was first known as Bingham Junction, later as East Jordan and finally,  because of  its location, Midvale.  Bingham received its name from brothers Sanford and Thomas Bingham who grazed their cattle in that canyon and staked out mining rights to the surrounding hills.

        Franklin, a spot on the railroad  running south from Salt Lake, soon became Murray City, after the territorial Governor Eli H. Murray.  Sugar House was named for a Beet Sugar Mill built  there, and  Magna is the Latin word for large, big, magnificent and so on and on and on.

        So, if you KNOW your ancestors were born in this valley and yet their birth certificate shows some town you’ve never heard of, and isn’t on any map, don’t fret. Poke around, there were many small,  isolated spots with names that lasted so short a time they were never recorded, but nevertheless, that place was here. 
Good luck.

Memorial Day Thoughts

For Those I Have Loved

All you I have loved, who are no more

My lovely ladies and gentlemen

I love you still as I did before

And I pray we may meet again

Though I can’t know how that may be

For where in another time, another place

Or even what name or number we may have.

But whatever I have for a heart will leap

For, O my lovelies, love runs deep

And I have loved you much.

James Dillet Freeman

Twenty-Third Psalm,

For a Dad

Lord, Shepherd my Dad today

In green pastures let him lay

To still waters guide his way

Restoreth his soul, I pray.

Lead him in the path of right

Through the valley give him light

When  he’s afraid ease his fright

With Thy rod and staff lend might

Prepare a table of spoil

Annointest his head with oil

Give to him a cup that’s royal

Let goodness follow his toil

And Thy mercy cease never

May he dwell in Thy house forever.

This I ask in Jesus’ name, Amen.

Uriah

When I come to the end of the road,

And the sun has set for me,

I want no rites in a gloom-filled room.

Why cry for a Soul set free?

Miss me a little —but not too long,

And not with your head bowed low.

Remember the love that was once shared.

Miss me, but let me go.

This is a journey we all will make

And each to take alone

It’s all a part of the Master’s Plan

A step on the road to home.

When you are lonely and sick at heart

Go to the friends we know.

Bear your sorrow in good deeds.

Miss me, but let me go.

Author unknown

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints of snow

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you swaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night,

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there.  I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye 

Crossing The Bar

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me.

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea.,

Twilight and evening bell

And after that the dark,

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark.

Tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

Tennyson

Prayer of St. Francis 

For it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is darkness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be

consoled as to console;

to be loved, as to love

for it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

(Neil Armstrong left the following poem on the Moon, saying the words cover any emotion future visitors might have.  Even death.)

Do you need me?  I am there.

Wherever you need me.  I am there.

Even if you deny me.  I am there.

Even when you feel most alone.  I am there.

Even in your fears.  I am there.

Even in your pain.  I am there.

Though you fail to find me.  I do not fail you.

Do you need me?  I am there.

James Dillet Freeman

Visiting Old Friends and Places

     A friend, I’m calling Jennifer, died a few weeks ago, and though we had only known each other for a few years, in another sense we had known each other for who knows how many countless ages.

     Meeting her was one of those deja vu experiences that we all have and wonder over.   It’s seems foolish to say, but we knew  each other as soon as we met.   It was like meeting an old school friend, and our conversation, right from the start,  was as if we had last spoken only a few days before,  and with no ‘catching up’, we just began talking.

     Deja vu is a French phrase that means ‘already seen’.  It happens in many ways. There are those who, on some vacation tour, have entered an ancient building and knew it so well they could have been the Tour Guide.  And perhaps a better one, too.

     I was in a Study Group once, right here in Salt Lake, where such ideas were being explored, and a man who had traveled to most of the world business centers, told of when he was in Greece, saw the remains of an ancient stone building and there right amongst many people, he suddenly began sobbing, emotionally torn to pieces, because he knew the place.

     Long ago he had walked between those columns and he continued to cry  as he mourned at how much, so dear to him, had been destroyed by time, and, at the same time, cried that so much of what he knew so well, still remained.

     And then, getting right down to the nitty-gritty, past or present, he wondered, and asked, if the Rest Rooms today, were where they had been long ago.  They weren’t. 

     Well, that is how Jennifer and I were.  And it was not a buried memory of this life, or a movie or story, for she had been born and raised a member of another culture and on another continent,  yet, we, and it sounds so foolish to keep repeating it, but it’s just the truth.  We simply knew each other, and that was that.

     Of course, it’s easy for me to accept, for I believe in reincarnation and that everyone of us has lived many other lives, and when we have such ‘already seen’ moments, it’s because we are meeting someone, or seeing some place, we knew closely in one of those other lives.  Centuries or more ago. 

     There are experts who think these occurrences happen because our brain cells get ‘screwed’ up and make us visualize or recall some scene we’ve read about or seen in some movie.  Or, others, just as expert,  think that we have some kind of seizure that does things to our brain, making us see or think that we know the scene or person in front of us.

     Or, there are  millions, like me, who think we’ve lived many lives and that we’re meeting today, in today’s life, someone or some place, that was important to us at some other time.  And nothing to do with brain cells getting stuck or going off their track.

     We all have our own ideas, but Jennifer and I felt the same. We laughed and  it was a glorious ‘coming together’.   What did it matter where or when ???  We were here and now, and it was a good.

     I am using a different name, culture and continent for her birth, and I’ve left out many of the happenings we both shared, because she has a family that might not understand my words.  

     However, my family is long accustomed to my way of thinking and so I tell my tales openly and happily.  And they openly and happily accept and love me.  Life is good, and why Jennifer and I met again for a few short years is something neither of us could know. Nothing momentous happened, but it was good. 

     Books by the score have been written around  deja vu.  Songs , movies and TV shows all have been centered upon this ordinary, yet odd happening.  I am not alone . . . and neither was Jennifer.  Or you ? ? ?

     And I don’t think it has anything to do with wild brains cells.  Instead, it just might be that our brains are in touch with reality. And I mean, real reality.

Keats said:

“Where are the songs of Spring?” 
Oh, think not of  them,
 for Age has wondrous Music, too.”    

     When I was in my 40’s, a writer  I highly admired, Carolyn L. Heilbrun, published a book on getting old and said  that she planned to commit suicide on her 70th birthday because no one found happiness in their later years.

     I tossed the thought aside, as nothing to do with me, but it found a cozy corner in my mind, took up residence there and ever so often I’d find myself checking in to see how it was holding up.  It smiled back.

     I paid it no heed, for my life was contentedly busy with family and job, but suddenly, where I had been one of a close-knit family group of eight, in less than a year, there was only one left.  Me. 

     Five left by death! My husband, Gram, Uncle Jake, and an aunt and uncle in California; while at the same time,  jobs and marriage took my sons.  Oh, I had my job, but jobs eventually come to an end, and I knew it was time to take stock of my life.  It could never be the same as the year before, and I wondered, “What am I going to do with the coming years?”

     I was scared, because it was the first time I had ever considered such a question, for my life had always seemed to be in an orderly procession, laid out before me as if fated. And startling me more was realizing that ever since birth, I had been doing only what others told  me to do, and punished if I rebelled.  First:  parents, then one after another, church, teachers, bosses, husband, and on and on.  Oh, and the ads and commercials not only told me what to wear, but what to think and how to act.

     And angry with myself for getting into my 50’s before recognizing that my every move had been programmed by others.  Looking around, I saw everyone ‘in the same boat’, and wondered if that was why most old people seemed to lead such dismal lives.  No one, not even TV, was telling that age group what to do.

     So, so, so.  Carefully, cautiously,  I began exploring what changes to make, and decided not to let fear glue me to the old and familiar. All that was over.  I couldn’t  raise my sons again, or re-live my life with my husband, and so I went  back to Heilbrun.  Obviously she did not commit suicide at 70 and her book, The Last Gift of Time: Life Beyond Sixty was great.  It’s not a self-help book, but an eye-opener of how she accepted that Last Gift. The years, if we don’t die, we all eventually reach.

     There had been nothing wrong with my past life, but I now wished I had done some things in another way.  But I also saw that no matter how much wiser(?) I had become, I couldn’t change the past, and  better start looking ahead, not back.

     All this didn’t happened over night, but slowly, and for the very first time in my life I consciously began choosing what classes to attend, which books to read, what hobbies to experiment with, no matter how ‘off the board’ they seemed.  Took me a while to come to terms with that idea, for, like it or not,  we all find it very nice to be able to blame someone else if we don’t like what happens.  Think about that.

     Heilbrun noted that our culture provides patterns for every decade in a person’s life, except how to be healthy, happy, and old.  And that left people spending their last years exactly as their parents had, which was really nothing but stay at home, watch TV and its movies, and dwindle more and more into, nothingness.  

     She told that finding  new and different things to do was a great big key.  Entirely  different.  Learn to play the piano. Learn another language.  Decide to read and study all of Shakespeare. Paint your house. But whatever you choose, do it seriously. And I thought of my friend  who learned to fly and then built his own two-seater plane to soar the skies.

     I, along with my artist friend Beverly Wheeler Mastrim decided to publish a  full-color, coffee-table book on The Sunset of the Farmer with the words mine, and the  pictures by Beverly.  It’s been a joy, finding  different ways to use old talents, and several books by me have followed, relating stories of long ago people who were the foundation of my Murray.

     People’s last years can be spent doing all the things one  wanted to, but had no time for.  To not let anyone tell us ‘no’, or discourage us, or to even  ask  “Why?”  Why?  Because we want to and in doing so, I’ve found that The Source’s greatest gift is that energy and health come to let us recognize, use, and enjoy the last years of life.  And I was over 75 before I even recalled  Heilbrun’s thoughts of suicide at 70.

 Milton said:
“Destiny gives us a happy youth or a  happy old age,
and a
 happy youth is not always the wisest choice”.

Social Security – aka Ponzi Scheme

    On the first day we enter the Work Force, a percentage of our earnings, and not as a tax, yet is taken, matched cent-by-cent by our employer(s), and that amount is sent to Social Security Offices, in Washington DC.
 
     If that same amount were deposited into a bank, it wouldn’t make us millionaires, but still would be a cozy nest-egg, and the money would be ours, no matter how long, or short a time, we lived.
 
     The way the law now reads, is if we live until we reach that ‘retirement’ age, of 62, the money flow is reversed and a deposit, with the amount depending upon what was taken from us, over the years and sent to SS, is made each month  into our chosen bank.  And, as of now, no matter how long we continue to live, the payments keep coming, and there are those healthy people who live long after 62, and end up being real winners.
 
     However, if we die before reaching 62, (even 61 and eleven months), it’s just plain tough luck, for our heirs will find it wasn’t a ‘bank’ where our money was deposited.  Our heirs find that the money we’ve paid, all our working lives, isn’t ours. And yes, I know, if we have an ‘early’ death, our heirs get a $250.00  check, and if our children are under the age of 18, they too get small checks until they’re 18.  Real generous with ‘our’ money.
 
     That is one great big, tough rule that, willy-nilly, is set in stone.  We either live until we reach that magic age, or we lose every red cent that has been taken from our wages, month after month, year after year. Well, see the previous paragraph.
 
     And you can try to take your case to the Supreme Court, but others have fought this battle with negative results, so, even trying  would be a waste of  time.   Yes, we worked for the money. It was part of our Gross Pay.  It was taken from our wages.  And our boss(es) matched each cent of it, but if we die, even though only by days short of that magic date, you get just the pittance mentioned above.
 
     And, whisper, whisper, whisper, it’s been rumored that many a doctor has ‘helped’ someone remain alive for a few days, or (more?) in order to reach that date.
 
     I understand that no longer is our money deposited under our names, but into a Big Fund, and is actually what others have called the very same as a Ponzi scheme, where there must be lots of newcomers coming on board, to keep the game rolling.  And you are no longer even a name, just that nine digit SS number we now get as children.
 
     And if, someday the national birth rate declines and fewer people ‘pay’ in to the scheme, who knows what will happen to those who reach 62 and get a notice telling them that there just isn’t any money left in the coffers. Ponzi schemes have failed many a time. And, to put off such a threat, Washington has lifted the retirment age up to 66 to delay payments to us. 
 
     It’s what I call a dirty trick. and if a regular bank tried to operate by the same rules, they would soon be ‘out of business’ and someone in jail for trying.

     We have no other choice but to trust the government, but the more I learn about what ‘they’ do with our money, the more cynical I become.  LBJ had the power and had gone a long way to elliminate the ‘bugs’ out of SS, but he lost his/our chance when he became too power hungry and forgot all else but Vietnam, got us into that war, and we were left worse off, in so many ways, than before he came into office with his grand promises. No wonder he chose not to run again, for he knew exactly what he had lost, and the horror he got us into.
 
     The way it is now, is that we donate a certain  amount of money to the government, (and, several times they have  raised that amount) from each paycheck, and, at times, they also have used it in other ways.  And don’t try to get an explanation as to when, and by what magic, OUR  money became  THEIR money, but that’s how it is. Only it took us/me a long time to figure that out.
 
     Like all money we pay in taxes, (only this isn’t a tax, remember) once Washington gets their hands on it, we’ve lost  all control of its use.  Just ask your Congressman, or Hatch,  your Senator, the date when it stopped  being Our money. and why you can’t get even a percentage back, no matter if you don’t live quite to your 62nd birth date.  Worth a try.  At least you’d make them squirm, if they even bother to reply.  But I bet they won’t.

Everybody.  And I mean every B-O-D-Y

     And different in a far deeper  manner than the obvious female/male way, too.   Stay with me.  My mind wanders here and there, and when something interests me, I follow, and my next step is to write about it.  Like today, I’m writing of breathing.  Yeah, in-haling and ex-haling.

     Before you switch to some other place on the Web, take a moment to watch your breathing and you might notice that one nostril is more ‘open’ than the other.  In other words, one nostril is dominant, and long ago when I noticed this, I used lots of Vicks.

     But I found that the nostrils weren’t  clogged, for if you keep randomly checking, you’ll find that the other nostril is then the dominant one. That they  switch.

     Well, it’s a happening that was known to the ancient Yogis thousands of years ago, and while they knew nothing of right-brain, left-brain stuff, the idea is somewhat the same.  They weren’t so dumb even though they wore/wear odd clothing and live in caves and forests.

     We breath equally with both nostrils only at certain times, and these times are always ones of danger, crisis,  great awareness, crucial moments of danger. Vital moments.

     Birth time is one such time for both mother and child, and those primal screams come with both nostrils going at full steam. Of course if the mother is drugged into unconsciousness, who knows? I’m speaking of when we’re awake and aware.

     And death, birth’s opposite, is the same. Both nostrils, and sometimes for a few days or hours before that vital last action and it was one of the ways the old Yogis knew of their coming Change and sent word out for their students and friends to gather.

     Stay with me because the equal  times get more interesting and not all with our Beginning and End.  Sexual climax comes with both nostrils equal, if you can remember to check.  If you see an accident coming, all your senses are suddenly alert and again, if you have time to check, you’re using both nostrils.  Equally.  We’re alert, awake, aware.  Both nostrils going at full steam.  Sudden, alarming noises, earthquakes, fires, you name the fright and you’ll find both nostril equally at work.

     Such a simple (?) thing as turning over in the night causes the nostrils, wham, bang, to switch dominance and here the old Yogis weren’t sure, (like the chicken and the egg), which came first?  Do the nostrils switch and then we turn over, or . . . do we turn over and then the nostrils switch. If you find out, you’re one smart person.

     The Alternate Breathing techniques taught in various Meditation groups  are exercises to help us become awake, and I don’t know how, but to become aware of our bodies (minds?) going  from objective to subjective moods.  In some way we are subtly ‘different’ with these unasked-for changes.

     If you’re easily amused, as I am, it’s fun to watch these breathing changes, because it can change within a few seconds, and then back again as your activities change back and forth. 

     And then nothing to do with breathing, but there’s the simple, action of crossing our arms over our chests.  Do it right now, and see which hand goes under the other arm and then try it make it the other way.  The one way is so natural we do not even think of it, and the other way is awkward and difficult.  Not natural or comfortable. 

     Then try the universal action of  ‘folding your hands’.  So simple, every school child is told to do so as the Teacher wants their undivided attention.  So  as you do it, you find one way to do it is right and the other awkward and unnatural.  But if you note, people differ in how they do such an everyday thing. 

     Also, when serious meditators  use the Lotus Position with their feet placed over the thigh of the opposite leg, you’ll discover the same variance.  Train all  you wish, but with one person, the right foot is on top and with others it’s the left. 

     Every B-O-D-Y is different. And the old mediation mantra of ‘Watch Your Breathing’ has more meaning than we recognize, and is not just a way of keeping your attention to the moment,  Try these ‘oddities’: the changing of the dominant nostril, and, and also how you cross your arms and fold your hands.  There are many others, but there are also times I step back and do not try them out . . . but that’s my choice.

     It’s a funny world, and I don’t mean a funny ha-ha, either, but funny peculiar.  Try these ‘foolish’ exercises  and see your own b-o-d-y from a different aspect.  And I’ll see you next week and be just ordinary Ethel. I think.

G__  d_mn it!,  G__  d_mn it! 

     Never underestimate the intelligence of a child.  Their cognitive senses are operating at full blast long before they can communicate or comment.  And the memory of what they see and hear stays with them.

     My son, Bill, still in diapers, had a favorite cozy nook,  between a cupboard and a hall where he could see what as going on in the house, and one day I found that he heard and remembered far more than I thought possible.

     His older brother was usually busy with his stuff, Gram in her favorite chair, and as I went about my daily chores,  she and I talked about lots of stuff and later on, after Bill talked, I found that there had been another pair of ears hearing, all we said. And remembered it, too.

     Yeah, one day, after he could talk, he said, “Mom, do you remember when you and Gram were talking about. . . . ?”  and he then went on to tell me about that day, and, surprised, I answered, “Yes.”

     “Well,” he said, “that isn’t the way it happened.” And that dang kid went on to tell me exactly what had happened and Gram and I looked at each other in disbelief.  The child was right, and my ideas of the abilities children, barely out of infanthood, took a great big  turn-about.  

     I looked at Gram with eyes agog, and said, “Okay, thanks,” and the child casually went on with his play, but Gram and I knew  then that it had been no unthinking child hearing our conversations, and I began wondering what else he had heard.  And stored away.  Plenty no doubt.

     I knew kids copied what they heard, for his brother had proven that roundly. He, too, was still in the diaper stage, and  was sitting on the middle of the kitchen floor (where else?) and was swinging a small play plastic hammer his Dad had bought him,  and was pretending he was hammering with it. 

     And of all thing, over and over he was saying, “G__  d_mn it!  G__  d_mn it!”  Well, I hurriedly found something else for him to play with, hid the hammer, and couldn’t wait to tell his Dad that a few changes had to be made in  everyday ‘shop’ language.  Who told us that parenthood would be without shock?
 
     And, later on, I saw a daughter of a niece of mine do the same.  Oh, not the cussing, just the awareness of what was being said.  My niece was sitting near me with her less than two-year-old daughter on her lap.  She was telling me that she was expecting another child, but decided not to tell her daughter (the one sitting on her lap) about it for a few more months. 

     I laughed and told the expectant mother that she’d already ‘spilled the beans’, and that the child on her lap understood what she had said.  She looked at the child, the child looked at her, and  the looks in the eyes of both,  child and mother, was hilarious for both of them were surprised. 

     The mother to know that her child had understood, and by the look the child gave to me, it was evident that the child was surprised to know that there was an adult who knew that she understood.  I laughed again in delight.

     Stupid kids?  No, they’re all the same, and if you think not, you’re only fooling yourself.  No, they don’t have the ability to talk, but my oh, my, they have the ability to hear, and remember. 

     Think back on your own life, you simply  listened to what was being said, and it became part of you.  You knew and remembered.  There are no secrets around children.  They might not know all the inner meanings, or  have the ability to comment upon it, but, boy oh boy, do they ever  know the facts.  And have good memories, too.

I Stand Where Other Women Stood.  And I Wonder . . .

I stand where Jane, Rachel and Indian women once stood,
Seeing  the mountains, sky, earth and streams,  that they once saw.
Did they dream as I dream?  Did they dream of me?

Jane, pioneer woman, ekeing out a life in a cabin by the stream,
 Conceiving, Carrying and Bearing her eighteen children
On this same spot.  Did she dream as I dream?  Of me?

Or was she numbed by the cruel days and nights
Of ‘making do’ with ne’er a moment to stop and just be woman?
Did she dream as I dream?  And wonder?  About me?

And that sweet, child-bride Rachel, alone in a family of men.
The mountains, sky, earth and stream the same, but,
Did she dream as I dream? And wonder of the next woman? Me?

I see countless Indian women, standing where I now stand,
Seeing the same mountains, sky, earth and streams, and ask
Did they dream?  Did they dream, wonder?  Of another woman, me?

Today I stand where Jane, Rachel and Indian women once stood,
Circled by the same mountains, sky, earth and streams,
And I, too, dream and wonder,  about them.  Jane, Rachel, Indians.

The eternal mountains, sky, earth and streams are the same, but
 It’s a highway by my door; golf course, not pasture; Ipod in every hand.
And I dream and wonder, of a peace and quiet no longer here.

Bewildered, do the mountains, sky, earth and stream ever wonder, too?

Ethel Bradford
March 8, 2013

Whatever it was, it seems a simple cure . . .

               I’ve put off writing this column because I’m no expert, and certainly no doctor, but it happened to me.  It’s no made-up story, and I wish someone had told me about it a few years ago.  So I write.
               My Dad had psoriases  and so, even as a child I was aware of that skin disorder.  Dry flakey, itchy  skin, and I think there must be dozens of varieties of that inherited disease. It’s a dang nuisance and one not at all attractive to see.  And itchy.
               So, when I saw it begin to appear on my skin, I rushed to a dermatologist as fast as possible and since then have tried and been prescribed I suppose every salve, lotion or nostrum people can think of and had some good results, but no control over it at all.  Dang, and one gets used to wearing long sleeves and never bare legged.
               It’s in your genes I read and  believed it.  Dad, one of my siblings, and now me.
               But then I heard the silliest idea ever, that of Vaseline, good old fashioned Vaseline that was in our parent’s Medicine Chest for cuts and bruises and also in mine, too.
               So, as nothing else really helped, I picked up the jar of that old fashioned all-use stuff and began rubbing it into my elbows, arms, legs and where ever.  Night and morning to begin with, and was surprised to see that, no, it did not mess up my bed linen, or blouses or stockings. 
                As I rubbed it in, my skin absorbed it like a blotter, a sponge, and I was scared to admit it, but the scales on my elbows were not as dry as before.  And, to put it bluntly,  my arms and leg and all else are now entirely free from that curse.
               I use the Vaseline, now, about once a week, and my skin is clear.  No dreadful itching, no blotches, no scales.
 
               I honestly don’t know, I am no doctor, whether my psoriases is cured, abated or it was something else, but whatever.  All I know is I can wear short sleeves with no flinching, and have no itching at all.
               Now, just maybe,  (How am I to know????)  just maybe I never had psoriases.  Maybe I began eating something that took it away.  Maybe it has a ‘life cycle’ that comes and goes.  Maybe I just imagined it (ho-ho-ho) and now it’s gone, But . . .
               It is gone.  And the only thing different I have done, is use Vaseline.  It didn’t happen over night, but once I started using that common salve, the change was constant, and now I seldom think about it, except to glance at my arms, say TYG, and go my way.
                So, don’t think I’m some medic who stumbled upon some wonderful salve, for I’m not.  But someone told me about it, as if a big secret.  But I tried it, for me  it worked, and I pass it along.  Maybe it’ll come back with a vengeance, but so far . . . . . and it’s been about three months now . . . I am free of it.
               I hesitate to even write of it, but, I’m a gutsy woman and there just might be someone ‘out there’ who, like my Dad, and me, know what it is.  Good luck.