Momma was a packrat....

My mother had some issues… she had undiagnosed OCD for one thing….  (no doctor ever diagnosed it, but her obsessions were quite obvious to me….)

My mother washed paper plates and reused them.  Yes, she actually filled the sink with water to wash paper plates.  Needless to say she washed the plastic utensils, and plastic cups and reused those too.  (Ok, I admit it: I too, wash plastic utensils and cups and reuse them, at approximately the same rate I will use the same and toss them directly into the trash without reuse.)  Paper plates! Truly,… I might reuse one, if it’s not damp or stained, but I never wash paper plates……  (Please note that I live alone, and do not apply the same rules of cleanliness/sanitation that I would employ for others, be they guests or family. –That means that I wash everything and sterilize what can go in the dishwasher if I am expecting guests.)

Momma was a pack rat.  A collector of items. Various items; everything from dolls to dishware to stamps to….well name something, anything, and I bet I can find it in one of the hundreds of boxes of packrat crap that I still have.  It is overwhelming, yes.  I am a procrastinator, and until recently preferred to pay for a very large storage unit (climate controlled),…. where all of her pack rat crap was stored.  In the last 10 months I have begun the daunting task of emptying said storage unit.  This is no small undertaking, and it means that my home has become something of a warehouse.  It is full.  The situation was exacerbated this past June 28….it rained, and rained, and then the power went out….. the power company was noncommittal on when they would restore power.  The sump pump in my basement is electric.  There is no battery backup.  I spent a frantic 4 hours (until the flashlight batteries died.) getting everything in the basement off of the floor….and only a couple of inches, as I had limited resources to make platforms with…. And the rain let up, so I had no idea how much water might, conceivably come in to the basement.  The sump pit did overflow, there was water across part of the uneven basement floor,… and thankfully it was only a little water, and everything was dry 4 days later. 

But I digress…..

Momma was a packrat, but things are stuffed into boxes willy nilly…. none of it makes sense… Alzheimer’s did that.  Some of what I find may have made sense to mom, but it’s chaos to me.  And every box must be gone through, because you never know what you might find.   A lot of her collections I have sold in the past, either through garage sales or on the Internet.  None of it really brought in the kind of money she probably paid for it.  There are exceptions, but not truly significant.

For my mother this was OCD, she was obsessive and compulsive about her packrat crap, and always had an eye out for more things to bring home.  Before I heard of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder I described my mother as being “like an alcoholic”, because no one could get rid of her packrat stuff for her –she had to admit to having a problem and throw away her own stuff.  (She was NOT a hoarder! I have seen that, and we did NOT live like that.)  To a certain extent this behavior grew from her youth, she was a teenager during The Great Depression, and she was taught that you keep anything that you might have a later use for. So….

There are tons of kitchen gadgets, pots and pans, cookie sheets, cake pans including a bundt pan,…. jello molds (I do not eat jello), a large collection of spatulas…. So many spatulas that we (mom and I) once had some good laughs over the number of spatulas, many still in original packaging, we found while packing up a kitchen to move to another house. 

Dishes and glassware,… my parents entertained, back in the day.  At one time, before the mid-1960’s they entertained more than 50 people at their annual Christmas celebration.  (Yes, I still have the Santa suit.)  I have given away a few of the bar items, because I have no bar, nor do I entertain. 

What I have trouble comprehending are those folks who throw everything (EVERYTHING) away….. even winter coats that could certainly be worn for 3 or 4 winters…. And snow shovels –what is up with that? A snow shovel will be needed again, and they don’t take up a lot of space….buy a good one and keep it for years –that’s what I do.

I recognized the packrat gene (OCD) in myself many years ago.  That was when I stopped subscribing in magazines and newspapers…. I stopped looking at “free” things…  I will confess to being a book collector.  Anyway, admitting your addiction is the first step in the recovery process…. And I still have trouble discarding my own packrat crap….. but I am letting go of things, a little bit at a time.  The catharsis is when you let go of some item that you once believed you would keep until you die.

Anyway, if you are packrat or “collector”, do your heirs a favor and get rid of all your crap –the sooner the better!

Unforgettable people (#1)

My father's favorite sister, Marge, was my favorite aunt.  I loved her, I loved spending hours at her house as a child, and hours talking with her when I was a young adult.

Margaret, always known as Marge, was 2 years younger than my father.  My father was the second child in the family and Marge was the third child.  Perhaps that was why they were so close.  There were 10 children in their family, spanning 19 years.

Aunt Marge and Uncle Joe (Molitor) lived in Fox River Grove, Illinois, on the Fox River, and you have to know how to find that house,... it's way out near Burton's Bridge, on Tuxedo Lane.  To get there we had to travel a little farther west than the actual location of their home, due to the meandering path of the Fox River.  We traveled through the town of Fox River Grove, past the castle, across the river and up around the bend to the Main Street cutoff on the right.  There used to be a little island in that cutoff corner for the right turn to head eastward.  Main Street on down to Hickory Nut Grove Road, and then northward.  This sometimes comes to me in dreams all these years later.  Hickory Nut Grove Road runs north, and in my memory it runs on into a wooded area, where it ends. That is where you make a left turn onto Hickory Nut Grove Lane,...from there it is 1/8 mile (an easy walk) to Tuxedo Lane, a little gravel road that curves gently past the slough.  I always knew it as "the slough" because that was how they spoke of it.... a slough is a swampy area, and this one was overgrown with reeds, swamp grasses, and other natural vegetation- most of it more than 6 feet high -- for the first 11 years of my life. So "the slough" was a mysterious, scary place, to be avoided at all cost --never cross the road, was the rule I abided by.

Sometimes we approached from a different direction entirely, sometimes coming through the town of Algonquin, and traversing Cary-Algonquin Road to Three Oaks Road.... other times we came from the north, straight down State Highway 31 to U.S. Highway 14, and then to Three Oaks Road and on to Hickory Nut Grove Road.  My father liked to take different routes, and it depended on our point of origin, and dad's wanderlust.

Aunt Marge and her husband Uncle Joe lived in a one bedroom bungalow with a detached garage.  It was on the Fox River, with what I called a "long" front yard, meaning that the house was set back a good 70 feet from the river.  To people who live on a body of water that side of their home is often considered the front yard, and the back yard faced onto the road.  There were huge, old oak trees throughout the yards.  I remember the sound of acorns dropping onto the yard and the roof of the house.  They had a back porch with a fiberglass sheet roof....

what the porch roof looked like, except that it was green and not very opaque

The sound of acorns hitting that roof was kind of loud, but once you got used to it, it was just background noise.  When it rained, if it poured hard enough to get through the cover of the tall oak trees, it was very loud, interrupting conversation.

The back yard, from the house to the road was perhaps 60 feet, with a sidewalk along one side of the yard.  Between the sidewalk and the chain link fence were rabbit hutches between the garage and the house.  Uncle Joe raised rabbits for eating (he made the best hasenpfeffer in the world -  a mean feat for a man with no sense of smell).  There were maybe 10 individual hutches in that structure, with a roof, open to the sidewalk with fencing to contain the quite large rabbits.  I had no knowledge of the killing of the rabbits for eating, it was not even something I thought about as a child.  (When I was older, age 10, I witnessed such "preparation" as performed by a different uncle.)

Aunt Marge smoked cigarettes endlessly and drank wine.... my parents were always amused by the fact that Marge ALWAYS had a glass of wine in the dining room, where we all gathered, and another glass of wine in the kitchen, 6 steps from her chair in the dining room.  She did love her wine.... I always hated cigarettes, and would routinely blow out the match before Marge could get a light, so she would go into the kitchen and light her cigarettes off the gas stove instead.  She would laugh gently at me, because one cannot simply blow out a lit burner on a gas stove.

Their little home was always comfortable and warm.  Sometimes other cousins near my age would be visiting as well, and we would gather in the little front room of the house to play.  There were a few toys in a box, and some books.  Occasionally we would be granted permission to turn on the television, but more often it was tuned to a Cubs baseball game, and we ignored it.  My Uncle Frank, (younger brother of my dad and Marge) who never married, lived with Marge and Joe.  Frank slept in the attic bedroom, a small room with one window and a twin bed... I was never up there myself...

Frank could always be found in a white, vinyl recliner at the opposite end of the front room from the television.  Frank watched the ball game or slept, but he was in full view of the dining room where the rest of the adults were gathered round the table chatting.  When I was 8 years old Uncle Frank died, in his sleep, in that white, vinyl recliner -- the Cubs won the game, btw....

I can remember times when the conversation in the dining room became hushed... that was when us kids would silently crawl into the room and under the table to see if we could catch the conversation that was hushed. What was is that the adults did not want us to hear.  Never much of interest to us actually.  Although it was at Aunt Marge's house that I heard my dad's stories of tying tin cans to the tails of stray dogs and laughing as the dog ran from the noise, and ran and ran.  That was mean!  

And another story, about my grandfather and the Model T Ford automobile,... It seems that grandpa made his eldest son (my father), age 15, drive him to the local drinking establishment.... Granddad went into the bar to drink with acquaintances, and his young son was made to wait in the car.  After a few hours my dad got tired of waiting for his dad to come out of the bar, so he drove the Model T home without his dad! And, in my father's words: got his "hide tanned" for making "the old man" walk home. (Probably the naughtiest thing my father ever did as a teenager.)

Aunt Marge always made us dinner. Usually chicken, but once spagetti -which I then wanted every time we visited,...but it was always chicken.  And at Aunt Marge's house I was given 7UP to drink. That was all there was for a child to drink in their house.  

Whenever my Dad expressed a desire to go "bumming" and was inclined to ask me where I wanted to go, I would announce "Aunt Marge and Uncle Joe!" .... Thinking back I suppose he only asked me the question when that was where he wanted to go as well.


When I was a young adult I would buy a carton of cigarettes and a gallon of wine and drive out to spend the day with my Aunt Marge.  She would fry me a grilled cheese sandwich, just right, with margarine, on white bread, using those terrible individually wrapped slices of cheese --and I LOVED it and I really, really miss that.  Anyway, my Aunt Marge is one of my most unforgettable people.





(this is part 1 of what will be a series of Unforgettable people blogs.  ...based on the old Reader's Digest series "my most unforgettable character")

things were different then

This morning I was thinking about my time at Oakton Community College.  In Morton Grove, the "interim" campus, on Nagle Avenue.... 1978.  

There was limited parking, so students were allowed to park in the forest preserve, across Oakton Street from the campus.  A full size school bus was used to ferry students from the forest preserve to the school buildings. 

My attendance began in August of 1978.  In that first week of school I managed to get the flu.  I had a high fever, at school.  I also had a meeting with my advisor, which I could not miss.  So I went to his office, despite the fever.  That was a mistake simply because the man smoked cigars, and the odor made me extremely nauseous.  Also, I missed the bus and decided to walk to my car.  But truly I just wanted to get home.  I think I missed a couple of days of classes,.... I don't remember that part....

The "interim" campus was comprised of a handful of old factory buildings converted into classrooms.  When I attended there were still "hippies" around campus...barefoot, blue-jeaned, guitar strumming folks, sitting under trees in front of the buildings.  

I had no idea in the world what to do with my life.  I took liberal arts, which meant the basics, and classes I would have needed to complete no matter what path I took in my future studies.  English, Math, Sociology, World Religions.... the latter being an elective in the Philosophy department.  

I attended school for two reasons. One was because my mother wanted me to. The other was because I could continue to collect a monthly social security check, which I received because my father had died.  Community college did not cost more than one month of that social security check.  More to the point, it cost $12 per semester hour, which was $36 per class for most of my classes.  A semester hour was equivalent to a credit: 3 credits per class,... that was about 3 hours a week for each class, not including any homework.  

I worked in the school library, in the periodicals department during the first 2 years I was at OCC.

I attended the liberal arts curriculum for 2 years, and followed it by taking medical transcription and medical office practices.  For the medical office practices class I was supposed to get a job in a medical office.  That never happened, because no one would hire me because I had no experience.  That led to me quitting school, and getting a holiday retail job, which became a permanent job... and eventually I was assistant manager of a retail store in a shopping mall.

A far cry from where I sit today.

Be Who You Are

I don't know how old I was,...not yet 8 years old I will guess....the first time I saw an episode of The Addams Family.  I refer, of course, to the television series starring John Astin, Carolyn Jones, and Ted Cassidy as Lurch.

wiki/The_Addams_Family_(1964_TV_series)

What I do remember is that I liked them.  They were my kind of people.  When Morticia proclaimed delight over a thunderstorm I knew I would be almost at home in the Addams mansion.  

I definitely related to Wednesday, the solemn child with the headless doll.  I was not allowed to play with the large collection of dolls that "belonged" to me.... they were kept on a high shelf, out of reach so that I would not "ruin" their hair. Thank you mother. I wish my mother had seen Wednesday's dolls,.... maybe she have simply removed the heads from my dolls and allowed me to play with the bodies.

The Addams Family tv show theme....

I loved Grandmama, and Uncle Fester. Whenever they appeared I knew it was going to be a grand time.  While their antics made me laugh, they also endeared those characters to me.

I particularly loved Cousin Itt, with his (it's?) gorgeous hair.....I was a little jealous of those gorgeous locks....

Yes, The Addams Family was in black and white,.... I will tell you a secret: I never wondered what it would look like in color,...I didn't care.  Black and white mostly meant that nothing would distract from the fun.

The Addams' were somewhat somber, and they were definitely different. That is probably why I liked them so much.  I identified with different, if for no other reason than that I did not want to be anything like anyone I knew......

There is nothing wrong with being different. 

connectivity

“it's really about the little moments when we laugh at the same thing ....that is the connectivity of it all.”

  

I wrote that on Twitter this morning.  A morning when I have been introduced to the music of an artist/musician who followed me on Twitter.  Beautiful, classical, viola, violin, instrumental strains with piano and full orchestra background.

Breathe - Peter Cavallo on YouTube...

What is social media. We reach out, we seek a connection, however ephemeral, with other humans.  We want to make someone else smile. We want to share a laugh, a high, a low, a cry.  Some of us feel something, deep inside. The connection.

A Yearning - Peter Cavallo on YouTube

It seems a human condition. This need to share emotions on a basic level, and yet a private level.  Each in our own little world, reaching out, touching in the ether.  Subtlety. Sharing. Caring. Laughing. Longing for the connection.

It does not stop.

Others grasp at words and phrases.  They try to say something profound, it becomes profane, as the spout profanity and filthy imagery.  Not amusing. Not profound. Amoral, immoral, downright disgusting. 

Ignore them…ignore them….. scroll forever on and on …seeking connection.

Or belly-laughs.

hey dad

today is the anniversary of my father's burial.

MAKE NO MISTAKE, i am not looking for sympathy, and I will NOT get maudlin about him.

i was just a kid when he died. i remember him, but i did not know him.
i mean i was just a kid. i don't think that kids really know their parents when they are still kids.... too young to carry on a meaningful conversation. too young to ask important, relevant questions.

i can remember watching a television show, by myself, and then going to ask my dad about the subject matter.  it had to do with Halley's Comet, which passed through near to Earth in 1910, when my dad was 9 years old. he remembered Halley's Comet. he remembered that people were afraid. to be honest that is the only conversation i remember having with the man.  a handful of months later he was dead.

he was in the hospital for a couple weeks. i did not see him during that time. in those days they did not allow children in to visit anyone, not even to say goodbye. they thought that i would be frightened or upset, but all i wanted to do, all i needed was to see him.  then he died. no one talked to me about the fact that he was gone forever.

anyway, i remember daddy,.... *insert laugh here*..... he was an interesting person, i can say that. he was human. he was not afraid to shout at the priest at his parish,... "I'll meet you, down there!" he shouted, pointing downward.... i was 6 years old then, but i knew what my father was saying to the priest. my dad had a temper, no one can deny that. he got angry, but he never hurt anyone.

he drank. isn't it sad that i remember that?....at age 6 or 7 i could accurately predict when he would drink too much. it was always when we had company.  not every time we had company. occasionally my dad would drink too much, and when the company left, he would act belligerent...yelling and stomping around. it scared me, as a child. he never hurt anyone.

my dad did good things. he raised hybrid carnations. he took care of his family. he loved radio, and then television. he was an evening couch potato...parked in the living room, in a recliner i still own,... watching television until the wee hours of the morning.  in those days television stations went off the air in the wee hours, before dawn.  many the night i was awakened by the National Anthem, or the hum/buzz of the test pattern, and my mother's hushed tones as she whispered my father's name and told him, "come to bed."

my dad loved westerns,...Bonanza and Gunsmoke, and variety shows. we rarely missed the Lawrence Welk Show, Jackie Gleason, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Bob Hope.... and Ed Sullivan.  though those variety shows came my exposure to a wide variety of music. opera, country, rock n roll,....
that is what i remember best, of my father's life.

a little story about karma.

This is a little story about karma.

In the past I had to deal with a person who was very difficult to get along with.  Every time it would appear that everything was copacetic this person would suddenly become extremely difficult to deal with.  Like he could not stand to get along, was incapable of being cooperative with another human being.  Kind of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – it was impossible to know when he would turn on you (Ornery, resentful, petulant, just plain pissy…..), and our supervisor and other coworkers also experienced this behavior.  There was no way to get out of dealing with this person, we were forced to work together at times. 

So, one day I was working with a team, and Mr. Difficult was to meet us.  He would take over at the end of the job, and drive away in the tractor-trailer.  No problem.  He showed up at the appointed time, so that everything would be ready for him to drive away at the end of the job in a timely manner.  First, he parked the company car, got out, and left the car door open –as was one of his many bad habits.  Ignoring the open car door, I entered the rear door on the trailer to take care of a couple of tasks that would need to be finished before the end of the job.  As I entered the trailer I noticed that Mr. Difficult had left the passenger side tractor door open and his suitcase sat there, on the ground next to the open door.  I paused, as I thought that was kind of odd, as he was nowhere to be seen.  Knowing better than to interfere, or touch his suitcase, I continued into the trailer and set to work.  After a few minutes I heard the tractor start up, followed by a rather loud crunch.  As I had finished my tasks, I looked out the trailer door and saw that he had backed the tractor over his suitcase, crushing it.  My first reaction was horror.  I knew that he kept his ebook reader, a gift from his son, in the suitcase.  How terrible!  I just felt awful about it, but there was nothing I could have done that would not have caused other problems (or simply been told that it was none of my business -which probably would not have prevented what happened).

I fled into the building.  No good could have come from he and I seeing each other in his moment of self anger.  I said nothing to him about the suitcase.  

Later Mr. Difficult did say to me that he was not having a very good day…..

------------------------

You must understand that I could have tried to talk to the man, but he would not listen to a word I spoke.  The only things I ever said that he listened to -actually heard -- were relating to meals and restaurants.  I will say no more about him at this time.  

I have more stories about karma relating to the individual described above, but those are for another day.... or best forgotten....

pray that you have not given it a reason to visit you................

......
....
...
..
.

Maine in the fall....

This photo,... reminds me of a place I wish I could visit....  twice at this time of year I have visited southern Maine.  Both times I found myself in the same town, Kennebunk.  Just down the road, to the south of town, is the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge.  
Rachel Carson Wildlife Refuge trail map link.

SJB October 2016

The trail is 1 mile through a wooded area with many views of the surrounding salt marsh.  It is a flat trail, easy walking.  Something about the air and the peacefulness speaks to me... I have always loved walking in the woods.  It is a perfect time of year to visit Maine,... cool mornings and warm afternoons.  This is the in between time,...after the summer beach season, and just before the fall "color" season.  Hotels are available at a slightly lower rate, needing visitors to tide them over during the lull in tourism.

SJB Ocboter 2016

I wish I could go to Maine every year, in late September or early October. 

SJB October 2016

...even though the fall colors are not in full bloom,... I love Maine in this season.  

There lives, in my soul, a great love of nature, of walking solitary through the forest.... as if I were born there, as if it is where I truly belong.....

_________________

The Season Suite

almost heaven,..take me home ....

there is a certain feeling that comes to my heart in the autumn of the year.... a melancholia,...a desperate longing for things to be the way they once were..... to be in a certain place and time, with very specific people..... I cannot show it to you or explain, but it is etched on my soul.....

yesterday... I drove down a lovely country lane,...in northern Illinois...Collins Road....and I slowed down.  I was not in any particular hurry.  In fact I had a couple of hours to kill.... so I cruised along at around 40mph...  

The corn is past, and the stalks still stand in the fields, with drying leaves fluttering gently in the breeze,..it is actually a warm day, and not yet autumn.  Actual autumn is a few days away,... but that feeling,.... that old melancholia came to my heart.  I ache for the carefree days.... riding in the back seat of my dads big Oldsmobile,...or farther back in my life, to a Pontiac that I honestly do not remember. ....Dad driving, mom in the passenger seat, me, alone in the back seat.  Every now and then I see dad glancing at me in the rearview mirror.  Mom turns her head just enough to see my feet, and to look at dad.  Their voices barely audible to me as I sing for them, occasionally I look out the side window, although, from my perch on booster seat I can see out the front windscreen of the car.

These automobile rides dominate my remembrances, punctuated by time at home and by time spent visiting friends of my parents.  My father was older than my mother, all of their friends were grandparents, most before I was even born.  I spent my childhood with adults, mostly, but everyplace we went was a grandma's house, so that I was kept in that gentle comfort.  

In my memory palace I am a child in autumn. It is not cheerful, but I am comfortable there.  The leaves on the trees are colorful, and I can hear a female voice singing Try to Remember the Kind of September....

Germophobe much?

I have never thought of myself as a germophobe….  (heh, Word thinks that is a misspelling….) 

I am not a cleaner! My floors are dusty NOT dirty.  I live alone, so housekeeping in my personal abode is not up for discussion.  Suffice to say that I won’t be inviting anyone in any time soon.

This is more about public spaces and other people’s phobias.

I once had a boss, the company owner, who  -at the end of every work day cleared off the entirety of his desk top, cleaned the desk with a disinfecting wipe, and then cleaned his hands with hand sanitizer.  Of course I thought he was a bit loony.  It was his desk, in his private office, not a public place. Seriously.

A few years have passed by since then…. I still think he was more than a little odd…..

IF you have a WEAK stomach: stop reading now, and close this window.

For the last decade I worked with a man who was a little bit of a germophobe….. and yet he would hand over his cell phone readily, either to allow a conversation to take place (I put it to my ear dude!), or to have me make some adjustment to the settings (he is a little technologically challenged).  Of course, knowing him as I did, I cleaned the phone with a disinfecting wipe –as he watched, before handing it back to him.

The Truth Behind Hotel Cleaning Practices will Scare you...

Here is my disclaimer:  this man I write about has been happily married for at least 15 years, and there was absolutely nothing between the two of us beyond a congenial coworker relationship.

Once we had a brief conversation about hotel rooms…. (we traveled constantly for work)….  He had (has?) a few ideas that are …. not realistic…..  For example, he always asks for extra towels, and those he places on any surface he plans to sit on – I have no idea how he prepared a bed to sleep in…or if he slept at all…..  I do know that the first rule in his hotel playbook is to remove the bedspread and put it in the corner –dusty, dirty things that are rarely ever washed.  He might have been carrying his own bed sheets, I wouldn’t know….

I freely admit that in recent years I have carried disinfecting wipes into every hotel I have stayed and wiped down all surfaces before doing anything else.

We all know that lady who needs to open the bathroom door with a paper towel, so that she doesn’t touch what others have touched….in case those others didn’t wash their hands.  Here is my question: what about the next door you have touch to open?  In one instance this was in the building where our offices were located,…the ladies room is in a public hallway, and to get back to our offices you have to open the door at the end of the hallway.  Here is what I know about the door at the end of the hallway:  IT’S DISGUSTINGLY FILTHY!!!  How do I know that? I know because I took a disinfecting wipe and cleaned that hallway door on a regular basis, and it always left a disgusting dark smudge on that disinfecting wipe.

Are you a germophobe? If you are still reading this I give you some credit ..for not being to grossed out to continue…. .by the way, I no longer work for that company—who cleans that door now?  Everyone puts their dirty hands on that door every time the open it. Everyone!

Recently I have seen a few items, on social media, regarding how disgusting public restrooms are in fast food places, cafes, and a few other places.  Wow.  Y’all are so innocent… try truck stops, bus stations, and commuter trains…. I have seen a lot, yes.  Plus, in my job I worked at a wide variety of factories, plants, and facilities all over the United States…. My final comment is that if you think the public restrooms in Walmart are disgusting you have not seen anything ….. 

.

.

(one that comes to mind was a truck stop in the south… mold halfway up the walls in a shower –the restrooms were “out of order” so they opened a shower, which in many truck stops include a commode.  My co-driver and I opted to drive on down the highway to a rest area, which was nice and clean.)

A tragedy in my lifetime

2,997 people died.
A total of 411 emergency workers died as they tried to rescue people and fight fires.



link to Wikipedia article

It was horrifying. It was heartbreaking.

I was at my job. At an electrical supply company... there was a lighting fixture showroom, and a television set, just outside the window of the cashier's booth/reception desk, where I was stationed. 

My supervisor arrived a few minutes late, out of breath, and talking about how an airplane hit the World Trade Center in New York.  She heard it on the radio.  

We turned on the television.  We watched in stunned horror, as a plane hit one of the towers.... "you said this already happened, and it says LIVE on the tv screen....."  Oh my God! it was a second plane, hitting the second tower.

Silence followed. Coworkers gathered in front of the television. I climbed up and sat on the counter, at my station, and watched through the window.  No one spoke. 

Thus we remained for the day, except that some of us went to a different room for a while, individually, wordlessly, and wept.  All those people.... office workers, restaurant workers, rescue workers..... 
................
I called my mother at home.  She had Alzheimer's Disease. I talked her through getting the television turned on, through the use of two remote controls, and got her to tune in to CNN.  She was horror-struck and spellbound for two days.  

I bought a new United States flag, and hung it in the front window.  

Our world changed forever on that day.

.........................
years later, in the nursing home, my mother with Alzheimer's Disease asked me what 9/11 meant.  I told her she didn't want to know that,.... thankful that she could not remember.
........................
I have been to "Ground Zero" the site of the World Trade Center Twin Towers.  I visited it with coworkers.  We cried together.
.......................
I have been to the the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.  I cried alone.
.......................
I have not been to The Pentagon.

.........................
for the first 3 years I could not watch anything about 9/11/2001 on television without weeping. and by weeping, I mean gut-wrenching sobbing.  I stopped watching anything connected to 9/11/2001. 
For 3 more years, until September of 2007, I would not watch or read anything about 9/11/2001.

.................
2,997 people died.

........... 
Never forget.

Interesting information about this blog

I want to begin by stating that I write this blog because I am creative, therefore I, personally, am compelled to write.  I would follow that by stating that for too many years that part of my creativity came out in long speeches, spoken while driving vehicles, and thus all of it is lost.  I HAD to start recording it again,...the collector (read pack rat) in me forced me to start the blog, so that my creativity would no longer spill out and be lost.  (defrosting the brain cells.... a work in progress)

So, I write this blog, and I check the statistics nearly every day, to see how many readers, and where is my audience on this enormous planet, because they (my readers) make it a small world. 

if you clicked the link -there's your earworm for the week!

Over the course of time I have found it interesting and intriguing that my audience of readers in Russia has grown.  And I have a fair number of readers in Poland.  Although I am not aware of any Poles or Russians in my ancestry, I will say that Momma would be proud.  She would love that I reach people in far away lands. I like that. 
Myself, I do not think of any of you as being in "far away" places.  I have friends all over the world.  That's what keeps life interesting!

I would love to know the ages of my readers! Perhaps a few of would comment with your age and precise location?  That would be cool.  I realize that I actually do know a few of you,...whether from Facebook or Twitter, or the Farscape fandom.... Stargate SG-1 anyone? 

--------

That brings me to my next graphic..... the average age breakdown of bloggers:

Not surprisingly, the most active bloggers are younger people who have grown up during the blogging “revolution”, which started about seven years ago. Bloggers in the 21-to-35 year-old demographic group account for 53.3% of the total blogging population. This group is followed by the generation just behind them – people 20-years-old or under are 20.2% of the blogging landscape. This group is closely followed by 36-to-50 year-olds (19.4%), while bloggers who are 51-years-old and older only account for 7.1%.

Now, here I MUST make a comment: MY COMPATRIOTS!!! WHERE THE FRELL ARE YOU? 

I am going to admit to something now,... something that only a handful know.... something that strangers (in particular) NEVER guess..... I am in that 7.1% (now you are forced to read the caption of the graphic!)......

Older people have a lot to say.  Older people have a TON of stories!  Life is a journey, blogging is easy,... SHARE YOUR STORY you old farts!  Read more of my blog posts and see,... sometimes you see something that makes you want to say something... DO IT!! Blog your thoughts, blog your stories,.... don't know how? well ask me! I know how.  It's easy! Let us raise that statistic --I would LOVE to see the 7.1% become the 20%...... what do say?

------------------------

enough of that ...

I am interested in those Russians....Poles....any of you.....  

What do you see here? Welcome to my blog, I am happy that you find it interesting.  Is it the way I turn a phrase? or just the content?  Do I make you laugh?

What's it all about?

questions?

comments? 

suggestions?

fire away, that's what the comments section is for!  

I would love to hear from you.