The View from Here

Too Much Sex

I’m tired of sex. Not the sex I have between the sheets with my husband of thirty+ years. I’m tired of the images of sex that assault my eyes and assail my sensibilities each time I open a magazine or turn on the television or even walk through WalMart.

It used to be that I had a choice about whether to look at scantily clad men or women with revealing cleavage.  I could decide if I wanted to hear details about a neighbor’s adventurous sex life or sordid affair. I had to read books or seek out court records to find out about child pornographers and pedophiles. And discussions of “sexual difficulties” and diseases were confined to a doctor’s office.  All that has changed.

Now anyone from an anchorwoman to a carton character can wear a shirt that either appears to have buttons missing or is cut so low it would have made my mother blush. Unfortunately no one seems to blush anymore. One of my favorite crime dramas has a female character who is educated, soft-spoken, intelligent, and witty. She also dresses like a slut. How many professional crime investigators dress that way? And don’t get me started about reality shows, soap operas, and talk shows. I can’t even watch most of them.

Of course I don’t have to actually watch a television show to hear about sex. Commercials for medications, diet pills, and a dozen other products give me all the exciting information I could ever want. I’m old enough to remember the first bra commercial featuring a real woman. I wasn’t sure that was necessary and I’m not sure the current round of medication commercials is either. It seems to me that if I needed help with sexual function I would talk to my spouse and my doctor about it. I wouldn’t trust something  touted on television.

There is no decorum in reporting the news either. It isn’t enough to tell me that someone is a pornographer or pedophile. The broadcasters appear determined to give me every distasteful detail they can uncover.  I’ve actually heard some news reports that were so complete, in any other context they would be pornographic! How do parents let their children stay in the room during the news? Reporters give warnings about graphic violence and nudity, but they seem to think  that a good description never hurt anyone!

Men’s magazines still need a paper cover on most newsstands. But  tabloids, women’s magazines, fitness magazines, and entertainment magazines show so much skin that I’m not sure which is more distasteful. I recently saw a magazine prominently displayed at a WalMart check stand that was so offensive I did a double-take; no doubt what the publisher intended! 

It’s not enough to see naked bodies all the time. Now I have to hear about sex from adolescent girls so attached to their cell phones they have no concept of the term “privacy”. They discuss anything and everything while shopping, waiting in lines, and eating lunch. I have a message for them: Please don’t tell me your personal secrets. Please get that phone out of your ear and remember where you are. Please shut up!!

     I know what you’re thinking- I’m a prude. I disagree. I’m merely prudent, and there is a marked difference between the two. A prude is someone “excessively attentive to propriety” or who “affects extreme modesty”. A prudent person shows wisdom, judiciousness, or discretion. I am not offended by sex or naive about it’s real place in our lives. I’m merely weary of our attempts to make it part of every waking hour. I’m tired of its importance being equated with breath and thought. I’m exhausted by the sheer volume of words used to express its allure.  And I’m bored by nudity. Enough already. I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason why there aren’t more nudist colonies has nothing to do with morality or modesty. We simply know in our hearts that we’d be bored to death!

     With all the problems in the world, you would think we would spend more time and energy on something worthwhile, like our children. They see the same images I see. They hear the same words I hear. I only hope most of them have parents who are willing to explain the world to them. I hope they have parents who know the difference between sex and love, between vanity and health, between curiosity and concern, and between nonsense and knowledge. I hope they have parents who read the Bible and tell them about the real purpose of sex.

     I’m a patient person. I know society will soon tire of its fascination with sex and skin.  I only hope we haven’t ruined a whole generation of young people in the meantime.

Adventures in Gardening

I recently sent the following email to several friends- I suppose there is something good to be said about my first encounter with a snake happening near the end of July. In past years I have been plagued by them from May until October. However, ANY encounter with a snake comes under the category of “cardio workout”, so I’m not happy to know that a. I saw it, and b. it’s still OUT THERE! LOL

     I was working early this morning in a rather abandoned area of the yard. I’ve been piling clippings and stems and other compost items over a flowerbed that in the past has been “less than cooperative” to say the least. Anyway, it was my bright idea to compost directly over it and thus kill the grass and add to the soil at the same time. I decided that since we have a 60% chance of rain tonight, it would be a good time to turn the pile. Well, I turned it and scratched at the bare soil and started feeling rather pleased with myself over the results. I was having visions of planting wildflower seed this fall when a black form streaked past my foot. A high-pitched girly squeal came from somewhere, surely not from MY lips, and I watched a three-foot-long black racer quickly slide about six feet away from me. Then it turned and actually looked right at me! Raised its little head up and gave me the evil eye! Almost as if to say “I was napping in there!”. Then it slithered off into the bushes. I didn’t have the nerve to follow it or look for it again. However, I think I’ll consider myself warned, and leave the compost pile alone until cold weather arrives! -

     This is the way I live my life out here in the bush! I live on a rocky hill that was once a small community that included a store, school, and several residents. The store is gone. All that is left of the school is the storm cellar. Most of the current residents are descendents of the original ones. Living and gardening out here is an adventure. It’s HOT, DRY, and did I mention ROCKY. That means I rejoice over anything that flourishes and I never bring home any plant that is even vaguely “delicate” or in need of extra care.  I love wildflowers and anything that “self-seeds”. In the 12+ years that we’ve lived here, I’ve managed to carve out a satisfying landscape that is pleasing to the eye and also attracts all kinds of critters. However, it’s that “attracts all kinds of critters” that puts the adventure into gardening.

     This year’s encounter with the snake is certainly not my first! There was the copperhead under the trash can lid, the nest of baby snakes next to the front porch (resulting in a trip to the vet for Daryl), the snake I dug up while hoeing with one hand and balancing my crutch with the other (don’t ask), and of course the lovely black snake in my pantry (technically not part of the garden, but let’s not quibble). 

In addition to snakes, we are also hosts to  lizards, tortoises, toads, frogs, coyotes, turkeys, quails, roadrunners, opossums, raccoons, squirrels, armadillos, rabbits, flocks of “little birds”, hordes of insects, and a pack of dogs belonging to one of my neighbors. There are also horses in the pasture on one side, cows on the other, and several ponds with herons and other waterfowl. I once had a “close encounter” with a heron who was flying around the side of the house just as I was walking around from the other direction! But by far, my most memorable adventure in gardening was a close encounter with a horse.

     It happened a little over a year ago. I was in the raised strawberry bed, adding some asparagus roots to a section close to the pasture fence. I was intent on what I was doing and didn’t realize I had an audience until I felt a “swoosh” of air and heard a snort. One of my neighbor’s young foals, her mother, and three of her friends were closely watching my movements. Now I have to be honest here and admit that yes, we have been known to give the horses treats, and my husband does brush them and talk to them. So it shouldn’t have come as a shock that the young horse wanted to see what was in my hand, or that her mother and friends also wanted to see! What was a shock was that they all crowded the fence, pushed her, and she did a back flip OVER the fence, onto the ground next to me! My memory is fuzzy after that because there was all this screaming and running. LOL  No, the horse wasn’t hurt. My husband eventually calmed me down and we managed to get her back into the pasture. I repaired the fence and I’ve been very careful about gardening in that bed.  No more adventures over there!

     I’ll attach a picture from my yard today because I consider gardening, even with a few adventures thrown in, to be one of God’s greatest blessings. Tending the soil helps me feel connected to life. Watching critters keeps me humble. Getting outside provides me with a little exercise. I hope you have a chance to go outside today and just enjoy yourself. Be blessed.

Cats

My friend recently sent me an email about her new cat. Attached was a photo of the beautiful calico.  “She’s about to change your whole life,” I teased. “I can see it in her eyes.” I should know! Cats have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I currently have five of the beasts.

As I write this Babe, a gray shorthair, is curled up on a file box next to the desk. She doesn’t know, or care, that she is sleeping on the draft copies of my family history. She only knows that she is safe. My son rescued her about six years ago. She was in an abusive relationship and totally unappreciated! She is still shy, skittish, and terrified of the vacuum cleaner, but she is also loving and attentive to my every move. If she wakes and finds that I have gone to another part of the house she will find me and settle in next to my knitting or book or dining room chair.

Chessie, my husband’s cat, is no doubt chasing something in the yard. She loves mice and lizards and birds. She often leaves her trophies on the back porch step and if I’m not careful…well, you know. Not pleasant! Chessie chose our house to call home, and has declared my husband as her favorite human. She arrived four years ago, on a rainy day while Gary and I were on vacation and our son was house-sitting. She tore through the foam core strip that bridges the gap between our window frame and swamp cooler.  Robert found her curled up on the couch, fast asleep. I was appalled when I first saw her because she was truly the ugliest kitten I have ever seen! Her odd coloring and strange markings have blended over the years, and we’ve adjusted to her crossed eyes.  I think she’s really sorta cute. She’s our resident reminder not to “judge a book by its cover”. She doesn’t bite, scratch, whine, or bother anyone. She’s seldom underfoot. She prefers to stay outside. She gets along with all the other cats. She’s one of the best cats we’ve ever had!

My old cat, Daryl, is just, well, old. He’s cranky and whiny and has a history of ailments. One of his ears is permanently crinkled. He has a scar where all, yes ALL, of the skin of his back leg had to be reattached after an accident. He’s led a life of danger and used at least five of his lives in the thirteen years I have loved him. He was born to one of my favorite cats, Annie. Annie was a calico who was abandoned at a RV park where we were camped. She had a family, but whether by accident or design, her people forgot her when they left camp. So she went home with us, and in a few months had three kittens. Two of them were yellow, striped, and were named “Daryl, and my other brother Daryl” after the characters on a popular television show. One went to another home, and our Daryl now lives on the porch in the summer and my lap in the winter.

Lint, a Russian blue, was born to a stray cat who used to live here on the Hill. My son gave him his unusual name because he looked like a ball of “dryer lint” when he was born. He is now so big that I have to use both arms to carefully lift him. I added that word for my children since Lint and I have a history together. I was trying to carry him out the door to the vet’s when I fell and broke my leg in three places! He is strictly an outside cat now, by his own choice.  He loves to frighten stray dogs, but he is really a softy who lets the neighbor’s young female cat boss him around.

            Which brings me to Sassy, the resident terror of Liberty Hill. Sassy is as mean as a snake. She bites, hisses, spits, and snarls. She wakes me up by chewing on my elbow. She doesn’t like any other cat except Chessie. She doesn’t like any other people except my father. She’s the only cat I’ve ever owned who scares me, but I’m too sentimental to get rid of her. You see, my mother loved her. She even came to visit Sassy- I think to make sure I was being nice to her. Sassy is a Siamese who was born to my mother’s cat. And as you know, my mother is in heaven now, probably still looking down to see if I’m being nice to Sassy, because I’m frequently so-o-o-o tempted to... never mind.

I was visiting Mom one day when she asked if I needed another cat. “NO”, I replied emphatically. Three or four kittens were playing at her feet and they were cute, but Daryl, Lint, and Babe were all the companionship and responsibility I needed. I turned toward my car, and if I’d been a little faster I might have made it. However, a movement in the flowerbed caught my eye, and out peeked the cutest little face I’d ever seen. I picked up the kitten, who promptly spit in my face and scratched me! “Sassy little thing!” I remarked to Mom. The next thing I knew I was sitting on her porch swing cuddling the little devil and telling Mom I’d take it home as soon as it was weaned!  I sometimes think Mom knew about the cat’s personality flaws and also knew I was the only one foolish enough to fall for her! Anyway, my son visited the other day and said that he thinks Sassy is “mellowing in her old age” because she actually sat on his lap without biting him. I can only hope!

Which brings me to the point of this whole thing. Cats change you. They change your plans and your habits and your ideas about life. I’ve lived with dogs, horses, cows, goats, pigs, rabbits, fish, birds, guinea pigs, hamsters, rats, lizards, and turtles. Nothing compares to a cat.  Cats can teach you to slow down and enjoy the moment. Cats can show you the difference between independence and arrogance. Cats can love you or hate you, and still make you feel needed. So this is my tribute to the great cats of the past- Sandy, Charlie, Blackie, Dawn, Tom, Kelly, Frankie, Mittens, Annie, and a dozen I’ve forgotten, and my thank-you to the cats who currently grace my life. However, if there is another cat in my future, please let it be one that doesn’t bite!

I'm a Miracle

I’m a walking miracle. Less than six months ago I was lying in an ICU bed alternately puking my guts out and begging for pain medication after a delicate operation to remove a tumor from my spinal cord. I had prepared my class and my family and myself for a long drawn-out recovery involving lots of bed rest and physical therapy. I had also prepared myself for a worst-case scenario: an undetermined length of time in a wheelchair. I’d already had a glimpse of that. I spent three months in a wheelchair after an accident that broke my leg in three places and left me with metal screws holding it together. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to repeat the experience, but I was mentally prepared, just in case.

I wasn’t prepared for a miracle! Five days after my surgery, I walked down the hospital corridor. Five days later, on my birthday, I walked out the door and went home. Oh, there was pain! And I needed the assistance of friends and family and a walker for several weeks. However, I not only returned to my life, but to my lifestyle- teaching, gardening, traveling, and loving. The experience was, and continues to be, a profound testament to the power of faith. I had asked people to pray for me. I had prayed for myself- from the moment of my diagnosis to the morning of my surgery. I guess what I hadn’t done was believe I deserved such an astonishing blessing! I was willing to settle for so much less. But God offered so much more.

I’m not sure why I was so surprised by my recovery. God has certainly held my hand on more than one occasion. I’ve had seven major surgeries. I’ve broken six bones. I’ve been in three car accidents. I’ve had my share of tribulations and tragedies. However, if I look at the scoreboard of my life the blessings are beyond calculation. I have a good husband, a great family, a job I love, and supportive friends. I’m seldom ill and rarely in more pain than I can handle.

I’ve vowed to be more appreciative of my blessings. I plan to thank God for at least five of my blessings each day and to be especially attentive to the GOOD things in my life. The bad and the ugly can be so loud and overwhelming sometimes. Don’t give them more attention than they deserve. Be a miracle!

Mother's Words

           My mother is dead. She died suddenly, just a few months after the diagnosis of “major heart damage” left us reeling. It’s ironic isn’t it, that in a world filled with danger and disease, we never really expect anyone to die? What I expected was to see her sitting at her word processor banging out her column, or wandering in the garden picking flowers until she was at least in her nineties like her Aunt Martha. I didn’t expect to see her in a casket at age 67.

My mother is dead. It has taken me five years to be able to type those words. There is still an ache in my heart and a void in my life that can’t be filled by anyone else. But Mother lives on in my life and in the lives of others because she wrote her thoughts and feelings on a blank piece of paper and shared them with the world. I not only have all of the letters that she wrote to me while I was away from 1976 until 1992, but I have hundreds of newspaper and magazine clippings of her  articles and columns.

            I had forgotten just how much Mother wrote until I began to clean out her things. I laughed and cried, and cried some more as I read her words. She left copies of her newspaper columns, magazine articles, short stories and her notes for the novel we were writing together. Some of the work she left was scribbled on scraps of paper. Some was neatly typed on her old standard typewriter. I have boxes and boxes of her work that I am slowly sorting through.

I’d forgotten how Mother wrote. As I read her manuscripts, no matter what the form, one thing reaches out to me over and over again- mother’s own style and personality. She wrote with warmth and sincerity and conviction.  Those emotions still live in her words. She loved people and she shared that love in her words.

            My mother was a generous woman who shared the ups and downs of her life through her newspaper column. She suffered from serious bouts of depression, but she wasn’t afraid to share this information in an effort to help others. She was always interested in the health and well being of others. One of her medical information articles won an award from the American Optometric Association.

            We all learned a lot about Mother’s childhood from her column. She wrote about her memories of playing in the woods of Oklahoma and learning about nature from her father. She wrote about her brother’s death at age nine. She wrote about her grandfather’s relationships with the Indians. Sometimes Mother’s columns were a revelation to me. I never knew her nickname, or that her mother suffered from depression, or that her grandfather carved wood, until I read about it in her column. 

I had also forgotten how many people read Mother’s words. The simplest conversation turns to fond memories when her name is mentioned. People tell me how much they enjoyed her work, how her advice affected them, how they looked forward to her next column.

My mother is dead, but her spirit, through her words, lives on. And so it is that I have decided to try my hand at blogging. Perhaps my words will touch someone’s life, my views will change someone’s mind, my love will change someone’s heart. I’m just a an old country woman who likes to dig in the dirt and watch other people from her front porch. I’m just a teacher who is really a kid at heart. I’m just a woman who wishes to pass on the blessings she’s been given. So…this is the “view from here”. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.