My friends,

When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements.

It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space.

One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement.

“Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.”

Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes.

“Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.”

He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away.

We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move.

At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.”

Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?”

“Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.”

He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day.

This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might.

Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there?

Thank you for your support,

Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern

Thank you so much. It's so nice to hear from someone who "gets" it. I'm afraid that shocking has taken the place of quality. Sometimes and not always but enough to make me more and more concerned about what constitutes "literature" these days. :) Sigh. Oh well, write on and know that sooner or later they'll have to run out of car chases and sex bombs. :)

I understand how you feel. The gap between what I want to read and write, and what the kids in colleges today are reading/writing about seems to be huge. I want to write about every day things. And things that are important to me. Not body parts, or sex, or gross things.

And by the way - I think you are hilariously funny! I really enjoy the humorous way you look at things. I think you have a gift. Please keep it up!

I also understand the sentiment - sometimes I feel like I am too blessed to be a good writer. There's been very little trauma in my life, and what I did have, resolved or I got over. Not that I wish for trauma (watching the sky hoping nothing strikes me down). I just don't feel like I have experienced enough, that I have enough depth. How crazy is that?

I'm glad your son is home and healing. I hope that he's going to get to stay home!

Best wishes and please write on!

Sil

Actually, the teacher is my age and ready to retire. She has mourned what she called "the culture" gap as well. :) LZ

Write for yourself and not the kids around you. You have lots of stories in you, some you might even make up. Well, maybe write something the teacher might like. Does he shave yet?

Thank you. Shoes are pretty. Wash machines are ugly. It's easy.

This year's floral pumps rock! *patpatpat* That's for spending your credit wisely and not on something stupid like a new wash machine.

Happy Easter!

Well now, don't go and make me feel sad. :) Sigh. :) :)

I miss your blogs... sigh...

Is that the video Enga posted? Seen it !

I think Sherwood's answer to the question was dead on!

p.s. I heard it was illegal to flush it... so out of the 3 offered options, smoking would bring less jail time.