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 |  It's who we are. It's what we stare at in the middle of the night. It's a bug zapper. |
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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 |
| Editing Essentials is a core English class at Rollins College taught by Dr. Lezlie Laws. It’s a tough class that makes people cry and say bad words. I think it made me bust out one of my fillings, but I can’t prove that. Dr. Laws has the knowing of a lot of things about words and dashes and nouns and grammar and where all that stuff should go in a sentence. It’s a great big grammar laden world out there, and she loves it and she makes her classes love it too . . . mostly . . . well, the ones who don’t hiss out gypsy curses under their breath. She also loves her dog, yoga, protein, and happy creativity. About the time you think that the dentist will not be able to save your fillings, she likes to give her students a pep talk or two. Thank God. In a recent pep talk, Dr. Laws shared the thought that we should, once in a while, read a page or two of the dictionary for inspiration and ideas. Love it. The idea. Not the dictionary. So in the spirit of creativity and dictionary inspiration, I’ve decided to write my way through The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. Or as the introduction to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, “Good Usage, Bad Usage, and Usage” by Morris Bishop relates, “Much of our formless, secret thought is, to be sure, idiotic.” Inspiring? Right? One essay a week, based on a word from the twenty-six letters of the English language chosen at random from the dictionary . . . unless it’s a really stupid word and then I get to call “do over” one time or maybe twice. And from that word I will take my formless, secret, idiotic thoughts and craft them into an essay of dazzling wit—also grammar and dashes. What? It could be fun, also funambulist, a word meaning one who performs on a tightrope or a slack rope and isn’t that a great way to describe trying express yourself anytime anywhere? Linda (Tightrope Walker) Zern |
Our one-year old granddaughter tried drinking water out of a plastic bottle for the first time by wrapping her lips around the opening, throwing her head back like a college student on spring break, and chugging harder then a drunken sailor. Water exploded over her head. Forgetting to un-tip the bottle as she pulled it away from her mouth, water gushed down her chin to cascade like a waterfall over her dress until it soaked her socks. “Hey, I drink water just like that!” It’s always exhilarating when you recognize yourself in the rising generation. “I know, and it’s horrible.” My husband sounded forlorn and a little sad as he stumbled away from our extremely damp granddaughter. Avoiding direct eye contact he seemed less than impressed with my connection to our posterity. Grabbing a bottle of water that advertised being pumped from the bowels of a fresh water spring located under Mount Olympus and decanted into a plastic bottle designed by a computer, I threw my head back and guzzled, throat convulsing. Water squirted from my nose. “Linda, do you have to drink water out of a bottle like that?” He grimaced, looking away. “Like what?” I swiped the back of my hand across my dripping chin. “Like you’ll never get another drop of water again for as long as you live—and eternity—like the water bottling industry has just announced that all the water in the world has been teleported to the moon. Seriously, it drives me crazy.” Tipping the bottle back, I gulped until the sides of the bottle collapsed. “Like that. Good grief, woman, take a breath,” he said, clawing at his own throat. “ Why do you throw your head back like that? You drink like you can’t trust gravity to work. Just let the natural elements of the universe help you.” I let my head drop forward as I gasped for the universal element of oxygen. I had a cramp in my neck. “I don’t throw my head back.” He smirked. “You throw your head back, wrap your lips around the entire bottle opening, and squeeze the water into your mouth like you’ve just dragged yourself across Death Valley.” He picked up a bottle of spring water pumped from the original Fountain of Youth with minerals added for flavor. He prepared to demonstrate. “Here! Let me show you how to do it properly.” Then Sherwood Zern, husband, lover, and friend, put his lips daintily to the rim of the bottle, gently flipped his wrist and sipped water while keeping his little finger extended. I thought he looked like a sissy llama at the watering trough at the zoo, but I had to admit he had a definite flare that I quite possibly—lacked. The problem now is that I’m so self-conscious about the way I drink water from a bottle, I have to hide in the corner at the gym so that all the other sweaty, thirsty water drinkers won’t mock and point. It’s like finding out you can’t dance after a lifetime of dancing in public—a lot—and it makes me wonder what else I can’t do better than a toddler. Linda (Bottoms All The Way Up) Zern |
| Last night in my English Literature course, the girl next to me pulled one of those amazing I-gadgets out of her book bag. She began to tap away on her high tech marvel while simultaneously checking in on Kim Kardasian’s Twitter update and downloading a sales flyer for knock-off designer shoes. I looked down at my workspace. Out of my ten-year old book bag, I had pulled a clipboard with a legal pad and an assortment of pens, highlighters, and a Sharpie marker (I love them.). I might as well have pulled out a dried piece of animal hide and an inkpot. I stacked my textbooks in a pleasing configuration while simultaneously counting my writing instruments. Several young folks flipped open their amazing computering machines while simultaneously looking for an outlet. Power cords began to creep and crawl over every available service seeking the mother ship of power sources. A scuffle broke out over the last plug. A couple of the students posted an update on Facebook about the viscous lack of cheap, available electricity created by magic solar panels, attached to windmills, powered by Keebler elves. On the way to school, I was informed via my car radio that studies show that Facebook users over fifty years old have a harder time adjusting to changes on the social networking site than the average two-year old. I scoffed. Then I scorned. Then I yelled at the radio. “It isn’t that I can’t figure out the new face of Facebook. It’s that I don’t want to. I don’t have time to figure out the new Facebook, because I’m halfway to dead. My time is precious.” I balled up my fist and shook it at the invisible radio waves floating around in space. In the car next to me, a teenager type flipped open a cell phone with her chin, punched in a series of numbers with her nose, and then weaved into my lane of traffic. “Hey!” I yelled. “Go kill someone your own age. I’m ALREADY halfway to dead.” Later, in my Major English Writings night class our professor informed us that in her day classes it was becoming harder and harder for her to find students who had heard of the book of Genesis in the Bible, let alone anyone who had read it. For a minute I felt smug. Then I felt sad. Then I wondered if for all our technological advances we are becoming a people without a culture or a past or an identity. And here I sit halfway to dead and me without an I-phone or I-pod or I-chip in my brain . . . and my husband stole my Kindle. All I have is fifty years worth of everything I’ve read, experienced, lived, learned, touched, done, and loved—way too much to Tweet. Linda (No-Tweet) Zern |
| Once in a while, in the interest of pure, clean, sparkly honesty, I like to post a bit of a disclaimer, concerning my essay writing. NOTE: Don’t let the word essay make you itchy. Essay is a fancy word for bit of news or gossip or story that I might tell you “over the back fence,” as if we shared an actual fence and you were in the backyard while I was in the backyard and our kids were playing together under the clothesline. Social media is the new back fence where it’s possible to “chew the fat” with one or a viral number of your closest most intimate friends. “Chewing the fat” is the act of having a chatty, amiable conversation with someone, preferably over the back fence. So here’s the 411 (an expression meaning information or knowledge): MARRIAGE DEAL: I’m married to Superman. Enough said. FAMILY DEAL: Superman and I have four grown, married children, ranging in age from “no way I have a kid that old” to “no way my baby is that old.” We also have ten grandchildren ranging in age from “when did Zoe Baye start her own duct tape pillow business” to “quick catch Scout Harper she’s making a break for the door.” LIFESTYLE SETUP: Superman and I live on six acres in a part of Florida known as rural. We have some horses, a couple of dogs, a bunch of bunnies, a coop full of chickens, and a pregnant goat. We spend our time driving to the feed store to purchase groceries for one and all. SOURCES FOR ESSAY TOPICS: All of the above. DAYTIME ACTIVITIES: Mowing, burning, chopping, edging, planting, tending, pruning, grooming, riding, shoveling, digging, mulching, weeding, picking, growing . . . oh, and I also write stuff: essays, E-books, manuscripts, chapter books, illustrated books and stories, short and otherwise. NIGHT TIME ACTIVITIES: Listening to coyotes howl and doing homework. IMPORTANT TO KNOW: I exaggerate for fun and laughs. Hyperbole is my middle name. BLESSINGS: Folks who have read my writing and responded, so that I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself over the back fence while chewing the fat. POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: Don’t pick my pocket, and I won’t pick yours. Period. IN THE BEGINNING: My essays started as little stories that I told my mother, while sitting on her side porch, at the end of the day. I’d share this or that little thing that my kids had done or said, and I found that I enjoyed the telling more if I could make her laugh. Laughing at the mania and mess and mayhem put a fine bit of ending punctuation on another challenging stay-at-home, homeschooling kind of day. Then Al Gore invented the Internet, and I took to the virtual super highway like a cheetah chasing warthogs—kind of. Mostly, I just stumbled around social media trying to remember clever passwords designed to thwart the efforts of hacker chicks in Beijing. Sigh. I still like making people laugh, and cry, and think though, especially over the back fence while our kids and grandkids play under the clothesline. Linda (L is for Laugh) Zern |
| To become a volunteer member of the Osceola mounted (up on horses) posse/patrol it was necessary to fill out a twenty-seven-page application declaring that I don’t do drugs or lie about doing drugs, that I don’t sell drugs or lie about selling drugs, or hang around people who do drug deals or lie about doing drug deals. There were other questions on the application but for today’s discussion I’ll focus on drug usage: real, implied, or alleged. After I handed in my twenty-seven-page application I was required to take a lie detector test. There were thirty plus questions. A solid chunk of the questions were about my possible drug usage. It was a voice stress test. Apparently when people lie, their voice squeaks. “Have you been in a location where illegal drugs were being used?” “Yes.” “Explain.” “I had to walk across my college campus and . . . well . . . there was the unmistakable smell of . . . well . . . iguana, that’s what my grandson calls dope; isn’t that adorable?” The examiner did not smile. I continued my confession. “Seriously, when did smoking iguana in public become okay? Good grief.” “Do you smoke iguana?” he began. “I mean marijuana. Have you used marijuana in the last twenty-seven months?” “Nope. Listen! I’ve never ingested an entire carbonated soda. I think the bubbles are stupid.” I passed my lie detector test. Finally, I had to take a drug test to PROVE through chemical analysis of my internal body fluids that I did not, have not, would not SMOKE IGUANA or consume other weirdo drugs. Sherwood, my husband, supportive as always, was concerned that I might fail my drug test. “Geez, I don’t know. All those concoctions you take in the morning might mix together to form PCP or something. You might fail your drug test.” “Concoctions? Vitamin B-12? Glucosamine Chondroitin? The stuff I take so my opposable thumbs will continue to oppose?” “Is that what that’s for? Hey, give me some,” he said. I passed my drug test. And so I was invited to be a member of the volunteer posse, after an interview with three stern-faced, uniformed officers asking probing questions like, “What are some of the qualifications to be a member of the mounted posse?” Confused for a moment, I said, “Have a horse?” I think the correct answer might have been, “Not riding a horse while smoking iguana.” Linda (Saddle Up) Zern |
| Shoes are the best reason for having feet said every shoe lover ever--also feet are good for walking and stuff--in shoes, of course. A lovely woman came up to me at our local shoe kiosk the other day (they’re having a snappy shoe sale) and informed me, “You know you’re old when the latest styles are too dangerous to wear because you may fall and break a hip.” She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life. “True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail. “That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.” She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals. Lovely woman. Excellent shoes. Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy. My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done. Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias) Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring. Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens. The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own. Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age. Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too Cha-Cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win. Linda (Don't Tread on Me) Zern |
| When I was a girl, love—but mostly S-E-X—remained hidden beneath an ellipsis of ink. The hero in all the books swooped in to take the girl in his arms. She forgot to struggle long enough to stay. And then . . . (dot, dot, dot). It was the most delicious, tantalizing punctuation in all of literature, marking the dog-eared pages, full of anticipation and imagination. Now? Not so much. In today’s world, romance isn’t for the faint of heart or the subtle of gesture. The girls have no clothes on, and the boys don’t wear gloves, which is too bad because once upon a time (according to Jane Austen) when a man touched a woman’s naked hand with his naked hand they were engaged. I know it’s true. I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theater. I’m happy to report that at our cave . . . er . . . um . . . I mean house, at our house, romance is still something of a mystery, surrounded by subtleties, covered with the gentle breeze of confusion, wrapped up in code words. Smiling, I walked into my husband’s office recently, only to greeted with the following invitation (quite possibly threat, the jury is still out.) Without lifting his head from the flickering light of his computer screen, he said, “Careful or I’ll take you over there on that tofu and . . . (dot, dot, dot.) Confused and a little alarmed I scanned our office and saw bookshelves stuffed with books, filing cabinets stuffed with papers, computer junk stuffed everywhere, and pillows lined up like soldiers on . . . the futon. “Are you trying to say futon? You’re going to take me over there on the futon? Because I can’t begin to describe to you how disturbed I am by the idea of you doing unspeakable things to my person on TOFU. Maybe you’re having word seizures or . . .” “I’m not having Caesars or . . .” “Not Caesars, you goof ball,” I said. At this point in the discussion, he removed one glove and stretched out a naked hand towards my person and in the general direction of the futon. I ran and then . . . (dot, dot, dot.) Sometimes in dreams I imagine long fingers of mist rolling across the moors behind the swamp in our back pasture, out past the horse trailer with the busted tail light, while the moon drifts across a jaundiced sky, and my heart thumps loudly in the silent chambers of my heart, as I hide under the long folding couch resembling a bent bed, and into the cloying depths of my dreaming night, I hear Lord Sherwood hissing, “Let’s get it on.” Sigh. One minute you’re a lady wearing gloves and the next minute he’s got you on TOFU and . . . (dot, dot, dot.) Linda (Lady Dainty) Zern |
| My husband and I have a hobby farm. That’s a nice way of saying we own more grass than anyone can mow in a single day. The grass is necessary because of the horses. Horses are twelve hundred pound mammals that eat salad all day to maintain their body weight. Let this be a lesson to us all. If humans want to maintain their body weight by eating salad then they have to eat salad ALL DANG DAY LONG. Having a hobby farm means a couple of things, one, we have animals that eat grass and two, those animals eventually die. It’s called the circle of life. The closest most people come to the circle of life in our modern society is when that daddy lion holds up that baby lion in that Disney movie and all the savannah animals bust out singing. It’s possible that this scene is misleading. The circle of life is a lot less musical and involves a lot of hole digging . . . . . . because everything that’s born on that savannah is going to die. Sing about that, Disney!!! One of our first experiences with the circle of life involved a flock of chickens and worm medicine. Oh, by the way, worms tend to be a hefty part of that whole life circle deal. What no worm song, Disney Studios? News flash: horses get worms—also dogs, cats, cows, goats, and occasionally toddlers and in rare cases the mothers who care for them. Don’t ask. Once we tried de-worming our horses with a medicine designed to be added to the horses’ feed, fancy pants blue worm poison pellets. NOTE: When horses aren’t eating salad, they’re busy eating snazzy seeds covered in molasses. We mixed the worm medicine into their feed. The horses hated the worm stuff and ate everything except the blue pellets. Apparently chickens not only love snazzy seeds but they also love blue worm pellets. They helped themselves. NOTE: Blue pellet horse wormer kills chickens, but it doesn’t kill them fast. So our barn was filled with flopping, staggering poisoned chickens. I turned to my husband and said, “Well, Babe, we’ve got to put these chickens out of their misery. They’ve been poisoned.” My husband, a mostly city boy, said, “What? Out of their misery? What? That’s just another way of saying, ‘Kill them’ isn’t it? What?” He stared at the bunch of twitching birds. Then he looked at me. “But how?” We stared some more at the sick chickens. “Should we smother them with a pillow?” he asked. He wasn’t kidding. “Not my pillow.” I was kidding—sort of. “Shoot them?” I suggested. “You mean like dig a trench and then throw them in it and . . .” “What? Trench? No. We’re not Nazi’s, for goodness sakes.” We handled it. Because that’s what you do in the country, you handle stuff—all the stuff—life, death, worms, and burial detail. Horses: Too big to flush down the toilet. Call the septic tank guy with his backhoe. Our guy’s got some great hole digging stories. Chickens, Rabbits, Squirrels: Posthole diggers are quick and efficient. Dig hard, dig deep. Or if you’re our neighbors you toss the dead critters over the back fence, sit back, and vulture watch. Life, death, worms, and burial detail, that’s the real circle of life. P.S. There’s very little singing. I blame Disney for encouraging this nutty belief that the circle of life is a musical number in a Broadway show. Nope. It’s way better because it’s real. It’s sad and funny and final and real. Life and death and worms. I’m for it. Linda (Grave Digger) Zern |
| Thank you to BE AWESOME BE A BOOK NUT . . . for the review of MOONCALF (FULL REVIEW BY BEKAH SMITH GREENWAY) "Where do I begin? This book was amazing! I didn't know what to expect with this book. You know, with self published authors it's a hit or miss. Sometimes you get lucky and come across some AWESOME books and sometimes you just want to smile and say, "keep at it, you'll get it one day" well, this book GOT IT. There is SO much imagery, metaphors, fore shadowing, symbols, decretive designs and patterns written throughout this entire book! It's a TINY book, but the writing was beautiful. At first I couldn't get the gist of what this book was really about, all I knew was that it was a short story about 2 girls and their friendship, one girl being black and the other being white; during a time of great change in history. But this book is more than that, it's about growing up, facing the truth, figuring out what is right and what is wrong, stepping away from tradition and seeing what's REALLY beneath the surface of a person, white or black, looking beyond what is fed to us and coming to our own conclusions. As I was reading it and enjoying the beautiful writing and all that mentioned above I knew this was going to be a 4 star rating book, it was just that good. But let me tell you, it was the last few pages, where the author took what she wanted you to understand and drove it home with such force I was reeling from the impact when it was all said and done, because it was so unexpected! I knew something had to happen, you could see it, you could feel that something was going to happen that something needed to happen and then it did and you thought, "oh ok, see there you go, how sweet" and yet you THINK that it's over and then....WHEM! the author throws a curve grenade that you weren't expecting that rips your heart out and you watch it and feel the ache and the pain. And THAT is what made me give it the full 5 star rating it completely deserved. Trust me, I am NOT just saying this nice words to be nice. I was truly impressed by how, for such a short book, it was well written and I would recommend this book to bookclubs and people of ALL ages!" Sexual Content: none Language: mild Drugs/Alcohol: none Violence: mild |
| I am exceptional. Are you mad yet? Because a lot of people seem to find my exceptionalism wildly annoying, and they say stuff to me like, “Linda, you make me sick,” or “Linda, I could kill you for making all those good grades,” or “Linda, you’re such a smarty pants you make me sick. I could kill you.” I don’t even own smarty pants. I own Diane Gilman, sexy jeans for grandma pants. They make me look exceptional. I can’t help it. And, truthfully, I’m not sure I would help it, if I could help it because exceptional suits me fine. It makes me a little bit sad on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I count up all the folks I’ve made sick because I’ve always made good grades in school, but then I decide to paint the barn and the sadness goes away. Truthfully, I don’t mean to make people sick or want to kill me, I just like doing a good job. I don’t enjoy feeling panic stricken because I haven’t done my homework. Being prepared allows me to sleep. Studying steadies my nerves. Putting my heart into a project keeps life interesting. Working hard gives me a sense of satisfaction and esteem of self, which society is always harping about, by the way: build your self esteem, feel good about yourself, self esteem rocks, here’s a trophy for breathing. But then you paint the barn all by yourself, and people who haven’t painted their barns are mad at you and want to kill you. It’s very confusing. My son-in-law once observed, “Well, after she gets done mowing the farm, she comes in and writes a book or something. She stays pretty busy.” And there it is. Busy beats coma, every time. I like busy. I have a granddaughter who likes busy too. It was hard for her to learn to read because it meant she had to sit still and not build a fort from palm fronds. But then she figured out that you could read books about making forts from palm fronds and duct tape. And now there’s no stopping her. She draws, paints, weaves, knits, and duct tapes, or she’s reading about it. I feel bad for her. People are going to want to kill her—a lot. Here’s my advice to her. Do you best, Babe. If you’re going to make a pillow out of duct tape, make the biggest, most yellow, most duck beak embellished duct tape pillow you can make, and then put it in the Osceola County Fair and then win a blue ribbon. And then do a dance in the sunshine of your exceptional accomplishment. Amen and amen. My other granddaughter is a scientific memory machine. She won several blue ribbons. She is exceptional. My grandson can hob knob with fifty year olds without pausing to take a breath. He came home with six medals from the fair. He is exceptional. And the list goes on . . . Let me be clear. Exceptional means out of the ordinary; it can even mean better than someone else. It doesn’t mean, “I’m better and you suck.” It means I am smart, capable, quick, and excited about life, and you can be too. Just get off that couch and patch up the holes in the Lazy-Boy with duct tape. Linda (Look what I can do!) Zern |
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