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 |  Impromptu writing, whatever comes...on writing or whatever the question of the day is. |
    I've been blogging all through my days without knowing that it was blogging; although, this isn't necessarily the only thing I do without knowing what I'm doing. Since I write on anything that's available around me, my life has been full of pieces of scribbled paper flying about like confetti. I'm so happy to finally have a permanent place to chew the fat.  So far my chewing the fat is on and off.  Maybe, I lack teeth. Feel free to comment, if you wish.  Thank you very much, Cindy, for this honor and the beautiful graphic.  This Blog Continues in "Everyday Canvas "    |
| A nurse made me feel great, today. No, I’m not sick, but I wouldn’t mind being her patient. I just saw her treat a very difficult patient with utmost understanding and patience, when we were in the hospital to visit a friend. According to statistics, among all professions, the most honest people are the nurses; the least, car salesmen (figures!). Yet, to find nurses is as difficult as to find honest people. Any young person who wants job security should consider nursing. There is a shortage of nurses in the country that is projected to continue for more than a decade or two. And we thought we had raised quite a few nurses recently, didn’t we? |
| I don’t know why the people in our local pharmacy can’t pull their act together. Due to their ineptitude, I have gotten into the habit of opening up the prescription and counting the pills right there in front of their eyes; a practice that makes them uneasy but keeps them on their toes. There is a reason for my behavior. It started several years ago, when I first caught on to them by finding pills of different sizes and shapes inside the pillbox after I opened them at home. When I took it back, the pharmacist –practically- accused me of fraud, as if I were running a backdoor pharmacy from my own home and gypped him of his operating costs or his supply; nevertheless, he did replace the pills with the right ones… eventually. Then, there were many other times when I got pills of wrong count, never over the limit, mind you, but always under. I got 30 pills instead of 90, 15 instead if 30, and so on and so forth. At one point this same pharmacy gave the wrong pills to a cancer patient causing his condition to worsen. There was a lawsuit, and after that, they -at least- do not accuse the customer and do the exchange wearing a better attitude mask. I just came back again, this afternoon, from exchanging another wrong prescription. There is a pill I take once a week and the prescription for it is for three months supply, which makes it 12 pills. This morning, my husband picked up the pills without checking the contents of the bag. Lo and behold… I had 4 pills. This pharmacist was new: a younger one and more polite than the others. If he weren’t, I would have written the pharmacy chain’s name here and would have called the better business bureau. This pharmacist said the reason for their goof-up was because this prescription is supplied in counts of four. This made me laugh because I have been using the same pills –refills and all- for more than six years, and we use this pharmacy non-stop because they are the only ones open seven days a week 24 hours a day. I understand human error, but this much of it is unbelievable. I wish close to my home other pharmacies with the same hours would open. |
| Which is the worst pain? This was a topic of conversation yesterday among a group of people I was with. Most ladies said migraines were the worst; others said the pain that comes with cancer which can only be quieted with morphine. A man said the worst pain he felt was when he broke his arm. Someone talked about the pain of burns. I thought to myself that watching someone else’s pain –mental or physical- had to be the worst thing, but I didn’t say anything, because I wanted this stupid conversation to come to an end. To speak about something so unpleasant has to be an abomination in itself; this was nothing more than exchanging negativity. To form an opinion, one has to experience –heaven forbid- all kinds of pain. All I know is that hearing this conversation was a pain for me. |
| Sometimes, a quote, a word, a phrase, or a sentence gets stuck inside my brain, and although I can’t ever find its origins, it won’t go away until I spend a good amount of time thinking about it and researching it. One of these is “of pickles, piccalilli and peccadillos.” I don’t where that came from. Maybe it was injected into me by Peter Piper or some mischievous elf. I believe the last word in “of pickles, piccalilli and peccadillos” should be piccadillos, since the other two are food items and peccadillos mean little sins or slight offenses in Spanish. Piccadillos, on the other hand, are vegetables made into little cubes, combined with ground meat, onions, garlic, and spices. Pickles, should have their own chapter, for we all know what they are, since they are worldwide; therefore, piccalilli has to be the subject at this time. The dictionary definition of piccalilli is: “a pickled relish made of various chopped vegetables and hot spices” Some say piccalilli is really a green tomato relish. This side dish is made from unblemished, round and very hard tomatoes and is used as an embellishment for roast meats, vegetables and some rice dishes. There must be something slightly naughty about this dish, because I found a recipe for it where the green tomatoes were named as devil’s fruit. This relish was sometimes served with the Christmas dinner and it has been lurking around our cuisine since the middle nineteen hundreds. Piccalilli is made by grinding and mixing cored and ground or finely minced green tomatoes, green and red peppers, onions, hot jalapeño peppers and salt. After letting this mixture sit for a few hours, it is drained and all the excess moisture is squeezed out. White vinegar, sugar, mustard and celery seeds are simmered for about fifteen minutes. Then the vegetable mixture is added, brought to boil, and sealed inside sterilized jars. Judging from the recipe, piccalilli is a pickle or some sort of a pickle, but it has to wait until next Christmas to be tried by me. That is, if I can get a hold of some green tomatoes at this time of the year. |
| There, on the side of our house, stands and flourishes a rose bush with a powerful mystique. It was one of the rose bushes the previous owner planted. The others haven’t made it through the years, but this one seems to get stronger and more vibrant with age. Even the hurricanes that stripped its leaves off and broke its branches couldn’t discourage its enthusiasm. Maybe this is because it’s a pink rose and the color pink is the color of unconditional love. Rarely, if ever, this Peace Pink Rose has been without a flower or a bud. I have to think, as impossible as it may appear to the rigidly logical minds, that this rose bush has psychic powers, for it seems to know when I’ll be getting a young woman visitor with an inner glow, for it comes up with another bud immediately. My daughter in-law, therefore, always goes out of our house carrying one pink rose or a bouquet, which makes my heart fill with quiet joy to watch my one exceptional gift carrying a piece my other exceptional gift. |
| We went for a walk by the beach yesterday. I took out the jar I had stashed inside my bag and filled it with sea water. My husband, who should have gotten used to my idiosyncrasies by now, kept repeating, “What are you doing? What are you doing? Why are you doing things that mix me up all the time?” “I am carrying the ocean in a jar,” I said. “That’s only water. We have all the water in the world at home.” He was really puzzled. “Are you into science again? Is this an experiment?” “No,” I said. “I just want to have a piece of the ocean with me.” I didn’t try to explain further. It would take forever. Besides, he’d never understand that having a tiny drop of something is a consolation. It is like having the whole thing. If I can’t live near the ocean, the ocean will come to live near me. All day yesterday, the jar stood on my desk. My husband kept glancing at it with strange looks, as he passed by. Then, he couldn’t help himself. “That water will deteriorate. It is probably dirty anyway.” “All composite things are impermanent,” I said. I was quoting Suzuki, but he didn’t know that. If I told him, he’d have thought I was talking about a car manufacturer. He shrugged, “Whatever! Make sure you get rid of that water soon. You don’t want something stinking in the house.” I didn’t answer, but made a vague gesture with my head. He took it as agreement and walked away. I looked into the water carefully without touching the jar. There were tiny specks but the water was clear just like tap water. I wanted to see something, anything: a ripple, a wave, a foam, the blue-green color of the ocean, the rush of the tide… Nothing. Not a molecule seemed to move. There was no wind, no song of the ocean, no pebble tossed. Just the knowledge that I had brought this jar of water home from the ocean. Just the knowing of it, just the dream. Just the unstrung strings of an illusion resembling hand-me down clothes or half-recalled love affairs. This piece of the whole had thinned out and was sitting wounded inside a jar. Still, inside myself, I thanked the water in the jar for the dream, for the illusion, and for a few moments of fleeting happiness. I mused that the creation too had to be thanking the mortal man for experiencing that illusionary separateness. I took the jar and dumped the water inside it into the pool. The water in the pool moved excitedly, rippling all the way to the opposite side. The water in the jar wouldn’t stay inert anymore. Since our pool water emptied to a creek, it would join the ocean sooner or later, and the cycle of the ocean water in the jar would be made complete. |
| Yesterday I was in the library, just walking around the shelves and looking at the titles. I do that a lot. I like to pick a book that way, looking at its physical make-up, judging by its thickness if I can read it in fifteen days -the maximum amount of time our library system allows, or if I can find a book on a different, appealing subject other than those I usually read. Out of the blue, my eyes caught a title that said, “Teaching for Dreams.” “What an interesting title,” I thought and reached for the book. When I had it in my hands, I saw that somehow I had misread the title. It was a book on ballet and its title was “Reaching for Dreams.” I put the book back in its place, since ballet dancing is not in my repertoire, but then, I thought maybe this was a subconscious mistake or no mistake at all. What if we raised our children with dreaming? Or showed them the way to dreaming? Parents, teachers, and those in teaching positions usually teach reality and try to show it by example. If anything, when the child dreams, we correct and steer him/her to what we think is real and possible. Even those adults who may respect the child’s freedom of speech wear a condescending smile on their lips and act as if they are tolerating his childish prattle. Maybe, in addition to toleration, we could suggest an imagining game or ask questions starting with “what if?” Yet, children are not the only ones. What about adults who have forgotten how to dream? Those can be the people at whom life has thrown a curve ball or two or those who think they are so self-sufficient that they don’t need any dreams, which brings to mind the quote, “Only the geniuses and idiots are mentally self-sufficient.” They are a sorry lot… those types who have forgotten to dream. Not only they aren’t self-sufficient as they assume themselves to be, but they also carry a handicap of depths. I am sure they can be shown the path to dreams, if only supplied with fresh hope. Maybe their day-to-day life has become entirely time-consuming for they have been walking –for empty concerns- on well-trodden paths, instead of exploring new avenues. One must be patient with those, since the challenge involves teaching an old dog new tricks. That kind of a person, first, has to see that there is a still more important place for other kinds of contact with the world than the kind he’s used to. He has to see that man is not just a brainy porcupine with hardened spikes. He has to feel the delicacy in existence, its poetry, and its music, so his dreams can start to form. Once this starts happening, once he meets the magic, he’ll love his dreams so much that he won’t be able to imagine their absence. What are dreams anyway? When we are too tired to walk, they are those that carry us on their backs and they enter into every place, even the stone chambers of the heart, so, we can clutch on to them as if life savers. Dreams are the mirrors we look into to witness the beauty of it all, if the wind catches our fancy and ripples it for savoring, even if for a short moment. |
| Each time I’m out -if he’s also out and taken for a walk- my neighbor’s dog rushes to me. He is a hairy, small, very cute, black and white dog. His owner says he runs to the window and barks to be allowed out when he sees me in the yard. They used to let him stay in the porch, but he broke down the mesh screen and kept running to our house. So now, he stays confined inside. I don’t know what brought on this love affair. I certainly haven’t encouraged it in any shape or form, except for bending down to pet him when he comes to me. Maybe, he’s feeling the longing I have for another dog, after our last one passed away twelve years ago, Since then, because our children have acquired homes of their own, there’s no one to take care of a dog when we travel, and we travel a lot. Then, there’s another matter; in old age, I developed all kinds of allergies and asthma, so my husband won’t hear of owning a pet now. Although I am enjoying this little dog’s attention, I feel funny when his owners tell me how he gives them a hard time because of me. I love dogs, but he’s their dog, and if he refuses to let go of stalking me, there’s little I can do. Inside me, however, I consider him a miracle thrown in my direction and I’m enjoying getting stalked by him. |
| I feel bad. On my way home, a few minutes ago, I saw the aftermath of an accident on US1. There were many emergency vehicles, and probably, one or two road workers were hurt. One worker lay face-down without moving. Most likely, he was hit from the back. I hope he was alive, and if hurt, I hope he recovers perfectly. I don’t know what exactly happened and how the accident took place, because I was driving and couldn’t look. This makes me think that we’re not taking care of each other as we should. On busy roads where repairs are needed, passage should be blocked with stronger things than those rubber orange cones. Can’t they park a couple of huge vans to protect the workers? Doing this may be a bit pricy, but human life is priceless, and vans, semis, etc. could always be rented for a fee, or if bought, they could be used for other things. In desperate situations, trying to save money is brutally stupid. |
| From plumbers to City Hall, to professionals and the commercials of all companies, we are promised promptness and efficiency. Yet, most promises fall short most of the time. I think what is lacking is incentive. What would provide proper incentive? Let’s me see. Praise works somewhat, but I believe something more substantial would give better results. So, what about bonuses and fines? What if, by law, -after the first half hour you wait in somebody’s office- for each extra half hour you could deduct a percentage from the fee? After all, some professionals already do bill you –and rightfully so- if you make an appointment, don’t show up and don't call either. They could also charge you extra for showing up late. Something to consider next time you dawdle around, before an appointment. What if, each repairman who promises to make a house call and doesn’t show up -and doesn’t call either- were to pay you a fine, according to the guidelines of the law? What if each worker -at any level, rank, or profession- is given a tax break for not making people wait and or for showing up when promised? Worth trying, I say. |
| I learned a long time ago that I can't keep up with or win over fashion to my side, but a haircut is a haircut and it is needed. Why does it have to be so trite and time-consuming though? In the Beauty Parlor, first I sit and wait while looking at dumb magazines in the waiting area. Then Maria takes me in, and after some small talk, washes my hair. My hairdresser looks like Susan Sarandon, but she is far from her example as far as the feminist movement goes. She says, she'd love to sit home and do nothing once she finds a rich man. She also gives me pointers on how to keep a man interested. When I tell her I have been married way over thirty years, and if he is not interested by now, he'll never be interested. This is news to her, although I repeat it every time I'm there. I guess she forgets or doesn't believe me. Maybe she thinks people can't be married for so long. Finally she gets done clipping, she holds up the mirror and makes me look. I say, "Let me put my eye-glasses on.” She whines. "But they'll ruin the whole effect." I have to disappoint her, for I can't see without my eyeglasses. Once I put the glasses on, first I see the mess my hair has made on the floor and notice the bright red flowers on the dress of another customer sitting next to me. Then I look at myself in the mirror. I tell Maria she's done a wonderful job, but a haircut is a haircut. It looks okay any old way. Besides, I know, when I get home and wash up, I'll keep clipping some hairs that stick out here and there. By the next day or so, my head will look like some birds built a nest in it. It can't be helped; my hair has a mind of its own. |
| Yesterday afternoon, in the mall, while we were strolling in front of a card shop, my husband pulled my sleeve. “See, Yankee Candles!” It took me a while to remember. I think it was in the late seventies when we drove the kids to Boston that we went to visit a candle-making museum. If I’m not mistaken, it was the Yankee Candle Company’s place. I recall an old building, two to three stories high with some reddish color. I don’t remember much about what we saw, but I remember the story surrounding the trip. We were told that a young boy had melted his crayons to make a gift for his mother; thus the candle- making company had come into existence. I know we were very worried about our children copying his example after they heard how the company had started. Two to three years before that trip, our older son had already used the oven to melt his toy soldiers and his crayons together to come up with a tasty cookie recipe. The younger one was more daring and I didn’t want him get any fancy ideas, but luckily, he announced: “That’s too much work. Why didn’t he ask his father to buy some?” Hanging on to this tiny memory we entered the store and walked out with a candle named “Fresh Cut rose” a February special. It will be part of the gift for our younger son’s thirty-third birthday on February 12. I’ll tell him I asked his father to buy it. |
| Both. That is what I just answered when I was asked the question. To me, football is an illusion and I love both Philadelphia and Boston. Plus, I don’t like taking sides on things I know little or nothing about. Right now the pre-game show is on and the announcer or rather the show host is asking the 64,000 dollar question. “Is Mc Nabb going to nab that fleeting illusion?” I wonder how many more of these literary comments we’ll be hearing throughout this evening. Announcer lingo is what entertains me the most. May both teams live forever to amuse and entertain us; may Super Bowl and its national kin exist forever, and for a short while at least, take our minds off the weight of our problems, personal, national, or international. |
| Recently, a friend passed away. We all know we'll be missing him, but then, we lose so many important people from our lives whom we miss even years after. This made me reflect on all the people I was missing: those who I had witnessed alive and then they were gone. Most were family, then friends, acquaintances, and then others: others with a public persona I have never met or met once or twice only through coincidence. Let me throw some names: Dr. Leo Felice Buscaglia, John Denver, Mother Theresa, Jacques Cousteau, Joseph Campbell and a few others like them. There are many other names of course, but right now these names popped up to the forefront of my mind. These people I'm missing because they brought out the best in me, in us, without knowing us. Yet, they knew of the eternal scheme of things, and although each one was small, one person in billions, they were unique and irreplaceable. They, each in his own way, tried to persuade us toward peace, toward understanding, and toward meaningful communication, but they weren't all that successful, not through their shortcomings but through the shortcomings of the human race, since human race, to be taught well, needs to be tamed first. These people haven't only existed, but they have truly lived because they rose above the borders of their existence and personal concerns to the concerns of all humanity. Although they had different vocations, one very important aspect united them: they were all "people oriented." To them things were for usage; they were secondary. As Walt Whitman said: "In the faces of men and women I see God," I think, the kind of people I miss without knowing them personally have seen the Creator while they lived. |
| To me coffee is coffee. If I had told you I could distinguish between brands, you’d be right if you didn’t believe my words. Obvious to only a few, some brands has to taste better than others. It must be so, since my son and husband, who are coffee enthusiasts, can carry a conversation about coffee for hours. I started to reconsider the idea of coffee also, when we were gifted with a small bag of coffee beans from Villa Rica, Pasco, Peru, famous for its coffee plantations and for being an attractive tourist spot. Our friends, who gave us the coffee, told us that Villa Rica gets its name from a famous volcano with a lake in its crater. Also, its very spot in the middle of the selva on high altitudes of the Andes and the heat and humidity of the region add to the superior quality of the product. The friends, who visited Villa Rica, say that to go there from Lima is a major trek, which involved –for them- more than eight hours of following a risky asphalt road that spiraled and twisted with dangerous bends until they reached their destination. I was surprised to hear that they were given a plantation tour and were even allowed to pick a few beans each, each bean bright red in color. They said that the city was colorful and quite civilized with some modern facilities and very exotic Indians, missionaries, local population, and tourists. I don’t know if, just to get coffee, I would dare to climb high altitudes again as I could do in young age, but the fragrance of the coffee from Villa Rica is something else and it was a memorable and very thoughtful gift, indeed. The aroma of Villa Rica coffee enters one’s nostrils and doesn’t want to leave. What’s more, hours after we brewed it, the house smelled of coffee. |
| I just came home from renewing my driver's license. Phew! No, it wasn't the photo. Actually, the old woman that looks back at me from the license does look like me, unlike the previous ones who were Frankenstein's wives. At least, the gentleman who took the picture asked me to smile and didn't ask me to remove my eyeglasses like the earlier officials. I always felt, since I wear glasses non-stop, I should be portrayed with them sitting crookedly on my nose and to make up for the wrinkles, I should be allowed to smile. Someone must have seen my and other Florida residents' earlier photos and taken a pity on us. It is possible that, after we were hit by so many hurricanes, the state of Florida has started having feelings for its residents. As a resident, I do feel for the state's problems also. Since the hurricanes have done away with the Motor Vehicle's and Tax Collector's building, they are operating from a temporary place, which was difficult to locate. Plus, some of the offices were still in tents and trailers. The problem is, with so much confusion and so many people to process, they didn't have an information desk -booth, tent, whatever- visible to people. Everyone who came there with any reason was like a headless duck. Luckily, the state workers -despite all the people's work they are processing- were very patient and helpful. Finally, I was shown where to sign in and took a seat in what was deemed to be a waiting room, a small space with a low ceiling and some chairs with fifty people waiting on line. After waiting two hours plus and worrying about getting an asthma attack, I was called and the process fortunately took less than ten or fifteen minutes. While I was there, I did some people watching, because you can see the most interesting people in the motor vehicle bureau of any state. In Florida, the variety is spectacular. The best thing is, it is over, until next time. |
| I can't hold typos, misspellings, or grammar mistakes against people because I make them too, but at least, I re-read to catch them; however, I think, there must be an inbuilt “typos, misspellings, mangled syntax, and grammar mistakes generator” on the web and the idea of “art for art’s sake” has to be behind it. Not a day goes by that I end up seeing quite a few of those typo buggers. I can overlook their faulty presence in personal websites, but when I see them on sites that promote teaching, the paradox is wickedly humorous. These two I just ran into this morning: I found a typing tutor on the internet -also sold on a CD. The first lesson starts out with an article. The article has some information on the history of typewriters and typing. The funny thing is, the entire article is full of typos. I bet a stand-up comic could use this tiny data in his act. Another person’s resume on her webpage has a couple of typos and one tense problem. She claims to be a copy editor, a proof reader, and a Mensa member. Plus, she is offering her services for a small fee. Anybody interested? |
| The best kept secret about education is that learning depends mostly on the person doing the learning. Teachers are priceless, but they can only show the way when the student is lost and guide him to the right source to do his learning. Other than that, the burden of learning is on the student's shoulders. I am writing this because it bothers me when people blame the teachers for the lack of learning on the students' part. So many times, the school districts complain about not getting teachers of quality for lack of funds. True, a bad teacher can turn a student off, but lack of funds doesn't necessarily mean bad teachers. The problem is in keeping a well-kept and safe environment for learning. Here the weight is on the administrators' shoulders. When discipline is a problem, no teacher can teach and no student can learn. It should be made clear to a student, especially in young age, that learning is important and the responsibility of learning belongs to him. I also dislike the situation when the parents are blamed for a student's every problem. In disciplinary problems, yes. There, the parents may have a role, but if a student doesn't do his homework properly or shows faults in something other than discipline, the parents are not to blame. Teaching is the teachers', the school districts', and the students' job. If parents are that powerful teachers, then why do we have schools? Another thing that bothers me on this subject is the practice of some snotty higher education institutions’ hogging of important learning materials that should belong to the public. Years ago, when I was in school, they didn't let us take a tape recorder to class, because they said they had the copyright to the learning material and a tape-recorder would make its' circulation possible. What a waste of pride! Instead of working toward the common goal of educating the public, the university was thinking of its own ends. The funny thing is, the subject matter was about some common knowledge passed down for generations, which was freely available in the libraries. Nowadays, it is all over the internet. The university gave the teaching material an aura of exclusivity, whereas there was nothing exclusive about what was being taught. The internet, therefore, has been a blessing despite its shortcomings. No wonder they bad-mouth it now! And to think that I wrote all this because a school district called the parents of a very-well behaved boy and blamed his parents for his lack of attention or faults in learning... Lol! |
| This morning someone said I was opinionated. I take that as a compliment. Better to have an opinion than to be wishy-washy. Just knowing that I have an opinion hit perks me up. The more I’m into any subject, the more particular I am about the way my opinion is delivered. Opinions – as long as respectful and accepting of others- have positive effects and remove any associated withdrawal symptoms from reflecting on important matters. Walt Whitman said: “"Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them." – From “Song of Myself” I’d rather be the one to see the twenty-ninth bather along with the other bathers. Ignoring something by denying it an opinion doesn’t make it go away. |
| I think every once in a while I'll insert a pet peeve or some question about human behavior in here. Why do people always say, whatever you want is fine with them, and when you act accordingly, they complain? For example, when we want to go to a restaurant, my husband tells me, "We'll go where you want." When I suggest a name or two, he says he doesn't feel like going to those places. So, a while back, I started passing the buck back at him by saying, "You choose." Now he asks, "Why do you always make me choose?" Well, guess why. Another pet peeve: Why do Paula Zahn and some other hosts talk accusingly to -or rather at- the people they are interviewing? I'd like to see more of interviewers' ethics in play with hosts, probably a la Larry King. |
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