It was a June evening like many other June evenings. The weather was turning hot but still cooling down at night. On this particular evening the sunny heat of the day turned into cloud cover late in the afternoon. According to the calendar, it was late Spring, but everyone knows that when school is out for almost three months, it doesn't matter what the calendar says - it's SUMMER! On this cloudy evening of June 7, 2017, a young female left the house she was visiting, the house her father shared with his girlfriend and her children.
She left with one of the girlfriend's sons at some time between 7:00 and 8:00 in the evening - the details are fuzzy and have changed more than a few times. They were going to walk to a nearby shopping area, one of those places anchored by a large supermarket and peppered with various restaurants, shops, and services. It was to be the last journey that she would ever take.
At some time around nine that evening, the young male that she was with returned home alone. He told the story that it began to rain and he started to run, at which point the two were separated. Nobody outside of the household will probably ever know what happened in the home that evening, but we do know one thing. Nobody called the local police to report her missing until her older sister dropped by to visit her father as well. The older sister made the call and reported her younger sister missing at about 11:45 p.m., almost three hours after her companion had returned home alone.
The local news outlets reported through various means, including social media, that the young female was missing. The details of the young male's story were recounted, along with the location where she was last seen. Multiple police departments as well as the FBI sprang into action in an effort to find her.
When I first read the story, which I initially discovered while browsing social media, something didn't feel quite right. You see, I live not far from where the events took place, less than a mile away, and we didn't have any rain at the time the young male said that a storm had separated them. Of course, we all know that weather can be clear at your location and raining very hard just blocks away. So I tried to ignore the feeling that things weren't adding up.
The following day, in an effort to make the public more aware of this missing person, an Amber Alert was issued. (Normally they are reserved for cases in which it is fairly certain that an adult has abducted a minor, but one was issued in this case.) As I followed the story online, I saw comments that made me have that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. People in the area said that there was no rain until at least 10:00. I became more and more convinced that the young female was already dead.
In the middle of Thursday afternoon, I saw that a search party was being organized to support the efforts of more than two dozen police departments that were trying to find the missing one. Meet at School X at such-and-such time to help us find her, the posts said. I mentioned it to Trent and he immediately said that we should go, which was something that was in my mind as well. As soon as he said that, we both got that sinking feeling again and knew that we should stay home.
At about the time that the search was to begin, there was an announcement made that it would be cancelled because a body had been found. Pending confirmation from the county coroner's office, it was believed to be the missing young female.
It was later confirmed that the body was indeed that of the missing one. Her name was Kiaya Campbell, and her 10 year old body was found face-down in mud by someone who lived near where her body was discarded. There was so much trauma to her face that she was not immediately recognizable as the missing child. The coroner declared that her manner of death was non-accidental.
Comments flew like leaves in the wind. People who live in the same neighborhood as the father and his girlfriend said that they never let their children have any contact with the 15 year old boy that took that last walk with Kiaya. Apparently he has a history of violence toward other children in the neighborhood and the police have been called about this on numerous occasions. Many of the comments about the boy's behavior reminded me (the non-degreed student of Psychology, including what is often called Abnormal Psychology) of disorders that I won't discuss at this time because I haven't the experience or right to do so. Suffice it to say that this young male should probably not have been left alone with younger children.
Two days after Kiaya's body was found, the police returned to her father's home to arrest the 15 year old male for murder. This week he was charged with two counts of first-degree murder. One of the charges is intent to commit murder after deliberation, meaning that it didn't just happen, he wanted it to happen. The other is first-degree murder of a child under the age of 12 by a person in a position of trust. The District Attorney also notified the judge that he will file paperwork requesting that the case be moved out of Juvenile Court so that the boy can be charged as an adult.
My heart breaks for the families involved. I feel for the neighbors and schoolmates and extended families. I can't imagine the anguish experienced by the person who found her body or the law-enforcement officers and coroner's office employees.
This case has made it difficult for me to put on the suit of armor that we use to protect ourselves from such incomprehensible horrors. I think of how I was at age ten, how the whole of life was in front of me like a sumptuous feast. I think of how innocent I was back then. And I have that horrible moment in which I realize that I hope that death came quickly to release her from the pain and fear that she couldn't have ever imagined happening to anyone, much less herself.
Her name was Kiaya. She will never reach young- or old-womanhood. Her mother will never help her get ready for a first date or wipe her tears when her heart is broken or when it is filled with joy. She will never have a career or a family or travel around the world or cure a disease or write a book or sing a hit song or provide humanitarian aid. Her light has been extinguished, but I hope that she leaves us with some lessons. Life is tenuous. Protect the ones you love. Make sure that they know you love them. Too many people, children and adults, disappear every day, from all genders and socioeconomic groups. I hope that they will always live in people's memories and hearts.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Friday, June 16, 2017
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Sedated
Before we get started, I have to confess that I wanted the title for this post to be Sed-a-give, as in the scene from Young Frankenstein. For various reasons, I decided against this. I apologize to those who may feel slighted by this and also say, "You're welcome!" to anyone who is now hearing The Ramones singing in their head.
On Christmas day several years ago, my sister Liz and my now ex-brother-in-law Richard, commonly known as Dick, wanted to take us to see a new movie in all of its 3-D, big-screen glory. The movie was Avatar, and we were pleased to be getting out for such a cinematic splurge.
Now, Trent and I didn't really socialize with Liz and Dick (no similarity to Taylor & Burton is implied or intended) very often. My brother-in-law has never been a fan of The Lunatic. In fact, there were times when I was unwelcome in his home for as long as two or more years at a time. The longest separation of sisters was due to me watching Jeopardy on tv with them one evening. Like everyone else I know, I was calling out the answers when I knew them. This resulted in a horrific night for Liz after I left, including physical abuse, because I was, as Dick said, "A dumb b!tch who thinks she knows everything."
To be fair, when my life and family fell apart at the time that Gram died, he was one of the few people that were in my corner. He told me that he knew we couldn't possibly live together, but he did a lot to help me get started and on my feet. And when Gram's grandkids were changing the locks before I finished moving out (less than 24 hours after her death) he and Liz helped me move out a few more things. But I must emphasize that generally the bad times outweighed the good, especially with the way he treated my sister and women in general. But that's a story for another day.
As I said before, the in-laws were treating us to a movie on Christmas. We were ready early to be picked up, and got to the theater with plenty of time to spare. Out tickets were purchased and we were waiting in a special line in the theater because the movie was so new. And that is when everything fell apart. A boy in the 10-to-12-year old range stumbled a bit while walking by and stepped in front of Dick, who was at the front of the line. With it being Christmas and all, and the season of peace on Earth and goodwill toward others, naturally his reaction was terrible. With Trent and Liz and I standing behind him, he began yelling at the child about cutting in line in front of him and that the line was behind him. As luck would have it, the child's father, in addition to wanting to protect his child from being yelled at by a stranger, had a fighting personality just like Dick's. As the wives in question apologized to each other for the scene caused by their battle-ready spouses, Trent and I were right next to a scene that we might have expected to see in a movie, but not in a movie theater.
To add to the sheer shock of actually seeing two men get chest to chest while puffing up like two roosters preparing to fight, I was suddenly experiencing the results of all of the abuse and screaming and violence I had endured growing up. The terror I felt may have been more than the situation called for, but it was very real. I felt like the 7 year old girl who was about to be beaten senseless by the dreaded Alice. I wanted to escape but there was nowhere to run and no way to get there because of the people on all sides.
Luckily, the wives were able to defuse the walking time bombs that were their husbands' tempers, and we got seats in the theater. I was shaking with the aftermath but didn't want to say anything. And we couldn't leave since we didn't drive. When Liz and I took a last-minute bathroom break, she told me that the almost-fight had upset her so much that she needed to take a Xanax or she'd break down before the movie was over. She offered half of one to me as well, and I leapt at the chance because I was really a wreck by this point.
So we settled down in our seats, put on our stylish 3-D spectacles, and began to watch the movie. When it was over, Trent sort of teased me, saying that I had fallen asleep during the movie. I was a bit huffy when I said that there was no way I dozed off during such an action-packed movie. I knew that Liz had, but certainly not me. Trent didn't argue the point because it really didn't matter, bless his heart.
Months later, when the film came out for purchase, we were eager to get it. With popcorn at the ready, we sat down to enjoy seeing the film at home. Hm. There were things that I didn't remember seeing when it was at the theater. I mentioned this and Trent said that maybe now I believed him about falling asleep during the movie. And I sure did! I apologized for disagreeing with him and enjoyed a movie that I both had and hadn't really seen before. The atmosphere was relaxed, nobody was at risk for violence other than the characters on the screen, and I was alert and able to soak it all in. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Especially because I hadn't needed or taken a sedative.
A note from The Lunatic: I don't want to leave you with the impression that I am a coward that runs and hides at the least sign of trouble, because that is not my true nature. I am a protector, and normally am extremely calm and effective during emergencies. I am typically the person who will help when there's an accident or emergency, and have stepped between people who are larger and stronger than me to prevent fights or abuse. (I know in my heart that if I had been able to step between the two men in the theater, one of them would probably have hit me, most likely my brother-in-law). The situation above was unusual in that I was dealing with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and two people who were acting like violent jackasses. Luckily I won't have to deal with them again.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
On Christmas day several years ago, my sister Liz and my now ex-brother-in-law Richard, commonly known as Dick, wanted to take us to see a new movie in all of its 3-D, big-screen glory. The movie was Avatar, and we were pleased to be getting out for such a cinematic splurge.
Now, Trent and I didn't really socialize with Liz and Dick (no similarity to Taylor & Burton is implied or intended) very often. My brother-in-law has never been a fan of The Lunatic. In fact, there were times when I was unwelcome in his home for as long as two or more years at a time. The longest separation of sisters was due to me watching Jeopardy on tv with them one evening. Like everyone else I know, I was calling out the answers when I knew them. This resulted in a horrific night for Liz after I left, including physical abuse, because I was, as Dick said, "A dumb b!tch who thinks she knows everything."
To be fair, when my life and family fell apart at the time that Gram died, he was one of the few people that were in my corner. He told me that he knew we couldn't possibly live together, but he did a lot to help me get started and on my feet. And when Gram's grandkids were changing the locks before I finished moving out (less than 24 hours after her death) he and Liz helped me move out a few more things. But I must emphasize that generally the bad times outweighed the good, especially with the way he treated my sister and women in general. But that's a story for another day.
As I said before, the in-laws were treating us to a movie on Christmas. We were ready early to be picked up, and got to the theater with plenty of time to spare. Out tickets were purchased and we were waiting in a special line in the theater because the movie was so new. And that is when everything fell apart. A boy in the 10-to-12-year old range stumbled a bit while walking by and stepped in front of Dick, who was at the front of the line. With it being Christmas and all, and the season of peace on Earth and goodwill toward others, naturally his reaction was terrible. With Trent and Liz and I standing behind him, he began yelling at the child about cutting in line in front of him and that the line was behind him. As luck would have it, the child's father, in addition to wanting to protect his child from being yelled at by a stranger, had a fighting personality just like Dick's. As the wives in question apologized to each other for the scene caused by their battle-ready spouses, Trent and I were right next to a scene that we might have expected to see in a movie, but not in a movie theater.
To add to the sheer shock of actually seeing two men get chest to chest while puffing up like two roosters preparing to fight, I was suddenly experiencing the results of all of the abuse and screaming and violence I had endured growing up. The terror I felt may have been more than the situation called for, but it was very real. I felt like the 7 year old girl who was about to be beaten senseless by the dreaded Alice. I wanted to escape but there was nowhere to run and no way to get there because of the people on all sides.
Luckily, the wives were able to defuse the walking time bombs that were their husbands' tempers, and we got seats in the theater. I was shaking with the aftermath but didn't want to say anything. And we couldn't leave since we didn't drive. When Liz and I took a last-minute bathroom break, she told me that the almost-fight had upset her so much that she needed to take a Xanax or she'd break down before the movie was over. She offered half of one to me as well, and I leapt at the chance because I was really a wreck by this point.
So we settled down in our seats, put on our stylish 3-D spectacles, and began to watch the movie. When it was over, Trent sort of teased me, saying that I had fallen asleep during the movie. I was a bit huffy when I said that there was no way I dozed off during such an action-packed movie. I knew that Liz had, but certainly not me. Trent didn't argue the point because it really didn't matter, bless his heart.
Months later, when the film came out for purchase, we were eager to get it. With popcorn at the ready, we sat down to enjoy seeing the film at home. Hm. There were things that I didn't remember seeing when it was at the theater. I mentioned this and Trent said that maybe now I believed him about falling asleep during the movie. And I sure did! I apologized for disagreeing with him and enjoyed a movie that I both had and hadn't really seen before. The atmosphere was relaxed, nobody was at risk for violence other than the characters on the screen, and I was alert and able to soak it all in. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Especially because I hadn't needed or taken a sedative.
A note from The Lunatic: I don't want to leave you with the impression that I am a coward that runs and hides at the least sign of trouble, because that is not my true nature. I am a protector, and normally am extremely calm and effective during emergencies. I am typically the person who will help when there's an accident or emergency, and have stepped between people who are larger and stronger than me to prevent fights or abuse. (I know in my heart that if I had been able to step between the two men in the theater, one of them would probably have hit me, most likely my brother-in-law). The situation above was unusual in that I was dealing with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and two people who were acting like violent jackasses. Luckily I won't have to deal with them again.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Friday, June 2, 2017
Touched
I imagine that many of my regular readers might think I spend an inordinate amount of time at the supermarket. It's simply not true. It just seems true because our trips have inspired several blog posts. Think about it - when you're at the market, your life intersects with the lives of other people, complete strangers as a general rule. Oftentimes they seem to forget that the world outside their little bubble of shopping cart and companions sees and hears what transpires as they wend their way from aisle to aisle. Today's grocery excursion gave The Lunatic enough food for thought for as many as three posts, but let's just leave it at one for tonight, shall we?
We all have our quirks or challenges, and I saw someone today who reminded me of others I have encountered. As I waited with our groceries (packed in our awesome and sturdy reusable grocery bags) while Trent visited the Men's Room, I saw a woman and her son come out of the Women's. He was perhaps ten. They walked over to where a man was standing with a cart full of purchased groceries, a small child, and a stroller.
I noticed immediately that she was holding her hands out from her body in an unusual way. It made me wonder if there was no way for her to dry her hands and she was trying to do the good old air-drying routine. But her son didn't seem to have wet hands. Hm. When she got over to her husband, he tried to hand her the folded receipt but she didn't seem to want to take it. I discreetly watched as she bent her body to stretch out a pocket on the thigh of her yoga-style pants and gingerly tuck in the receipt with two fingers. Still holding her hands and body in unusual positions, she removed her keys from said pocket, again only engaging a couple of fingers.
Her husband looked a bit frustrated as she reached for the stroller with two fingers on each side. She said something to him, to which he replied that if she wanted to go down there, go down there, he didn't care. As she turned and started to walk away, he began pushing the laden cart to follow her. Then he turned to his son and asked him to push the cart because he needed to go wash his hands. And then it all fell into place. She didn't want to touch the receipt because he had touched it. She couldn't really bear to touch the stroller or her own keys.
I have had interactions with people with these sorts of problems before, both superficial and in-depth. I guess that some folks would consider Trent and I to be among them, but with immunity issues it's wise to take some precautions. Some individuals may have OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) or a deeper underlying condition that makes them extra aware of or worried about dirt or germs. I once had a retail customer who was buying bath oil beads. These were in fishbowls on our counters and frankly got handled by numerous people daily. The customer and her child came up to the cash register with the various bath beads in a clear bag provided for that purpose. The beads were made with different types of oils and had different prices, so I reached into the bag to sort them by price so I'd know what to ring up. This upset the customer so much that she kept remarking about me touching them, and decided that she couldn't buy them because they had been touched. As she left the store her child said in an anxious tone, "This isn't like you, Mom." She agreed that it wasn't. I hope that whatever stresses were causing her problems left her life quickly. Having to worry so much and be so vigilant can be exhausting.
I had some years of experience with this type of problem because of Gram's granddaughter T, which is enough of a name to give at this juncture. There was a history of some diagnosed mental health issues, on her father's side, which passed to her genetically. Things went pretty well until her young daughter broke an arm at elementary school. T fell apart and was changed forever.
She didn't want people in her house. She would make her husband drive her over 25 miles each way every morning to drop her off at Gram's house. He would go to work and she would spend the day with Gram until at least mid-evening. I swear to this day that it shortened Gram's life by at least five or more years due to the sheer stress. I was in my first or second year of college and it put a strain on me mentally and emotionally as well.
T, like the woman at the supermarket, had an issue with things having been touched. She would wash her clothes, and her husband's and daughter's, in copious amounts of Lysol. The eye-burning smell of the disinfectant lingered around them. To this day, the smell gives me headaches and makes me feel uneasy. After the clothes were washed and dried, they were put in garbage bags so that they wouldn't touch anything that had been touched or was potentially unclean. A common phrase was "that's been touched." It was heartbreaking, really.
I grew to have a different understanding of the impact illnesses can have on families and relationships. I had always thought, when I heard about marriages breaking up when a spouse became seriously ill, that the person who walked away was selfish or uncaring or didn't know what love meant. I began to realize that sometimes illnesses can cause frustration, exhaustion, or any number of damaging side effects on those involved. I had always loved her husband, and the patience and grace with which he cared for her was nothing short of amazing.
There were other things involved in her illness that L was so patient with. When I offered T some cookies that I had made to take home, she wasn't sure about how to transport them safely. (Apparently, the fact that she wanted to take my cookies home was a Very Big Deal. I mean, it was unheard of.) Her husband suggested that she simply carry them on her lap, which she agreed was a good idea so that they wouldn't touch anything. When T and L would leave our house, L would come back in in a few minutes because T wanted him to check all of the house plants in case there was a mouse hiding in them. That dear, sweet man didn't just go in the house and fake it - he would check every single plant in the house as he had promised. And when it was 97 degrees out and she insisted that he drive with his windows closed, he did so, even when she wasn't looking, to the best of my knowledge.
I haven't seen any of these people since Gram's funeral, but I hope that their problems have diminished. I learned a lot from that terribly stressful time. We are all human, and all frail. Our health, whether physical or mental, can be virtually balanced on the head of a pin. When or if it falls, we hope and strive for the best. And if it proves to be too much for those around us, it doesn't mean they don't love enough or aren't strong enough. It just means that they're human too. That's all we can ask and all we can promise.
In closing, I'd like to share with you once again one of my favorite sentiments. Be well.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
We all have our quirks or challenges, and I saw someone today who reminded me of others I have encountered. As I waited with our groceries (packed in our awesome and sturdy reusable grocery bags) while Trent visited the Men's Room, I saw a woman and her son come out of the Women's. He was perhaps ten. They walked over to where a man was standing with a cart full of purchased groceries, a small child, and a stroller.
I noticed immediately that she was holding her hands out from her body in an unusual way. It made me wonder if there was no way for her to dry her hands and she was trying to do the good old air-drying routine. But her son didn't seem to have wet hands. Hm. When she got over to her husband, he tried to hand her the folded receipt but she didn't seem to want to take it. I discreetly watched as she bent her body to stretch out a pocket on the thigh of her yoga-style pants and gingerly tuck in the receipt with two fingers. Still holding her hands and body in unusual positions, she removed her keys from said pocket, again only engaging a couple of fingers.
Her husband looked a bit frustrated as she reached for the stroller with two fingers on each side. She said something to him, to which he replied that if she wanted to go down there, go down there, he didn't care. As she turned and started to walk away, he began pushing the laden cart to follow her. Then he turned to his son and asked him to push the cart because he needed to go wash his hands. And then it all fell into place. She didn't want to touch the receipt because he had touched it. She couldn't really bear to touch the stroller or her own keys.
I have had interactions with people with these sorts of problems before, both superficial and in-depth. I guess that some folks would consider Trent and I to be among them, but with immunity issues it's wise to take some precautions. Some individuals may have OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) or a deeper underlying condition that makes them extra aware of or worried about dirt or germs. I once had a retail customer who was buying bath oil beads. These were in fishbowls on our counters and frankly got handled by numerous people daily. The customer and her child came up to the cash register with the various bath beads in a clear bag provided for that purpose. The beads were made with different types of oils and had different prices, so I reached into the bag to sort them by price so I'd know what to ring up. This upset the customer so much that she kept remarking about me touching them, and decided that she couldn't buy them because they had been touched. As she left the store her child said in an anxious tone, "This isn't like you, Mom." She agreed that it wasn't. I hope that whatever stresses were causing her problems left her life quickly. Having to worry so much and be so vigilant can be exhausting.
I had some years of experience with this type of problem because of Gram's granddaughter T, which is enough of a name to give at this juncture. There was a history of some diagnosed mental health issues, on her father's side, which passed to her genetically. Things went pretty well until her young daughter broke an arm at elementary school. T fell apart and was changed forever.
She didn't want people in her house. She would make her husband drive her over 25 miles each way every morning to drop her off at Gram's house. He would go to work and she would spend the day with Gram until at least mid-evening. I swear to this day that it shortened Gram's life by at least five or more years due to the sheer stress. I was in my first or second year of college and it put a strain on me mentally and emotionally as well.
T, like the woman at the supermarket, had an issue with things having been touched. She would wash her clothes, and her husband's and daughter's, in copious amounts of Lysol. The eye-burning smell of the disinfectant lingered around them. To this day, the smell gives me headaches and makes me feel uneasy. After the clothes were washed and dried, they were put in garbage bags so that they wouldn't touch anything that had been touched or was potentially unclean. A common phrase was "that's been touched." It was heartbreaking, really.
I grew to have a different understanding of the impact illnesses can have on families and relationships. I had always thought, when I heard about marriages breaking up when a spouse became seriously ill, that the person who walked away was selfish or uncaring or didn't know what love meant. I began to realize that sometimes illnesses can cause frustration, exhaustion, or any number of damaging side effects on those involved. I had always loved her husband, and the patience and grace with which he cared for her was nothing short of amazing.
There were other things involved in her illness that L was so patient with. When I offered T some cookies that I had made to take home, she wasn't sure about how to transport them safely. (Apparently, the fact that she wanted to take my cookies home was a Very Big Deal. I mean, it was unheard of.) Her husband suggested that she simply carry them on her lap, which she agreed was a good idea so that they wouldn't touch anything. When T and L would leave our house, L would come back in in a few minutes because T wanted him to check all of the house plants in case there was a mouse hiding in them. That dear, sweet man didn't just go in the house and fake it - he would check every single plant in the house as he had promised. And when it was 97 degrees out and she insisted that he drive with his windows closed, he did so, even when she wasn't looking, to the best of my knowledge.
I haven't seen any of these people since Gram's funeral, but I hope that their problems have diminished. I learned a lot from that terribly stressful time. We are all human, and all frail. Our health, whether physical or mental, can be virtually balanced on the head of a pin. When or if it falls, we hope and strive for the best. And if it proves to be too much for those around us, it doesn't mean they don't love enough or aren't strong enough. It just means that they're human too. That's all we can ask and all we can promise.
In closing, I'd like to share with you once again one of my favorite sentiments. Be well.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Grant
I've always been one to sort of sit back and observe others in action. I don't just mean people-watching, but also in everyday life, family gatherings, and so forth. If that makes it seem as though I don't engage in what is going on around me, let me assure you that this is not the case.
I believe I developed this habit (or talent?) from my upbringing. When I was younger, of course the adults in my family group didn't really care for my opinion or whatever childish things I might have to say. I also had no desire to step into the dangerous realm of possibly making said adults angry with me, especially the dreaded child-beating terror known as Alice. And heaven forbid that I made Gram weary of having me around - if so, I would be back in the dreaded lion's den.
As I got older and more free to say what was on my mind, I still kept a lot of what I was thinking to myself. This was partly from Gram's training (a future blog post, I'm fairly certain) and from my innate knowledge that sometimes things are best left unsaid. Undoubtedly the first person to say least said, soonest mended spoke from experience. Watch what you say, and you can prevent pain to others and damage to your relationships with them.
Someone whom I have quietly observed for quite some time now is a young man named Grant, who is a member of my church. Now, before you get all in a dither and quit reading because I used the word church, please reconsider. I am not here to discuss faith or non-faith or anything of that ilk. I'm just giving context for the situation.
Trent and I don't go to church every week. Our health, to put it mildly, is unusual. With Trent being immunosuppressed because of kidney transplants and me having systemic lupus, it seems as if we can catch germs from across the street, to say nothing of being in a closed area with lots of people. Just last month we picked up a bug at church that made itself at home chez Lunatic for a little more than two weeks. For this reason, we sit in the very back row because we hope that most of the cooties will travel toward the front of the church, the way everyone's facing.
Back to Grant. Over the years I have noticed that Grant processes the stimuli around him in a different way than most of the rest of us do. When I see him during the singing of hymns, for example, I can almost feel that the volume of the music (noise?) is painful to him. He has developed coping mechanisms to deal with this, and what they are do not matter to this story.
Grant also sits in the back row as we do. His family sits a row or two in front of him. I know that he loves his family, but he needs to have his space, literally. When I sat down in the back row one Sunday just a few chairs over from his spot by the door, I knew I was too close. The look on his face said it all. I told him that we'd move down the row a bit, and helped him move the chairs between his seat and ours. His mother's face was full of relief at our being easygoing and understanding, and the day progressed beautifully.
We have developed a routine, on the Sundays when we are up to attending church, that keeps Grant in mind. If the chairs in the back row are folding rather than stacking chairs, I will remove about five of them between where I sit and Grant's spot. Sometimes he's there before me and has already done it, but sometimes we work together. And sometimes, like today, we get there first and I create a space for Grant before he arrives.
So today started off really well. A dear sweet lady came into the building with us and I told her that I needed to clear the chairs for Grant and she understood completely. I sat and waited, hoping that I had moved enough chairs for him to feel at ease. As I said, things started off well. Grant's mother, Susan, is always so grateful for us being understanding. This gratitude breaks my heart. It tells me that there are some people who only see him with their eyes and not their hearts. I saw one of them in action today.
A man came into the chapel after the service was well underway. Although there were several empty seats in front of us, he grabbed one of the folded chairs and set it right next to Grant. And I mean close. I saw that Grant was asking him not to sit there, but the man ignored him. I quietly got up, stepped over to him, and whispered, "He has a hard time with people sitting next to him." I felt that was all that I needed to say. Was it necessary for me to go into a long discussion that Grant is probably somewhere on the Autism Spectrum and having someone sit that close to him is more than he can bear? I respect Grant and his family far too much for that.
The man moved his chair about a foot away from Grant, waited a few moments, said something to him, and clasped his hand in a handshake. (Grant knows I am safe and I never grab his hand. Usually he will give me a handshake, but sometimes he will not. I feel great joy on the handshake days!) He then got up and moved to another seat. I smiled inside myself when Grant waited a few moments and pulled the chair over to himself, folded it shut, and leaned it against the wall where it had been before. But I could see that he was overwhelmed. Within a minute or so, he had to leave the room. The man sat in his new chair for about a minute and decided to leave the chapel. He made an exaggerated point of looking down at Grant's empty chair, looking at me, and shaking his head in disdain.
In the twenty or so minutes that remained of the meeting, Grant had to get up and leave another couple of times. I knew that the whole day might be a struggle for him, and decided to speak with his parents after the service. After I gave them a brief rundown of what had happened, I made them an impassioned promise. "Whenever I am here, I will always do whatever I can to help Grant feel safe and comfortable." I understand how his mind works. He is different from everyone else. But aren't we all?
What happened today was not a major event. There was no bad guy, and there was no hero. There was misunderstanding, which happens everywhere and every day. It becomes all too easy to see others' actions with our eyes and forget to use our hearts. Our differences are part of what makes us who we are. We are all frail beings who love and fear and dream and hunger and so many other things. And when it comes to those differences, I hope to remember the wonderful mother of Temple Grandin, who taught her autistic daughter this beautiful philosophy, "Different, not less than."
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
I believe I developed this habit (or talent?) from my upbringing. When I was younger, of course the adults in my family group didn't really care for my opinion or whatever childish things I might have to say. I also had no desire to step into the dangerous realm of possibly making said adults angry with me, especially the dreaded child-beating terror known as Alice. And heaven forbid that I made Gram weary of having me around - if so, I would be back in the dreaded lion's den.
As I got older and more free to say what was on my mind, I still kept a lot of what I was thinking to myself. This was partly from Gram's training (a future blog post, I'm fairly certain) and from my innate knowledge that sometimes things are best left unsaid. Undoubtedly the first person to say least said, soonest mended spoke from experience. Watch what you say, and you can prevent pain to others and damage to your relationships with them.
Someone whom I have quietly observed for quite some time now is a young man named Grant, who is a member of my church. Now, before you get all in a dither and quit reading because I used the word church, please reconsider. I am not here to discuss faith or non-faith or anything of that ilk. I'm just giving context for the situation.
Trent and I don't go to church every week. Our health, to put it mildly, is unusual. With Trent being immunosuppressed because of kidney transplants and me having systemic lupus, it seems as if we can catch germs from across the street, to say nothing of being in a closed area with lots of people. Just last month we picked up a bug at church that made itself at home chez Lunatic for a little more than two weeks. For this reason, we sit in the very back row because we hope that most of the cooties will travel toward the front of the church, the way everyone's facing.
Back to Grant. Over the years I have noticed that Grant processes the stimuli around him in a different way than most of the rest of us do. When I see him during the singing of hymns, for example, I can almost feel that the volume of the music (noise?) is painful to him. He has developed coping mechanisms to deal with this, and what they are do not matter to this story.
Grant also sits in the back row as we do. His family sits a row or two in front of him. I know that he loves his family, but he needs to have his space, literally. When I sat down in the back row one Sunday just a few chairs over from his spot by the door, I knew I was too close. The look on his face said it all. I told him that we'd move down the row a bit, and helped him move the chairs between his seat and ours. His mother's face was full of relief at our being easygoing and understanding, and the day progressed beautifully.
We have developed a routine, on the Sundays when we are up to attending church, that keeps Grant in mind. If the chairs in the back row are folding rather than stacking chairs, I will remove about five of them between where I sit and Grant's spot. Sometimes he's there before me and has already done it, but sometimes we work together. And sometimes, like today, we get there first and I create a space for Grant before he arrives.
So today started off really well. A dear sweet lady came into the building with us and I told her that I needed to clear the chairs for Grant and she understood completely. I sat and waited, hoping that I had moved enough chairs for him to feel at ease. As I said, things started off well. Grant's mother, Susan, is always so grateful for us being understanding. This gratitude breaks my heart. It tells me that there are some people who only see him with their eyes and not their hearts. I saw one of them in action today.
A man came into the chapel after the service was well underway. Although there were several empty seats in front of us, he grabbed one of the folded chairs and set it right next to Grant. And I mean close. I saw that Grant was asking him not to sit there, but the man ignored him. I quietly got up, stepped over to him, and whispered, "He has a hard time with people sitting next to him." I felt that was all that I needed to say. Was it necessary for me to go into a long discussion that Grant is probably somewhere on the Autism Spectrum and having someone sit that close to him is more than he can bear? I respect Grant and his family far too much for that.
The man moved his chair about a foot away from Grant, waited a few moments, said something to him, and clasped his hand in a handshake. (Grant knows I am safe and I never grab his hand. Usually he will give me a handshake, but sometimes he will not. I feel great joy on the handshake days!) He then got up and moved to another seat. I smiled inside myself when Grant waited a few moments and pulled the chair over to himself, folded it shut, and leaned it against the wall where it had been before. But I could see that he was overwhelmed. Within a minute or so, he had to leave the room. The man sat in his new chair for about a minute and decided to leave the chapel. He made an exaggerated point of looking down at Grant's empty chair, looking at me, and shaking his head in disdain.
In the twenty or so minutes that remained of the meeting, Grant had to get up and leave another couple of times. I knew that the whole day might be a struggle for him, and decided to speak with his parents after the service. After I gave them a brief rundown of what had happened, I made them an impassioned promise. "Whenever I am here, I will always do whatever I can to help Grant feel safe and comfortable." I understand how his mind works. He is different from everyone else. But aren't we all?
What happened today was not a major event. There was no bad guy, and there was no hero. There was misunderstanding, which happens everywhere and every day. It becomes all too easy to see others' actions with our eyes and forget to use our hearts. Our differences are part of what makes us who we are. We are all frail beings who love and fear and dream and hunger and so many other things. And when it comes to those differences, I hope to remember the wonderful mother of Temple Grandin, who taught her autistic daughter this beautiful philosophy, "Different, not less than."
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Monday, May 8, 2017
Equipped
A couple of years ago, Trent and I got new smartphones. It was a first for me, because I had the idea for years that a smartphone was completely unnecessary in my life. I had a laptop and a tablet; what more did I need? But my six-year-old phone was literally falling apart. It was still making and receiving calls and texts, and the camera was working, but when I opened it, the cover kind of slipped from the hinges, which were crumbling. Yes, it was time. It seemed, when I looked online, that non-smartphones (or phones of average intelligence, as I like to call them) are a truly endangered species.
So we picked out phones, choosing the same model in different colors. I remember what fun I had scaring the employee who was setting up my phone. His face fell when I casually mentioned that this was my first smartphone. He envisioned the rest of his day lost to teaching me how to use the most basic smartphone functions. His entire face lit up when I followed by telling him that I had been an Android tablet user for several years. His relief was palpable when he realized that I knew my way around Android, social media, Chrome, Roku, and other wonderful things. Day saved!
We decided then that we would not trade these phones in when our two year requirement ended. The phones were good ones with fabulous cameras, so we were happy to have them. I was a little less happy a few months later when my phone decided to malfunction hours before we got on a flight to visit Disney World. The battery was lasting about an hour, so it wasn't going to be taking any pictures for me. I had the problem one or two more times, but that was about it. And it only took a reboot to fix it. No worries.
Then a few months ago, Trent's phone started to fall apart. I'm serious! The back started to come off. And then the front. When he called the insurance provider, they said that dropping the phone could have caused it. Had he dropped it? Yes, a distance of less than two feet onto the bed. Well, there you go, not their problem. The store said it was probably due to the battery heating up (those suckers did get super hot during charging) and causing the phone to fall apart, but there were no guarantees. They could send it away and the repair center could use their own discretion on whether to repair or replace the phone, but would probably want to replace it at full price. Um, not so much.
So Trent kept his phone in a case to hold it together and to keep light from shining out of the front, back, and sides during use. He began counting the weeks until his phone could be replaced. In spite of my former issues, I wasn't convinced that I needed a new phone. Until mine started to fall apart as well. Trent went to the store to speak with someone about when we could replace them, and he was eager to work with her when May 8th, the magic date, rolled around.
Trent decided to call the store last Thursday (only the 4th) and the recording he had to listen through told him that he was eligible for an upgrade. I went to the app on my phone and found that we both were, so within minutes we were headed to the store. And surprise, surprise - without having discussed it, we had picked the same phones!
We got to the store about an hour and a half before closing, and Christine was with another customer but we decided to wait. She remembered meeting Trent a few weeks ago, and even remembered some other cool things. As she led us over to the display of Samsung Galaxy S8 phones, she mentioned that one of them was purple, which I told her excitedly was my favorite color. She recalled Trent telling her this, which I found endearing and impressive. So we ended up with monstrous huge Galaxy S8+ phones, his in silver and mine a dark purplish gray. Christine actually helped us find protective front and back covers at the best prices and helped set up our phones even though the store was closed. She cheerfully stayed more than an hour past closing, which she didn't have to do. What a wonderful person she is!
Of course, when we got home I took a picture of the gorgeous black box that the phone came in to post on G+. I was enjoying getting to know Purple Rain, as she is called by The Lunatic. The screen curves on the sides and the visual quality is superb. It has 64gb of internal memory. It's fast and performs well and it's easy on the eye. All around, I am pleased with my new tool/toy. I received a comment on my post from Ed, who said that he'd like to see some pictures taken with the new phone, perhaps of Brutus. I agreed that that could be done and set out to keep my promise.
And then the cat's quirks kicked in. Brutus, AKA Brutus D FatCat, AKA Fatso the Catso, AKA Fat...okay, never mind that name, decided to play hard to get. Or hard to photograph. And I asked very politely, too. I told him that I'd really appreciate it if he would get up on the bed and keep still because I wanted to shoot him. He went into hiding under said bed for two days, only coming out for food, like the big old Fraidy Cat he is. I don't know what his problem is. I respected his privacy and asked and everything, but he got camera shy. The big baby.
Any way, here's a picture of a lilac getting ready to fade as Spring turns into a more Summery mode. Maybe I'll get a good shot at Brutus later...
And here's one of Brutus after all, that big old Fraidy Cat.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
So we picked out phones, choosing the same model in different colors. I remember what fun I had scaring the employee who was setting up my phone. His face fell when I casually mentioned that this was my first smartphone. He envisioned the rest of his day lost to teaching me how to use the most basic smartphone functions. His entire face lit up when I followed by telling him that I had been an Android tablet user for several years. His relief was palpable when he realized that I knew my way around Android, social media, Chrome, Roku, and other wonderful things. Day saved!
We decided then that we would not trade these phones in when our two year requirement ended. The phones were good ones with fabulous cameras, so we were happy to have them. I was a little less happy a few months later when my phone decided to malfunction hours before we got on a flight to visit Disney World. The battery was lasting about an hour, so it wasn't going to be taking any pictures for me. I had the problem one or two more times, but that was about it. And it only took a reboot to fix it. No worries.
Then a few months ago, Trent's phone started to fall apart. I'm serious! The back started to come off. And then the front. When he called the insurance provider, they said that dropping the phone could have caused it. Had he dropped it? Yes, a distance of less than two feet onto the bed. Well, there you go, not their problem. The store said it was probably due to the battery heating up (those suckers did get super hot during charging) and causing the phone to fall apart, but there were no guarantees. They could send it away and the repair center could use their own discretion on whether to repair or replace the phone, but would probably want to replace it at full price. Um, not so much.
So Trent kept his phone in a case to hold it together and to keep light from shining out of the front, back, and sides during use. He began counting the weeks until his phone could be replaced. In spite of my former issues, I wasn't convinced that I needed a new phone. Until mine started to fall apart as well. Trent went to the store to speak with someone about when we could replace them, and he was eager to work with her when May 8th, the magic date, rolled around.
Trent decided to call the store last Thursday (only the 4th) and the recording he had to listen through told him that he was eligible for an upgrade. I went to the app on my phone and found that we both were, so within minutes we were headed to the store. And surprise, surprise - without having discussed it, we had picked the same phones!
We got to the store about an hour and a half before closing, and Christine was with another customer but we decided to wait. She remembered meeting Trent a few weeks ago, and even remembered some other cool things. As she led us over to the display of Samsung Galaxy S8 phones, she mentioned that one of them was purple, which I told her excitedly was my favorite color. She recalled Trent telling her this, which I found endearing and impressive. So we ended up with monstrous huge Galaxy S8+ phones, his in silver and mine a dark purplish gray. Christine actually helped us find protective front and back covers at the best prices and helped set up our phones even though the store was closed. She cheerfully stayed more than an hour past closing, which she didn't have to do. What a wonderful person she is!
Of course, when we got home I took a picture of the gorgeous black box that the phone came in to post on G+. I was enjoying getting to know Purple Rain, as she is called by The Lunatic. The screen curves on the sides and the visual quality is superb. It has 64gb of internal memory. It's fast and performs well and it's easy on the eye. All around, I am pleased with my new tool/toy. I received a comment on my post from Ed, who said that he'd like to see some pictures taken with the new phone, perhaps of Brutus. I agreed that that could be done and set out to keep my promise.
And then the cat's quirks kicked in. Brutus, AKA Brutus D FatCat, AKA Fatso the Catso, AKA Fat...okay, never mind that name, decided to play hard to get. Or hard to photograph. And I asked very politely, too. I told him that I'd really appreciate it if he would get up on the bed and keep still because I wanted to shoot him. He went into hiding under said bed for two days, only coming out for food, like the big old Fraidy Cat he is. I don't know what his problem is. I respected his privacy and asked and everything, but he got camera shy. The big baby.
Any way, here's a picture of a lilac getting ready to fade as Spring turns into a more Summery mode. Maybe I'll get a good shot at Brutus later...
And here's one of Brutus after all, that big old Fraidy Cat.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Monday, May 1, 2017
Agony, Defeat
I think that it should come as no surprise that someone who writes (even though it's been sporadic lately, sorry) loves words. Words have the ability to evoke emotion, to paint scenes in one's mind, to explain, and to confuse, and all sorts of other things. I will be forever grateful to the junior high school (middle school nowadays, but different grade levels) teacher whose name I can no longer remember, but who taught my class lots of latin roots of words. It adds a rich layer of understanding and possibilities to words one might encounter any day. But that, perhaps, is a story for another day.
I used to love to do the crossword puzzle in the morning newspaper, even going so far as to buy a crossword puzzle dictionary with my babysitting wages. I have never been much of a fan of online crossword puzzles, though, and games like Words With Friends don't thrill me to bits. I keep searching for the perfect word game, one in which I can completely immerse myself. I want to roll around in it, so to speak.
I've enjoyed some computer word games in the past but they haven't made the transition to a smaller screen. I recently searched the Play Store for a game that I used to play on the computer that I really wanted to play again. The game gave you several letters which you tried to form into as many three to six (or seven) letter words as possible before time ran out. As long as you found at least one word that used all of the letters, you would advance to another round. But if you didn't find the big one, the game was over. Naturally, the game I was looking for wasn't available, just as I expected, but I was happy to discover that a very similar game was ready for me to play. Yippee!
I began the game full of anticipation. As sometimes happens, I had a few games that only lasted a handful of rounds. I was rusty, and that was okay. Sometimes a word that you see every day is almost impossible to spot when its letters are all jumbled. I kept working at it. I had a high score one day of a meager 1300 points or so. I just knew that I could do much better. With my vocabulary, I took it as a personal failure if I couldn't do much, much better.
A couple of days later Trent was at a movie (a guys' afternoon out) and I hit the game. I played almost the entire time that Trent was gone. By the time that he got home, I couldn't focus my eyes any more. I could see the tablet screen but not much else, but I had increased my best sore to nearly 5000. Progress!
The next afternoon, Trent decided to take a nap but I opted to play my new-ish word game. I found words long enough to still be playing an hour later. One after another, the six-letter words came flowing through my fingertips onto the screen. I glanced at my score and it was over 6000! I kept playing as the minutes ticked by. 7000, 8000, 9000...I was getting that nervous excitement where you wonder if what seems to be happening really is happening. And the word magic kept flowing.
When my tablet told me that I had to plug into my charger, my score was 9,995. I reached for the charger, plugged it in, and my screen went blank. Agh! I was freaking out. I got the screen turned back on and my game wasn't there. And when I opened it, all of my magic had evaporated. The heavenly game session was gone, and the home screen told me that my personal best score was under 5000. Agonizing defeat! I wasn't crushed or anything...but I was disappointed. I had been doing so well!
I knew then that I would have to do my best to reach the nirvana I had glimpsed before, the mystical, magical 10,000 mark. I'm fairly sure that a score of 10,000 means that I can barely hold a decent conversation, but I didn't care. I wanted to reach the heights that I had been denied before. I set out to more than double my highest score of record.
When I started a game, I made sure that my tablet was plugged in even if it was fully charged. No power loss screwing up my game again, thank you. As my Gram always said, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I began games and tallied up points, eager to prove to myself that I had the ability to make the magical score. And then I had numerous chances to taste defeat.
I have to wonder what kind of dictionary some of these games use. For example, it's okay with the game if someone pees, but pee is verboten. And sometimes I type in words that I know were in the Rocky Mountain News crossword puzzle but aren't in this game's dictionary. And then there are the moments one loses a game because the six letter word is padres, which is clearly a Spanish word meaning fathers. When I began another game, I remembered this and tried to use madres, meaning mothers. Not in the dictionary. Hmph.
And who the heck is making up the words, anyway? Here are a few of the unusual or questionable words I have encountered in this game.
clevis, a U-shaped coupler
uracil, a base containing nitrogen that is found in RNA but not DNA
sachem, an Algonquin chief
Saki, a British short story writer whom I love, but this is a proper name, darn it!
anteed, supposedly the past tense of ante, as in a card game. I find no sources that spell it any other way than anted. Hmph again.
Saturday, Trent decided to take another afternoon nap. I grabbed my tablet and hooked it up to the charger. I made sure that I had a cold drink and began to play. The words again flowed from my fingertips. I had a moment of worry when I thought, "What if I have to use the bathroom and my game times out?" I decided to take it easy on the Diet Pepsi. Then Brutus D Fatcat showed up and wanted to climb up on my chest. First off, it's terribly uncomfortable to have a cat put about 500 psi of pressure on one's breasts. Second, even if it wasn't uncomfortable, how was I supposed to see past him, or even use my keyboard? Third, if he rubbed or stepped on anything and screwed up my game, I'd be very upset. I tried to get him to lay still while I scratched him with one hand, but he still kept wanting to smother me. He would leave for a few minutes and come back and the dance, and my worries, would start all over again.
Finally, it happened. My score went to 10,025. The following round had some bizarre six letter word and I didn't even care. I had regained my dignity and could happily go on now that my ghost of a score had been met and beaten. Relief and victory were sweet. I'm still playing the game and enjoying it, but the obsession with my score has disappeared. I'm able to just enjoy myself while I play. Until a crazy word like mazers comes up. Or they turn a noun that means a shrub into a past tense verb. Seriously, it's like saying that the missing word is rosed, the past tense of rose, a flowering shrub. Okay, well maybe I'm not as relaxed about the game as I thought I was. But at least I'm stretching my mind and having some fun. Yeah, that's it, fun!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
I used to love to do the crossword puzzle in the morning newspaper, even going so far as to buy a crossword puzzle dictionary with my babysitting wages. I have never been much of a fan of online crossword puzzles, though, and games like Words With Friends don't thrill me to bits. I keep searching for the perfect word game, one in which I can completely immerse myself. I want to roll around in it, so to speak.
I've enjoyed some computer word games in the past but they haven't made the transition to a smaller screen. I recently searched the Play Store for a game that I used to play on the computer that I really wanted to play again. The game gave you several letters which you tried to form into as many three to six (or seven) letter words as possible before time ran out. As long as you found at least one word that used all of the letters, you would advance to another round. But if you didn't find the big one, the game was over. Naturally, the game I was looking for wasn't available, just as I expected, but I was happy to discover that a very similar game was ready for me to play. Yippee!
I began the game full of anticipation. As sometimes happens, I had a few games that only lasted a handful of rounds. I was rusty, and that was okay. Sometimes a word that you see every day is almost impossible to spot when its letters are all jumbled. I kept working at it. I had a high score one day of a meager 1300 points or so. I just knew that I could do much better. With my vocabulary, I took it as a personal failure if I couldn't do much, much better.
A couple of days later Trent was at a movie (a guys' afternoon out) and I hit the game. I played almost the entire time that Trent was gone. By the time that he got home, I couldn't focus my eyes any more. I could see the tablet screen but not much else, but I had increased my best sore to nearly 5000. Progress!
The next afternoon, Trent decided to take a nap but I opted to play my new-ish word game. I found words long enough to still be playing an hour later. One after another, the six-letter words came flowing through my fingertips onto the screen. I glanced at my score and it was over 6000! I kept playing as the minutes ticked by. 7000, 8000, 9000...I was getting that nervous excitement where you wonder if what seems to be happening really is happening. And the word magic kept flowing.
When my tablet told me that I had to plug into my charger, my score was 9,995. I reached for the charger, plugged it in, and my screen went blank. Agh! I was freaking out. I got the screen turned back on and my game wasn't there. And when I opened it, all of my magic had evaporated. The heavenly game session was gone, and the home screen told me that my personal best score was under 5000. Agonizing defeat! I wasn't crushed or anything...but I was disappointed. I had been doing so well!
I knew then that I would have to do my best to reach the nirvana I had glimpsed before, the mystical, magical 10,000 mark. I'm fairly sure that a score of 10,000 means that I can barely hold a decent conversation, but I didn't care. I wanted to reach the heights that I had been denied before. I set out to more than double my highest score of record.
When I started a game, I made sure that my tablet was plugged in even if it was fully charged. No power loss screwing up my game again, thank you. As my Gram always said, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I began games and tallied up points, eager to prove to myself that I had the ability to make the magical score. And then I had numerous chances to taste defeat.
I have to wonder what kind of dictionary some of these games use. For example, it's okay with the game if someone pees, but pee is verboten. And sometimes I type in words that I know were in the Rocky Mountain News crossword puzzle but aren't in this game's dictionary. And then there are the moments one loses a game because the six letter word is padres, which is clearly a Spanish word meaning fathers. When I began another game, I remembered this and tried to use madres, meaning mothers. Not in the dictionary. Hmph.
And who the heck is making up the words, anyway? Here are a few of the unusual or questionable words I have encountered in this game.
clevis, a U-shaped coupler
uracil, a base containing nitrogen that is found in RNA but not DNA
sachem, an Algonquin chief
Saki, a British short story writer whom I love, but this is a proper name, darn it!
anteed, supposedly the past tense of ante, as in a card game. I find no sources that spell it any other way than anted. Hmph again.
Saturday, Trent decided to take another afternoon nap. I grabbed my tablet and hooked it up to the charger. I made sure that I had a cold drink and began to play. The words again flowed from my fingertips. I had a moment of worry when I thought, "What if I have to use the bathroom and my game times out?" I decided to take it easy on the Diet Pepsi. Then Brutus D Fatcat showed up and wanted to climb up on my chest. First off, it's terribly uncomfortable to have a cat put about 500 psi of pressure on one's breasts. Second, even if it wasn't uncomfortable, how was I supposed to see past him, or even use my keyboard? Third, if he rubbed or stepped on anything and screwed up my game, I'd be very upset. I tried to get him to lay still while I scratched him with one hand, but he still kept wanting to smother me. He would leave for a few minutes and come back and the dance, and my worries, would start all over again.
Finally, it happened. My score went to 10,025. The following round had some bizarre six letter word and I didn't even care. I had regained my dignity and could happily go on now that my ghost of a score had been met and beaten. Relief and victory were sweet. I'm still playing the game and enjoying it, but the obsession with my score has disappeared. I'm able to just enjoy myself while I play. Until a crazy word like mazers comes up. Or they turn a noun that means a shrub into a past tense verb. Seriously, it's like saying that the missing word is rosed, the past tense of rose, a flowering shrub. Okay, well maybe I'm not as relaxed about the game as I thought I was. But at least I'm stretching my mind and having some fun. Yeah, that's it, fun!
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The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Friday, April 28, 2017
A Twenty-Minute Day
One of the characters in the book The Help says that "Mississippi has the most unorganized weather." She goes on to say that everything will be covered in ice one day and that the following day it's 90 degrees for the next several months. I can certainly appreciate the vagaries of that type of weather, but I don't think that Mississippi is the champion where changeable weather is concerned.
Those of us who have lived in Colorado for some time (especially natives, people who think that they're better than the rest of us just because their mother was here when they were born, which they seem to take as their own personal accomplishment) have our own descriptions of normal Colorado weather.
Many long-timers say that Colorado does not have four seasons. My friend Kris's father used to say, "Yes, we do too have four seasons - Winter, June, July, and August." Only slightly less famous is the claim that Colorado has a whopping two seasons - Winter and Road Construction. Hey, plowing and salting and sanding and heavy traffic do take their toll.
My Gram taught me my favorite Colorado weather saying, and the best, in my humble opinion. "Welcome to Colorado. If you don't like the weather, stick around for twenty minutes." Trent and I, as well as my sister Liz and everyone that we know who has lived here for a long time, believe this to be true. Actually, scratch that. We know it to be true.
When someone brings up oddities of weather, we jump in the deep end like the champs that we are. "Hey, do you remember that one time in September when it was 93 degrees on Sunday, and then there was more than a foot of snow on the ground when we woke up on Monday morning?"
"Yeah! That was even crazier than the time that it snowed in June!" Note: technically, it could conceivably snow during any month high in the mountains here in our beautiful state. What I am referring to here is weather in the Denver Metro area. You know, the weather in the lower elevations of only a Mile High.
I am not a Colorado native, but I come close enough that Trent, who is a native, says that I can and should claim Colorado as my home. Heck, I came here when I was 7 years old and have lived here since. My age once again ends with a 7, but there's a goodish number in front of that little digit. And I must say that while the weather in my beautiful home can catch me unprepared, on the deepest level I am rarely surprised by what a different day or season may bring.
In the Metro area I have seen heavy snows in every month except July and August. I have experienced snowstorms that included lightning, spring rains with hail and tornado activity, sub-zero cold and baking heat. A couple of days this winter, Colorado had the highest temperature in the nation. Let me expound on that for a moment. It was warmer here on those winter days than it was in Miami, Phoenix, and Honolulu. Now that is disorganized weather!
The other day Trent and I needed to get out and run some errands. It was a lovely morning, bright and sunny and in the 50-degree range. Suddenly I noticed that it seemed as if the clocks were all wrong. Surely it couldn't be that dark and still be early afternoon. I looked out the window to find dark skies and rainy weather. Trent, being the tough Coloradan, said that he didn't care, he was wearing shorts anyway. I didn't want to deal with carrying a jacket so I put on a sweatshirt. Before I got in the car, I walked over to the mailbox. As I walked, I noticed a white spot on my shirt. And then another, and then several more. Yes, rain mixed with snow. Oh, well.
We went on our way, dodging raindrops (snowdrops?) as we walked into the supermarket. We didn't have much to get, so we were in the store fairly briefly. When we got back outside, the sun was shining in its full glory and the rain was drying up. The car was hot and I told Trent that he was smart to wear shorts, and that I felt like an idiot with my nice warm sweatshirt. That day had Colorado written all over it. We stuck around for twenty minutes and it changed. And then it changed again. And then it changed a third time. Yep. That's my home!
A final thought and a wish - may your skies find you safe and happy, wherever you live or visit.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Those of us who have lived in Colorado for some time (especially natives, people who think that they're better than the rest of us just because their mother was here when they were born, which they seem to take as their own personal accomplishment) have our own descriptions of normal Colorado weather.
Many long-timers say that Colorado does not have four seasons. My friend Kris's father used to say, "Yes, we do too have four seasons - Winter, June, July, and August." Only slightly less famous is the claim that Colorado has a whopping two seasons - Winter and Road Construction. Hey, plowing and salting and sanding and heavy traffic do take their toll.
My Gram taught me my favorite Colorado weather saying, and the best, in my humble opinion. "Welcome to Colorado. If you don't like the weather, stick around for twenty minutes." Trent and I, as well as my sister Liz and everyone that we know who has lived here for a long time, believe this to be true. Actually, scratch that. We know it to be true.
When someone brings up oddities of weather, we jump in the deep end like the champs that we are. "Hey, do you remember that one time in September when it was 93 degrees on Sunday, and then there was more than a foot of snow on the ground when we woke up on Monday morning?"
"Yeah! That was even crazier than the time that it snowed in June!" Note: technically, it could conceivably snow during any month high in the mountains here in our beautiful state. What I am referring to here is weather in the Denver Metro area. You know, the weather in the lower elevations of only a Mile High.
I am not a Colorado native, but I come close enough that Trent, who is a native, says that I can and should claim Colorado as my home. Heck, I came here when I was 7 years old and have lived here since. My age once again ends with a 7, but there's a goodish number in front of that little digit. And I must say that while the weather in my beautiful home can catch me unprepared, on the deepest level I am rarely surprised by what a different day or season may bring.
In the Metro area I have seen heavy snows in every month except July and August. I have experienced snowstorms that included lightning, spring rains with hail and tornado activity, sub-zero cold and baking heat. A couple of days this winter, Colorado had the highest temperature in the nation. Let me expound on that for a moment. It was warmer here on those winter days than it was in Miami, Phoenix, and Honolulu. Now that is disorganized weather!
The other day Trent and I needed to get out and run some errands. It was a lovely morning, bright and sunny and in the 50-degree range. Suddenly I noticed that it seemed as if the clocks were all wrong. Surely it couldn't be that dark and still be early afternoon. I looked out the window to find dark skies and rainy weather. Trent, being the tough Coloradan, said that he didn't care, he was wearing shorts anyway. I didn't want to deal with carrying a jacket so I put on a sweatshirt. Before I got in the car, I walked over to the mailbox. As I walked, I noticed a white spot on my shirt. And then another, and then several more. Yes, rain mixed with snow. Oh, well.
We went on our way, dodging raindrops (snowdrops?) as we walked into the supermarket. We didn't have much to get, so we were in the store fairly briefly. When we got back outside, the sun was shining in its full glory and the rain was drying up. The car was hot and I told Trent that he was smart to wear shorts, and that I felt like an idiot with my nice warm sweatshirt. That day had Colorado written all over it. We stuck around for twenty minutes and it changed. And then it changed again. And then it changed a third time. Yep. That's my home!
A final thought and a wish - may your skies find you safe and happy, wherever you live or visit.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
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