The Fire

Airwolf (posted on WordPress 01/20/2017)

Do you remember the TV show Airwolf? It was one of our family favorites with fairly clean language, adventure, clothing, and the star was a flying machine. A parents dream program...something for every age group. With the characters played by the easy-on-the-eyes Jan Michael Vincent and the lovable Ernest Borgnine, it was a pleasing program.

The sound of that state-of-the-art helicopter was absolutely unforgettable...we all loved it. Not so much, however, in real life...

We lived in a huge old farm-house

Together Into That Dark Night (first posted online on 01/20/2017)

It is with some misgiving that I greet this day. The person taking oath as the president of the United States today does not inspire me with confidence.  Just the opposite; I've heard him say things and act in a way that is commensurate with the way others I have personally known acted in the early stages of Alzheimer's.  If this is indeed the case, then who will actually be running America? Please let it be someone with more experience than Trump.

I'm glad the weather here is dark and somber, it fits the bill and mirrors my mood. I have never been this afraid. I have grown up in an America where I believed the leaders truly had my best interests at heart. Now I fear the leaders have my quick demise as their foremost agenda. There is so much talk of ending Social Security, Medicare & Medicaid that the older population in this country will be doomed if that comes into play.

This is a dark day to be an American. The weather agrees. Countries around the world also agree and are not honoring his presidency as legitimate. Thank you to all of them.

Age Changes Things... (first posted online on 01/20/2017)

I know it isn't just me, although there are times when I wonder, noticing how time changes things...behaviors, physicality, beliefs, ideas, what seems important....etc.

A friend texted me today. It's been a long time since I've heard from this friend. I contacted her a year and three months ago regarding the death of a mutual friend's husband. She said they had grown apart and she felt no need to attend the service since they were no longer close. That made me sad. I wondered then how people can just let another person slide away from them. I wondered once or twice if she'd felt compelled to send a sympathy card or if that too, had slipped far enough away to seem irrelevant.

Today she contacted me, I'm not really sure why. She wrote that her life has been a whirlwind (which she imagined I was aware of via Facebook). That made it very clear to me that she no longer (if ever) follows me because I am so rarely on Facebook a follower/friend would have missed my online presence it would seem. Are we so caught up in banality and the constant stream of information that we are no longer aware when someone goes missing?

If you are expecting me to be aware of what is going on in your life because you've posted it on Facebook, be aware that I am highly unlikely to see anything posted on Facebook unless you text me immediately to inform me to check it. So, two things immediately came to mind...

1) who posts such personal stuff on Facebook? and 

2) if you have time to post on Facebook, why wouldn't you have time to call a friend or text a friend on a regular basis? 

I texted none of this to her, and I debated doing so, I also debated asking if she had time for a phone call...but I was busy and was rather resenting the intrusion into my day, much the way I do when the telemarketers get fired up at their phones.

She briefly brought me up to date with a major event in her life and I found myself wondering why bother? If it isn't worth a phone call, the contact with a human voice with nuance and tone, if it only merits a brief text message, why bother? And if it was really worth the telling, I would still have to ask, "Why now?" Nearly two years have passed since we saw each other last. After six months of my phone calls going unanswered and un-returned, I finally gave up.

Everything has a season and a reason for being. With the pain of heartache and grief, I relinquished the friendship I had treasured and moved on. Is there a pre-approved time limit for moving on? The friend who lost her husband over a year ago, is moving on slowly, I have moved on a bit more quickly, but then, it wasn't a "death" but an "ignoring". What is the acceptable time limit for that? Is there one? Did I not give it enough time? Do I owe her more than an obligatory and polite, "Hi, how've you been?" if we meet in public?

As I answered her texts as briefly as was polite, I felt more-and-more miffed at the intrusion. I was trying to work and every few minutes I had to stop, pick up my phone again, read the newest text and try to respond in a kindly  manner. Out of respect for the deep friendship we'd shared years ago, I didn't want to offer anything she could pick up and take as offense, so I tried to be careful and noncommittal. I told her I was happy she was happy. There's nothing more I can add to that other than, enjoy your life, good day.

For years I have said that if anything happens to my marriage I would never get married again and probably would never even have a "boyfriend." I don't want to spend countless hours memorizing someone else's family and dramas or having to help someone learn mine. Years of, "No, honey, that was Robert, this is Anthony, Robin's middle child, no nooo, Robin is the one who worked at the drug store, remember? Anthony married the bookkeepers, ex's daughters, friend's daughter. I know it's confusing, you'll get the hang of it." It makes me shudder! (And BTW, those are all made up names and instances...but you get my drift.)

Well, after limited contact the last three years culminating in no contact for the last 15 months, this relationship feels much the same as that. I know there has been a tremendous lot that has gone on in my life and I imagine the same for her and I really don't want to try to catch up now. It doesn't matter enough, and yet, it's too much to just pick up and move forward from here because the gaps are just too big. That's where the sad came into play...I realized that if you don't use it, you do lose it. I fought to keep the friendship alive, but with only me trying, it died. I mourned it, buried it, and now I've moved on.

I was on the verge of feeling angry about her contacting me after all this time. And I thought about calling a mutual friend of ours and realized, wow! I hadn't talked to her in almost a year, either. I know, I know, at this point you're thinking its me....and you might be right, but I don't think so, other than I tend to pick the same kind of people for friends and this is where it's gotten me.

Anyway, I picked up my phone to call her and ask for a reality check to see if it was just me being bitchy or if I really was justified in feeling what I was feeling when I realized, wait a minute! She did the same thing to me! She was the one who told me to stop calling the text-er because she clearly wasn't interested in keeping the friendship alive. That people come and go in our lives for a reason and we need to be able to let them go when they have served their purpose. That is the way Spirit (not my term) has things set up so that we can get the help we need when we need it most, but we have to let go too.

Then she got busy with men in her life and no longer had time to talk to me and never called back and then, never called. Never made any effort whatsoever. When she was coming to visit the old homestead I arranged a lunch date with her and a mutual friend. I kept at it and made it work. No talk before or after, just during the lunch where she said, "I don't know why we don't talk anymore, we need to." And I just looked at her and thought, "I know why". But we are getting older and I was a little worried that maybe she's starting to have memory problems... . So, I let it go then, I let it go today, and then I started thinking wait, this is a good lesson, a good warning to others...friendships are important and they are necessary. They are also living organisms so if you don't take care of them, they die.

I have two people who used to be very dear, beloved and intimate friends who are now strangers to me. I tried. Repeatedly. I don't give up easily. But today, I realized I am a bit angry with both of these women who probably have no idea how long it's been and who are so wrapped up in their own lives that they couldn't bother with me, not a phone call, not a text, nothing. And yet, clearly at least one of them feels certain they can just pick up like it's the next day. It's not the next day. It's been over a year. I'm not willing to "be there" for you anymore. If I mattered, you should have taken better care of our friendship while it was alive.

So....here's the lesson...I feel like Mr. Peabody at this moment...

If you value someone as a friend, make it a point to keep that friendship alive. It takes two people to keep it active. If you can't be bothered today because you are busy or tired, that's fine, but don't be surprised when you finally contact them in a year or two to find out they've moved on and the friendship is done. Dead. Buried. Mourned. 

Over.

I have learned to be self-sufficient and entertain myself quite nicely. I like who I am, and I think I am too valuable to be put on a shelf until someone has time for me. Either I matter enough to be a part of your life everyday or I don't, but I won't sit on hold for months on end. I don't think anyone should. I don't know how many years I have left, maybe ten, twelve...who knows, but I have found a multitude of things to do and my time is precious. I won't waste it on those who didn't want anything to do with me until they were bored...or whatever.

So...go out and feed your friendships and any other relationships that matter to you.

Namaste.

 

A Feeling of Dread (first posted online on 01/19/2017)

Only one (1) more day can I wake up with the comforting thought, "Obama is still my President." On Saturday morning I will not be able to think that, and that thought alone makes my chest grow tight and breathing becomes difficult.

I believe in the power of energy, words and thought so I try to keep my thoughts, my words and my energy positive and upbeat. I try to concentrate on all the beauty in this world, on all the wonderful people there are here (and by here I mean all around the globe).

Then I open my email and receive this:

Sexual Assault !!! (first posted online on 01/15/2017)

In 1973, when I was still a young wife and new mom, I had a very unpleasant experience that qualifies as sexual assault even though it was not nearly as invasive as others have suffered. With that said, it has still affected me emotionally and psychologically for over 40 years, and that just isn't fair. I'd be willing to bet

Republican Congress & Faulty Memories - (first published online on 01/14/2017)

Seriously! I watched Paul Ryan give a very heated speech about the 1000+ pages of "Obama Care" and actually give the democrats in Congress and the still sitting President Obama grief over all the extra garbage attached to the Affordable Health Care Act AS IF they put it there!!!!

HOLD ON a cotton pickin' minute here Mr. Ryan!!!!!

Abandoned School & Curious Kids (first posted online on 01/07/2017)

In 1963 or '64 there was an abandoned school house just a few yards from where I lived. Far enough away to be safe from the prying eyes of adults if we were careful, but close enough that we kids had to keep our exuberance under control. The lot was fenced along three sides, but the front was open and there were huge gaps in the fence along the back allowing easy access to small bodies. The lot was overgrown with tall grasses and weeds that were almost as tall as I was by the end of August.

The building itself was yellow brick, and had been

The Enlightenment Project - (first posted online - 01/02/2107)

It took 61 years for me to reach this age and now...only now, do I learn that there has been an "Enlightenment Project" going on for hundreds of years! Why hasn't the lame-stream media covered this? I began reading the "Atheist Manifesto" by Michael Onfray last night as part of my decision to begin reading in earnest again, even if it means new glasses. This morning, I read that there was, and is, an ongoing thing called The Enlightenment Project that consist of many papers written but not compiled. There are even written arguments against The Enlightenment Project.

As far as I can tell, the original concept of

Shabby Practice (originally posted online

Welcome 2017!

Happy New Year! A new year. Another year. An uncertain year perhaps...but isn't every future uncertain?

The blog I began a year ago, this blog, did not see me every week as I had planned. My writing practice went by the wayside thus this post title. I promise to do

Nothingness (first posted online on 09/19/2016)

Some of you will be too young to remember taking a crisp white piece of paper and rolling it into a typewriter, snapping the guide bar over it, the ratcheting sound of rolling it into place to begin your first sentence......

Why Can't You See That I'M Right?!?!?! (posted online on 08/04/2016)

Wow! Election year certainly seems to get a whole lot of people fired up emotionally, doesn't it? Every four years I go into this thinking, "This year it'll be different, people are older, wiser, and no one I know is going to get emotionally caught up in this." Yep. You guessed it. Every four years I am wrong.

Orlando...Kalamazoo...and all the rest. My sympathy to all...(first posted online - 07/13/2016)

Tragedy strikes again.

People killed.

People injured.

Shock!

Grief!

People's lives changed forever by loss.

The same old arguments ensue. Blame

Attention! Calling All Inventors...(first posted online - 06/25/2016)

As I sit here, suffering from a summer cold (blechkt! the worst!) I have solved the world energy crisis.

Now that I have the perfect fuel and the free source...I need an inventor or inventors who can figure out the specifics.

Are we happy slaves? (first posted online - 06/12/2016)

This morning, (at the time I began writing this) a friend posted something on Facebook that reminded me of a topic I wanted to blog about earlier (I get sidetracked easily)...I will post the link to this blog to her Facebook post

Celeste (first posted online - 03/21/2016)

Over eleven years ago I spent nearly a month having a visitor every night after I'd gone to sleep. It felt as if I was falling asleep and immediately being met by a beautiful little girl with dark golden curls and grey eyes who called me "grandma". She was such a lively little thing, full of energy and excitement. She would grab my hand and

Buzzards (first posted onlinbe - 03/24/2016)

Interesting birds, buzzards. I've seen them soaring aloft for most of my life but never in the numbers I have since moving to my current home. I remember hearing about the buzzards circling over something dying from the old westerns like "Gunsmoke", "Paladin", which it appears was actually called "Have Gun Will Travel",  "Bonanza".  I knew it was how you could find someone who had wandered off and was in peril from either "Sea Hunt", "High Noon", or "Lassie"...maybe from all of them.

1880 or 2016? 136 Years of Women's Exploitation? (First posted online on 05/12/2016)

In this cool old book, "Buckeye Cookery and Practical Housekeeping"  the preface starts off with "Fortunately it is becoming fashionable to economize," In my local community, in the past couple of years, there have been several events started that aim, or aimed, at helping homemakers learn how to economize while creating a pleasant home experience.  "and housekeepers are really finding it a pleasant pastime to search out and stop wastes in household expenses," Are they really? Is it a pleasant pastime or is it a necessity? I think in today's economy, most homemakers would claim it to be a necessity. And evidently, it is a long lived necessity and one that is even profitable. If it weren't such a popular topic I doubt that Martha Stewart could have built a financial empire on it and that FlyLady would have been hard put to follow in her footsteps. Up-and-comer, Rachel Ray, is on the scene with an ever increasing popularity in those interested in cooking. "and to exercise the thousand little economies which thoughtful and careful women understand so readily and practice with such grace."

Prince...A Farewell (first posted online - 04/27/2016)

Prince.

I never met the man, never attended a live performance, and yet...

even so....

there is a deep sadness in my heart at his passing.

This surprises me a little. Why would I feel so sad, and

Killer Phone Calls (first published online - 04/13/2016)

Seriously....

This has been stuck in my craw for a couple of months now. I thought I could just let it go, but I can't. Mainly because this could potentially cost someone their life and I can't live with that possibility so I have to do what I can to get the word out about this.

I had a caller that tied up my only phone for about an hour before

Whistle While You Work...(first published - 04/1/2016)

When I was a kid I used to love that first week of summer vacation. It was the best of all the weeks of the year. Even though I missed my friends at school and my friends on the bus there were things that I only got to experience fully during that first few days of summer vacation and that made that week so special.

We lived at the top of a long hill. Even most of the back yard was downhill. Down the hill from us on the other side of the house, was a barn full of smallish wooden crates (that we used to play in even though we were told repeatedly not to)and a small room where powdered chemicals in big paper bags were stored until they were needed to spray the fruit trees. That room had a very distinctive smell that I can still recall all these years later. But, I digress…continuing downhill were a cold-storage, various outbuildings, a church, a very small community library, several homes, another fruit farm with a barn and cold-storage, etc., and other homes and buildings and land and a small road before the main road about two miles away where the land flattened out for a while before going back uphill again.

We had single-pane, single-hung windows in our old farmhouse. That meant that in the winter, as often as not, I'd wake up to snow on the foot of my bed. We had a coal fed hot water furnace. Every night just before going to bed, Grandpa would "bank" the fire so that there would be hot coals in the morning to quickly start a new fire in the furnace. So, while it meant that the house got warm faster in the morning, it meant that the house, and the radiators, got really cold during the night. As I understand it, “banking the fire” meant that he would keep less oxygen from reaching the fuel supply (coal) either by partially covering the coals with ash or by adjusting the flue grates or maybe it was a combination of both. Now that it’s far too late, I wish I’d asked him about that. Grandpa would get up at 5:00 A.M. (at least that’s what I thought, but to be fair to him, it could have been three in the morning for all I knew) to go down into the basement and fuel up the furnace so that the radiators would feel warm to the touch by the time I got up. Even though the air would still often be frigid, at least I could sit on the radiators and put my clothes on them so that when I got dressed, the clothes were warm. 

It also meant that when I got out of bed I would need to brush the snow off of the bed so that it couldn’t melt on my bed and get it wet all the way through to the mattress because that would still be wet when the house went cold again. I think I was about twelve when we got the gas furnace and the days of coal were done. I remember how luxurious it felt at first to have warmth all the time, and then I missed the cold while I slept. And now, I find myself returning to my childhood roots by going into a spare bedroom and closing the door on those cold winter nights and opening a window a crack and snuggling down into a ton of blankets and sleeping in there. I love being all burrowed into a pile of warm blankets and quilts with cold air in my face. I sleep the deep sleep of youth without a care in the world. It is such a restful and wonderful slumber.

During warm weather, I would slide the bottom pane up and insert a wood-framed metal screen in, the screen would adjust side-to-side to fit the opening and the window sash would come down to hold the screen in place. This allowed me to let in the fresh air while keeping out the bugs. My bedroom was on the second story in the southeast corner of the house. One window was over the front porch roof and faced the road, the other faced east and was a long drop to the ground. My bed was against the wall so that I looked out the east window and it was the one that was usually open when the weather allowed. Just down the hill between my room and the storage was a beautiful old Russian Olive tree. It had long, silvery green leaves, tiny black berries in summer but in the spring, and during that first week of summer vacation, it had flower blossoms.

On summer vacation, those first few mornings when I was allowed to wake up on my own, I can still remember coming back to consciousness, s-l-o-w-l-y. First, was the awareness of light on the other side of my eyelids; then the awareness that the light was warm and that the warmth was on my nose, my lips, the mountain fold where my lips meet my facial skin; my cheeks; the valley hollow where my cheek skin transitions toward the rim of my lower eyelids. Then as my awareness expands the light and its warmth is also brushing against my forearms, right calf and foot. My toes wiggle in delight of the warmth and freedom inviting the toes of my left foot to join them.

As I continue to wake, along with the warmth of the sun against my skin comes the further awareness of a coolness brushing along my skin here-and-there as if under the control of a master water-colorist whose light touch flits across the surface, and with it comes the most delicious aroma as the sense of smell awakens…that wonderful scent of the Russian Olive tree that to this day I still remember with great love.

Immediately upon that realization comes the sense of hearing waking up as I hear the bees buzzing, the birds singing their greeting into the morning, a tractor in the distance roars into life and there, in the distance, a sound I realize I am very happy to hear. It is a spluttering, chugging, purring sort of sound…the milk truck! Oh wow! The milk truck was coming! Back in those days, our milk was delivered by the milkman. Yes, seriously. (As an adult, I learned that my babysitter had been, of all people, the milkman's wife. Yes, I know that would be amazing fodder for Whoopi Goldberg and I am sure I would love to hear what she would/could do with all that. I am not a comedienne so anyone reading this who knows Whoopi, feel free to send her a link to this blog post, I'll be happy to sign a release for her to use the info. But, for the time being, I am simply going to share the lighter, sweeter side of the milk man's tale.) On our ample front porch (which ran across the entire front of the house) was a silver colored box, not noticeable from the road because of the bushes that grew in front of the porch. This silver box, well, more accurately perhaps, I should call it a metallic box because it was dull silvery color, because then, as now, silver wasn’t cheap. It was, most likely tin. So, our silvery tin box was insulated, and the milkman would put our order in there so it would stay ‘fresh’ until someone could bring it into the house and fridge as soon as possible.

As I lay there, still with my eyes closed, I heard the truck come to a stop, the brakes made a  squealing noise, there was a thumpety-thump-thump as the milk man exited the truck, and then his whistling, and then the sound of the back door of the truck sliding open the clinking of glass, then the clinking and jangling of glass against metal as he walked, whistling a tune and the thumpety -thump-thump-thump up our four steps and more jingling-jangling as he took the empty bottles out of our milk-box and put the full ones in, then the same sounds in reverse as he left, all the while whistling.

Whistling! And not just random whistle sounds, either...songs! Melodies and harmonies and stuff you could've sung along with. Whistling while he worked! The whole time! Everyday! I never heard any other grownups whistle while they worked. Ever! Much less every day. Well, except Cinderella and even though I was a kid I knew she wasn’t real. The milkman must be the happiest person on the whole earth! And being a milkman must be the best job on the whole earth! When I grew up, I was going to be the first milk-woman in the world.

I couldn't wait to get up and run downstairs to see what goodies were in that box! Milk for sure - for cereal and cooking. Usually there would also be eggs and butter, and cream for coffee. Sometimes there would be orange juice and whipping cream or even ice cream when they knew I would be awake to bring it in right away. Such great times.

Well, I never drove a milk truck, but I have done some jobs that I really loved and if I'd ever mastered the art of whistling a tune, there are some that I certainly would've whistled through all day long. And as unbelievable as it may be, one of my very favorite was literally shoveling sh**. Yes, I did a stint as a stable hand and that meant cleaning (such a ladylike term for using a pitchfork to pick up) horse dung and wet spots out of the sawdust in the stalls. I loved the animals and I loved giving those magnificent beasts a clean place to live, eat and sleep. Most of them were very appreciative. I loved them all.

I don't know who this fellow is, this is a photo off the World Wide Web,not one representing my particular milk man or the dairy that was local to us.

First Published on WordPress on 04/11/2016

Plagiarism? Who?...Me?

When I was quite young there was a movie that came on the television that starred a very pretty lady (who was very mysterious) and Jimmy Stewart (the leading man). I recognized him from other movies I liked. I didn't know the name of the movie but it was about a lady who had a little shop that must have been pretty busy because I remember the little bell over the door rang a lot. And there was a black cat named Pyewacket. When I grew up, I found a black kitten in the parking lot of the grocery store one night,

Easter

What makes Easter sweet for you? Are you still following time honored family traditions or have you created your own? Why or why not?

In my memories, Easter was a sweet time of anticipation and excitement. It was synonymous with the word "hunt." Not only did we hunt for Easter eggs, but for our Easter baskets. These were a big wicker or straw basket, wrapped in colored

StoRies

You can't know what you don't know. I live by those words.

And I also am a firm believer in speaking positive words to people. I think it helps them reach their full potential.

I know that I have been blessed with a lot of people who tell me how smart I am. Today, I think I learned that maybe that isn't such a good thing either (I am chuckling as I write that.) Late this morning I decided, after only about an hour of research, that I was smart enough to set up a website on

Old Dog, New Tricks...or...grrrrr

You can't know what you don't know. I live by those words.

And I also am a firm believer in speaking positive words to people. I think it helps them reach their full potential.

I know that I have been blessed with a lot of people who tell me how smart I am. Today, I think I learned that maybe that isn't such a good thing either (I am chuckling as I write that.) Late this morning I decided, after only about an hour of research, that I was smart enough to set up a website on

Fur Carpet

My first memory of any pet was a cat that showed up on our back porch one spring morning. She was beautiful. She was a soft, cloudy-foggy grey with dark stripes running through her coat like a tiger. Her huge, pale green eyes were rimmed in black as if someone had put eyeliner on her. She also had stripes that looked like an 'M' on her forehead which made me think of a crown.  It was many years later that I learned the 'M' meant she was a tabby cat. That's not a breed, but a description of her coat. She had the palest pink nose, shaped like a triangle, and pinkish lips that were so pale they were almost white. Her bumpy tongue was a darker pink and very rough feeling when she licked me. She was my introduction into what sharp and very white teeth looked like.

She always moved slowly and gracefully as if time didn't matter to her at all. She was elegant in her movements and I felt certain that in some other life she surely must have been a queen. Regal. That's how she moved...as if she were royalty. Ballerina's could take lessons from her. My grandmother came up with several names, but they were cute, not regal. It took a few weeks, but I finally came up with a name as regal as she was...a little drumroll please...Penelope!

Penelope answered when I called her name so I'm pretty sure either it was her name, or she liked it even better than whatever her real name was. Even though she could be rather aloof at times she rapidly became my best friend. When I was sad, I could scoop her up and bury my face in her fur while I cried. She never complained. When I was happy, I could scoop her up and dance her around and around. She only threw up the first time. After that, I made fewer circles and she held her food down. It worked quite well.

For all the in-between times, I could just sit, and she would crawl into my lap, curl up and begin purring. I could lay in the grass or in the hammock and she would crawl onto my tummy and begin purring. Purring is such a cool thing. I tried for years to duplicate purring to no avail. I've always wished I could purr, but never found a way to do so and eventually, being a wife, mom and employee took care of my purr-practice time. Now that I'm retired, I no longer care to purr. I guess that's another perk to being old. ;)

Penelope grew over the beginning of summer, she got quite jolly looking...until one day, she began making strange noises, not purring at all, and she left me and didn't come when I called her. I looked everywhere for her. All around the house, in her favorite trees where she would perch and surveil her kingdom. I looked in the white barn where crates were stored. I even went downhill to the cold-apple-storage which was off-limits to me. I couldn't find Penelope anywhere. I was so very sad. I cried copious tears believing she had gone away to die.

The next morning, grandpa came in and said he'd found Penelope and he took me out to visit her. She was in the white barn, but she was so well hidden I don't know how my grandpa ever found her. She wasn't alone. She had seven beautiful, tiny kittens with her. One was a calico and one was a reddish-orange tiger stripe. I don't remember what colors the others were because those two had captured my heart. I was told not to handle the kittens, but since Penelope didn't seem to mind, I handled them every chance I got. Not all of them, of course, just the two that I was claiming. The calico was mostly white, but she had reddish tiger striped patches and a few small grey tiger striped patches.  Since most calico's are female, I named her Penny Red after her mom. The red, tiger-striped one, I named Tiger Red after my favorite soda pop.

Those three females had kittens twice a year. Sometimes I could find their kitten hideouts, sometimes not and then I wouldn't see the kittens until they brought them up to the back porch for food and a dish of milk. I named my favorites but kind of ignored the rest. I spent many hours with bloodied hands from grabbing wild kittens and hanging on no matter how they fought until they grew used to my touch and would allow me to pet them without complaint.

One morning in late spring, a couple of years later, I heard the screen door being slammed repeatedly and my grandpa cursing loudly. I jumped out of bed and flew down the stairs to see what on earth was going on. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I could see him looking out the screen door and banging it against the door frame. When I asked what was going on, he growled that we had the only fur-covered porch in the entire state! I immediately thought about mink fur and figured we must be rich! I know, but I was only 11 and raised during the Beverly Hillbilly's era. It only took me half-a-minute to realize he meant 'cat-fur covered'. Over the following year, cats disappeared one-by-one except for my favorite three. By the time I was 16, all the cats were gone. I mourned my three who were buried on the property as they found their demise from cars on the road. 

As an adult, I developed allergies to cats and haven’t been able to have a cat for a very, very long time. I still remember those three after all these years...and three others that were special in my life - Pyewacket, Whisper and Deuce. They are all deserving of their own stories. 

Now, before you feel sorry for my children, let me say that while I didn't have cats anymore, they did. The rule was that they had to rinse them in the tub once a week and keep them upstairs. My hubby and I took a bedroom downstairs, just off the stairway door so the cats wouldn't make my allergy flare up. While I can't remember the names of my kids cats, I think they might remember them once they read this post and walk down memory lane a little way.

x

Freddy

---

Grandpa was a different kind of person. His taciturn nature only served to amplify his stern countenance creating the appearance of a severe and somewhat mysterious man. My friends would hang-up immediately when he answered the phone rather than ask to speak to me. I think it was mostly due to his gravelly voice, but he rarely smiled, and most people never saw him laugh. His laugh was wonderful though and it's a shame more people didn't get to enjoy it. Grandpa also didn't talk on the telephone much and I think he felt put-out by the interruption it created when it rang. Whatever the reason, he sounded gruff when he answered, and it scared my friends into hanging up without speaking. In retrospect, it seems like maybe those occurrences added to my grandpa's dislike of the telephone.

Grandpa was a private person. The fingers on my left hand are enough to count the number of times I ever heard him answer a question about himself. There were even fewer times I heard him say what he was about to do or where he was about to go.

By the time I was old enough to notice, probably about age eight or nine, he began going out onto the farm again after supper. This was usual during the summer, but he began doing it very early in early spring which was highly uncharacteristic. He would always take a napkin full of bread and meat scraps with him. I thought he was going back out into the orchards to work and was taking a snack with him in case he got hungry. A few minutes after the screen door banged shut, bouncing (as it did) several times before completely coming to a silent rest.

I would hear the tractor start-up and head west down the road in front of the house.  Then the engine sound turned left just past our house, traveling south past the old, yellow brick schoolhouse, into the orchard. Soon the sound would fade into silence again.  An hour or so later though he would return. There was never any discussion about where he went. Grandma didn't ask any questions, so I certainly didn't...and Grandpa never offered any explanation, at least not to me.

Then one night he asked me if I'd like to see where he was going every night after supper. I quickly said, "Yes!" and he took me with him that night. We walked across the yard and down the hill to where the green John Deere tractor was parked. He picked me up and put me on the tractor base near the padded black seat. He climbed up after me, sat in the seat, then picked me up and sat me on his knee. He started the tractor and off we went. We headed south on the lane just past the old yellow brick schoolhouse, along the edge of the orchard all the way back to the woods. On the edge of the woods, just to the west of the lane, there was a huge brush heap. At least two generations of fruit farmers had been piling tree pruning scraps from the orchards yearly pruning. Grandpa pointed about three-fourths of the way down that wood pile and asked if I saw the small dark opening. I did. He told me to sit on the tractor seat, be very quiet, and watch.

Brush heap - this one is much smaller
than the one at the end of the orchard trail
(this photo is courtesy of the Internet)

He climbed down off the tractor and walked toward that pile of brush. He took the scrap packet from his shirt pocket, opened it up and placed the contents on the ground about six feet from the opening. He slowly backed away until he was beside me once again.  He told me to stay still and keep watching that dark spot in the brush pile. After a few minutes, a family of fox emerged.

Red Fox family - this photo is courtesy of Pixabay.

The kits were darling! I desperately wanted to hold one and bury my face in its soft red fur. I wanted to hug on one, but I knew I couldn't because they were wild animals. But oh! how sweet were those little faces and puffy tails. They were very skittish, darting eyes trying to see everywhere all at once. They continually looked to their mom to see what she was doing. She would take a bite of food very quickly then look up, look all around as she sniffed the air, then stare in our direction for a few moments to see if we were moving. Once she was sure we were staying put, she would glance at each kit in turn and then quickly take another bite of food and repeat the security scan of the whole area. She was continually on the lookout for any sign of movement or possible aggression.

One kit came out toward us, a few yards away from the rest of his family. He was very brave and curious. He sniffed the air, looked at us, and I think our eyes met. He gave a shrill whistle-like bark and trotted back to his family. He stopped and grabbed a mouthful of scraps and headed into the wood pile that was their den.

Grandpa continued to go out after supper every night. Three or four times a week Grandma and I would follow him with the car. We would sit in the car and watch as Grandpa would place the food down, farther and farther from the den (and a little closer to us) every week. Before too much time had passed, Grandpa started calling the bravest kit, Freddy. Freddy Fox was always the one who came closest, seemed the most curious, and was the most vocal. He would look us in the eye while the other kits would look away and try to not to acknowledge our existence. Had there been any holes in the ground in which to hide their heads, I have a feeling that's exactly what they would've done.

                                     
                                             Orchard like I grew up with...with space between the trees
                                                          (Courtesty of either Pexels or Pixabay)

Fox kit outside a den opening
(this photo is courtesy of Pixabay)

By the end of summer, Freddy had come within a few feet of my grandpa. One night, before school started back up at the end of summer, I rode out with him again and he helped me down off the tractor. We walked a few feet and we could see the fox family coming toward us about 10 yards away. They saw me and slowed their pace. Grandpa whispered for me to squat down and be very still and quiet. He did the same right beside me. The fox family approached slowly, sniffing the air and eyeing me the whole time. They stopped. Most of them sat down but Freddy and his mom continued toward us. Then mama fox stopped walking and stood, sniffing the air, and looking all around. Freddy, however, continued toward us, moving ever more slowly as he got closer and closer.

Grandpa began talking to Freddy in a soft voice. Freddy's ears perked up and pointed toward my grandpa. His eyes kept darting to me, but he would look back at my grandpa and continue toward him. Grandpa took the packet of food from his pocket. He unfolded the napkin, removed a very nice scrap of pork chop and held it out in his open palm. Freddy smelled the chop and licked his lips. Freddy looked at me again and stretched his neck as far as he could and still had to take two more steps toward grandpa before he could reach that piece of meat. He took it! Right out of my grandpa's hand! He jumped backward out of reach and ate his prize while grandpa kept talking to him calmly. Freddy approached again and took another piece of meat but this time he turned tail and trotted back toward his family.

I gasped at that point, full of awe at what I had just seen. Grandpa placed the rest of the scraps on the ground and we calmly walked back to the tractor and then we watched as the rest of the fox family ate. It was a wonderful experience and even though over 50 years have passed, I still remember that evening with amazing clarity. Perhaps the most amazing thing of all was that grandpa had managed to get an 8-or 9-year-old to sit so quietly for so long. Perhaps he was more than a Fox Whisperer.

The whole family licked their lips in anticipation as well as after eating.
(photo courtesy of Pexels or Pixabay)

This looks just like Freddy looking at us.
(This photo courtesy of Pexels or Pixabay)

Algorithm's Suck

In the last few years I've noticed a LOT of young people on Social Media claim to be suffering from burnout. I'm not a doctor so I don't know if they truly are or if they are merely claiming to suffer burnout because they don't know what else to call it.  Is suffering burnout a new fad thing that I haven't heard of? Since I don't know the answer to that question, I'm going to approach this by taking people at their word. So....what on earth can be causing these (30- something people) to suffer burnout?

Listen, I know I'm an oldster and it's easy to think that I'm out-of-the-loop, I don't-understand-how-it-is-now,  I'm too old-fashioned-to-understand-the-Internet and how-Social-Media-works, or how important it is to be "an Influencer". While that may all be true to some extent, it also means that I have lived through a time when the 30-somethings weren't even born yet. I know, from experience, a different way of doing things. I grew up in a time when kids had to be face-to-face to play a game, people spent time outside and looked at each other. Chatting was something we did on the phone or over a table while sipping our favorite beverage; chatting was not something we had to read.

Granted, the Internet has made some things incredibly easy, and Social Media has allowed us to be closer to, and more involved with, our friends and family across the country, this digital highway is definitely fabulous —but it needs to not take over our lives. Let's look at “burnout” with these young people. You kids are inheriting a sick world, and I apologize for that because my generation was part of the problem and not a big enough part of the solution. I know job security is a term you aren’t familiar with. I watch you kids (yes, at under 40 you are still a kid to me) putting out "content" at a rate that keeps you constantly busy.

I admit I’ve slowed down a bit, but you are cranking out “content” at a rate that I can barely fathom. The only way I can see you doing what you do is if you are giving up on “living” and putting it off until you’ve “made it”. I fear you are going without proper sleep, food, hydration or recreation. We all need to give ourselves room to breathe and to acknowledge ourselves as human beings…not human doings.

We need to look around us at this beautiful world and realize we are connected to it, to each other and to all the life forms on this planet. Please, take time to connect and reconnect and rejuvenate. Don’t let the algorithms strip you of your humanity. We have a richness of thought, feelings and human experience that algorithms cannot have. This marvelous superhighway of the Internet has also created some bad things that didn't exist in such big numbers before. Stress for one.

The stress created by Social Media is insane. That's right...insane. It has the potential to drive anyone who becomes enslaved to it insane also. Different social media platforms began (I think) as a means for people of like minds to share what they loved. However, now, thanks to big-business, big-government and big-money the Internet is no longer a place that affords easy, social times for people who live far apart. From what I've noticed, social media is becoming a bigger advertising venue than TV, magazines, or radio ever were.

Years ago, a lovely little Social Media channel began, actually two began. The first one I was introduced to was Facebook which allowed me to be in contact with my siblings on the other side of the country. We could share information and photos almost immediately which gave us the opportunity to stay in touch in a way that was not available before. We were able to work on ancestry information without having to meet in person to share info. This saved us a lot of time and some money in travel expenses.

Instagram came along very quickly after (or maybe beside and I just didn't learn of it until after) and provided a great way for artists and photographers to share their work with one another. It was great to get feedback from others with the same passion. Fast Forward to cell phones that take pictures and access the Internet and now there are apps to do just about everything. They make it easier to access the World Wide Web than our computers do, and they are always at our fingertips.

I understand the concept of wanting and needing to make money. I don't mind an occasional ad... but instead of an occasional ad from a legitimate advertiser we now see almost an ad every two to three images and sometimes there will be three ads in a row. This is right on target with prime-time TV.

There are several young women whose entire feed is about helping you get thousands of followers who will engage with your posts and help you create an income stream. (By letting advertisers piggyback on your posts I would assume.) Judging by the number and variety of the ads I see in my stream; advertising may be the main function of IG very soon.

Back to the IG "experts" (these young girls) talk about posting every day, mini-blogging in your IG stream, and sometimes posting multiple times a day, in multiple platforms, plus a separate blog or vlog that you are active in at least once or twice a week. You'd think that might be enough but no... you also need to add a podcast and/or YouTube video (also being posted at least weekly), and a "live stream", etc.

Is it any wonder that a human can't keep up with all this?  Do you begin to see how "burn-out" happens to young, healthy people? The most important thing to remember is this...these social media sites are run by algorithms (computer programs) on machines. They are not run by people.

I repeat... They are not run by people.

You really need to work to find a way to connect to a human if you have a problem. There are no phone numbers listed and it takes some dedication to find an email address or snail mail address. The algorithms are designed to push into the limelight those who are posting often enough (with high enough follower numbers) to be of value to advertisers. They are also pushing the posts of the advertisers themselves (those who've paid handsomely) for the privilege of being pushed into noticeable places. To push your account and posts into the top positions so that they are in many feeds and they come up to the top when anyone searches for any of the things advertised takes huge dedication.

 "This" is designed by companies who can throw multiple employees at the algorithms to stay on top of the Social Media search engines and feed machines. It's not impossible to break through that, but it becomes increasingly more impossible to find followers because everything is built to keep the small account small and to feed and funnel viewers to corporate accounts.

As tempting as it all is, and as seriously as I need to create something that will provide us with residual income to flesh out our retirement; I still hold out against the algorithm. I am not a machine. I need to eat, use the facilities, sleep, and do some things for relaxation and enjoyment. Sometimes I need to help my adult children and sometimes I need to spend time with my grandchildren. Once you leave the high-energy 30-something age, you begin to feel your mortality and realize that you ARE a Human Being, not a Human Doing. This one life that we all have will be gone far too quickly. You don't want to be lying on your deathbed wondering what happened to your life, and if you aren't very careful where you spend your time, you could be.

So...to you young people out there...fight the machine, or the man, or whatever it's being called today...fight the algorithm, force these social networks to give more than they take. Refuse to play the game of the advertisers and big corporate accounts. You have the power, because if you aren't "buying in" they'll need to do something else. If corporations aren't getting clicks from the social media networks, they'll quit paying to be there. That means, don't click on those links within your social media accounts to buy something...go out of IG, or whatever site you’re on, and type in the actual search bar to find what you want and then get info or make your purchase from there.

This protects you also by making sure you are going to an actual website instead of getting ripped off and believe me, I've been burned twice by this crap. So be smarter than I am. Don't click on advertisements within social media. Whenever you can, thumb your nose at Social Media convention and don't write the mini blog, after all...a picture is worth a thousand words, so a good image only needs a few words of introduction or explanation. Let’s stick together and help each other. The Corporate Monster needs to be sized down and we small people with talent need to be noticed and appreciated. WE have rights and together we have the power to change the world.

Namaste.

Green is the New Blue

A little play on words, taken with artistic license from the popular Netflix show of similar title. I don’t watch the program, but the name interests me. This piece was created using several apps. I’ve forgotten which apps, but I love the image as it stands. It reminds me that no matter how broken we might feel at any given time, with a little creativity and rearranging of the pieces, we can create something new, exciting, and original. So hang in there, there are new possibilities just ahead.

Namaste. 

For images to purchase: http://rynz-images.smugmug.com

To support my artistic endeavors: http://www.Patreon.com/ryn1

If all else fails:   ryn1.com

Good Intentions Come Here to Die

2020
Monday, January the 6th
from an aging laptop in SW Michigan

It appears I have a pattern of writing a (as in one, singular) blog post the first of the year with the best of intentions on writing, and posting, on something resembling a regular basis….which becomes the next years first post. Wow! this must be what failing miserably looks like. Maybe 2020 will be the year (and decade) when I finally get it together….I can only hope.

There are so many things worth exploring and so many things I think about and wonder if other people think about those same kind of things and so many stories of times past that I want to write down for posterity and for my grandchildren if they should be interested in reading them when they get older…I should never run out of topics…so let's see if I can, once-and-for-all, beat this once-a-year blog post thing and get more regular posts on a more timely schedule.

Well….on to my first actual post of 2020…I think I may have developed, or be developing, narcolepsy. Seriously, if I sit till for 15 minutes, I fall asleep! I have to wonder if it's narcolepsy or birthday candles. Hey! Maybe that's partly why I can't seem write a post…ya think? 

Hmmm….maybe….it might be interesting to see how this plays out over the year. I remember snickering behind my hand at my grandparents when they would "nod off" while watching TV or just sitting around. Now…I've become that person! Heaven forbid! How did this happen?

Far too many times I've snapped awake, mainly when my chin hits my chest I think, and realize I've fallen asleep -- again. Then I look over and my husband is sleeping in his chair with his chin on his chest...and I have to giggle. I don't remember my grandparents giggling, but then I don't remember them waking up with a jerk either.....

So here's a lovely little tidbit out of my life. All the social media outlets say that people want to hear/read about your real life. They want to know you, or know about you...do you think that's true? Stream of consciousness here....watching Gilmore Girls (again) and the episode where Lorelai drags Luke outside in the night to smell the snow and he says two news reports said no snow for days or weeks and as she romanticizes about her relationship to snow and I realize that episode was the one where I fell in love with the character of Lorelai Gilmore because she was the first person who echoed my love of snow and my ability to smell it coming. It makes my heart beat faster and my insides get giddy to smell it coming.

For better or worse...there are two intimate details about the real me, my real life....are you thrilled and ready to "follow" me? Or should I be creating a fictitious character (more like Lorelei Gilmore) who would be far more interesting than I am....if anyone is reading these things let me know what you're looking for.... the real me? or a more exciting fictitious me?

Just Because You Can...

What was the first thing you learned about art and/or photography?

For me, it was that, as an artist or photographer, there was one thing that you never, ever did...you never made a person look monstrous in any way. I was taught that portraits are created at 3/4 size because life-size makes people look monstrous. There are things that make us readily recognizable as humans rather than say, mice... the nose is as long as the index finger; the ears are as long as the space between the outside corner of your eye to the corner of your lips. There are other rules like that which help us, as artists, to create work that is representative and to help us create human forms that “read” as human. Imagine drawing a person playing soccer whose fingers are 3 times longer than their nose. They would not be viewed as normal humans. All sighted people would recognize that this figure has some deformity. Caricature is a way of getting past the rules. And this is where “intent” comes in.

 While artists may be tasked with shaking things up by creating work that is challenging or thought provoking there are certain rules that are not the ones to be broken because they help to establish us as humans in the eye of the beholder. Another important rule is that teeth are the same color as the whites of the eyes...(for those of you whitening your teeth, that's a good one for you to pay attention to) because if the teeth are too dark, the person looks ill. If the teeth are too white, they look monstrous and our instinct kicks in and sees a predator.  Seeing predatory teeth (or teeth that are too white thus claiming our visual attention) creates an instinctive reaction and causes us to commit a series of actions that keep us safe. This is an instinctive reaction that can save our lives. When we are faced with a predator, without us even realizing it sometimes, we react in ways that keep us safe.

A few years ago, while I was waiting for an elevator in the hospital, a fellow rushed up as the doors opened. He was flushed and a little sweaty, his pupils were huge and when he smiled his extremely white smile my blood ran cold. I let him take the elevator and I waited for the next one. It was days before I realized what I had reacted to and why I didn't want to be in the small, closed space alone with him. His physical state appeared the same as one who either had, or was about to, commit a crime of some sort. Now he was probably just a new dad on his way to see his new child…. but then again….maybe not.

Another example are the images of animals horribly damaged due to abuse, neglect, etc. With the Australia wildfires currently happening more and more burnt animals are being shown across social media. I understand that the people posting are trying to show the horror of this event to get more help as quickly as possible. But I cannot see those images. I know animals suffer unconscionable horrors (as do some people) but I can't unsee it. The result is that I have nightmares for weeks that disrupt my sleep; for days, my eyes will be swollen with tears, and my sinuses will be stuffy from crying for days. No one has the right to put me through weeks of sleeplessness and a sorrow so deep it affects everything in my life. The same goes for people, I can’t see those images either. I feel them too deeply.

Personally, I have unfollowed many people who insist on posting those types of photos without benefit of any sort of warning. I don't need to see those images to know how tragic and urgent the need is...and I think seeing them should be my option. If the artist/photographer would issue a warning that the next image may not be suitable, I could decide to not scroll further. Instead, I now no longer see anything they post which is also kind of sad because so much of their content was valuable and I'm missing it now.

Let’s look at Instagram, with which I am most familiar. Instagram allows for multiple image posting so that you must scroll sideways to see the next photo/image. If the first image read, “May not be suitable for everyone” I’d not scroll further. Other people might be intrigued and be more excited to look. But, as an artist, you would’ve done everything in your power to keep your viewing public safe. For those who opt to go further down the proverbial rabbit hole…well, they were warned.

As artists, we know what we're trying to create. However, we don’t know the age of every potential viewer, their personal experience, their mental health, their emotional well-being, etc.; therefore, we cannot know if our intention is obvious to every member of our audience. They may see it as something totally different than we intended. While we aren't in complete control of that, we do have a little control. Read on :)

Are you thinking, "Well, yeah, but if they don't like it, they don't have to look at it?" That used to be the case...but not anymore due to Social Media.

With Social Media we self-publish. We decideif it's appropriate to viewers of all ages. And....we are usually sitting alone in the privacy of our own home or office making those decisions. Usually, it seems there is little thought given to who will be viewing our work. We assume they will be people like us. But we truly have no way of knowing who will be seeing any piece of work we put ‘out there’. I say “we” a lot because I do the same thing. I look at how centered an image is, how bright, black balance, color balance, etc. I want people to find it pleasing to look at. I hope to touch them with a spirit-to-spirit communication, to let them know they aren’t alone in the world, that there are things of beauty no matter how grey their world may look now. But…I rarely have thought about it any deeper than that. Lately, I have given it more thought, but not at first…and not even every post now.

There is no one readily available to give us their opinion or to caution us that what we are about to post might be offensive to children, the elderly, the mentally unstable, the emotionally fragile, etc. There is no gallery owner to caution us that this might be better hung in a side room off the main gallery. There’s no editor who says this image would be offensive and possibly damaging to children under the age of 13. There’s no agent who says this image might cost you viewers who block you because they choose not to look at this type of image.

Just as we cannot control who views our creation on Social Media, neither can we take back anything they may have already seen. There is no way to unsee things no matter how much you may wish there were.

Even if you are the only person on the planet who finds it shocking, is it really anyone's "right" to put that in your line of sight? My vote is no, it's not okay to put something in plain view that might be upsetting or offensive to even one person on the planet. When it comes up in the stream, you can't scroll past it fast enough to not see it. And once seen, it is impossible to unsee.

This is why it was so helpful to have an agent, a gallery owner/staff members, an editor, etc. because there was a second opinion we could rely on to keep us from offering anything objectionable to part of our audience. We could still exhibit it, but in a way that limited who had access to seeing it. There is a big difference between seeing an image and being assaulted by an image. As artists it increasingly falls to us to be aware of the difference and to make sure we don’t post certain images in the public purview.

As an example, I have a friend who is nearly 70 years old who gets faint if she sees “blood and gore.” As a massage therapist, I have anatomy books that depict bones and muscles so that I can educate my clients about their bodies and why I was using a specific treatment. She cannot look at those pictures without getting very faint. I have every right to have and use those books, she has every right to not see them. Moving the books and their images to a different bookcase and a lower shelf took care of the problem.

Artists of all genres have been gifted with a different way of seeing the world. We have an ability, or perhaps more accurately, a need, to express our creativity. Whether we paint, photograph, write music, perform…whatever the way we create…we need to express it. However, the rest of humanity has the right to not be assaulted by our creations.

Self-publishing has developed over time, mostly since the Internet has become so mainstream. Some of the first works I noticed that pushed up against the rules of creation (that's what I'll call them) were the human/animal Photoshop style blends that were very different from any previous created visuals, and many were quite lovely.  Again, this is where “intent” comes in….They were mostly designed with the goal of sales in mind. Whether it was the product of a design crew hired by a corporate advertising agent or whether it was advertising for the Photoshop software itself is irrelevant. What matters here is the concept that the initial creations were designed to be visually attractive, that the skill with which Photoshop and its ilk were applied was every bit as important as the actual images created. It was designed with a purpose and that purpose was to be attractive and saleable.

Somehow though, now human forms are being handled differently. I've seen any number of human bodies with animal heads or flowers put on where the human head should be. No attractive blend, just a harsh reality. The result is, to me, a stark and unpleasant image that whispers of the themes covered by Ms. Shelley 202 years ago. Now, I’m not saying these are bloody images, there’s no blood, it’s just manipulated photos, but the result is still the same for me.

As artists, we must ask ourselves, "What do we want our work to convey? Who is our target audience? Is our platform going to take us strictly to our target audience?” or is it possible that an unwary child or senior citizen will be forced to see something they cannot unsee? We truly need to consider the appropriateness of our chosen Social Media. For example, I am not going to post the photo of the lovely rare steak I had for dinner last night to a vegan thread or website. I can think of no good reason to do so.

About 202 years ago Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was published. Shelley wrote that tale after losing her firstborn child. In an era of scientific experimentation; grief and wishful thinking fueled her creation event. Throughout the book, we see that the struggle between right and wrong, life and death, desire and potential have a disastrous real-life effect. The creation, born of a natural desire, became a monstrous reality. The monster quite literally assaulted the community members and even, in the end, its own creator. Here we are, 202 years later, and the moral lessons of Frankenstein (or The Modern Prometheus) are still relevant. That the learned leading character of Victor represents intelligence without depth, morality without feeling, and ambition without foresight are still just as viable and just as dangerous today as they were then. We haven't come that far in human understanding and as artists, we need to be aware of that.

No matter how good the intentions may be, Social Media does not supply any filter that can prevent psychological or sociologic damage from occurring when the wrong person sees something that is not good for them to see. Social Media is limited to what it can control so it falls to us, as artists and inhabitants of this planet, to apply some discretion to what we post and where we post it.

Another image I recently saw, that bothers me still, is a photograph of a woman’s torso with her hands in her lap, but the photographer cut the image off at the top of her shoulders and just below her knees. Now, whether it be man, woman, or child...there is so much psychologically troubling about fragmenting humans. I scarcely know where to begin. We live in an age of fragmentation, our political structures are fragmenting, etc, etc, etc. Still…fragmenting a human image is not acceptable for general publication.

Think about the response a military veteran, who left his arm on a battlefield somewhere, might feel. Or how will a young person who was born without a forearm or a leg feel when looking at this image? Please consider posting these images with a warning that they might not be suitable for everyone. Several Social Media outlets make this easy to do.

Perhaps the artist(s) intended to depict the cost of war, the sadness of human lives being traded for oil fields, or other excuses that wars are started for. Maybe it was a statement about how someone missing a limb is still a valuable and beautiful being.  Since we don't know the intent we must look at the most obvious psychological effect this human fragmentation can have. It desensitizes us to visual cues that should elicit a healthy self-preservation response or a healthy compassion for someone who has been injured. Our world is being run by increasingly larger numbers of sociopaths and psychopaths, they are in our government, our CEO's in corporate America, our legal system and beyond (supporting documentation is listed at the end of this article).

These monsters look like you and me. They do not show their monstrosity with tentacle heads or 12 eyes, or rusty bolts where their ears should be. They are often attractive. Their thoughts, the desires hidden in their minds, and their total lack-of-empathy are what make them monstrous. The very fact that they could kill you without a moment’s hesitation and feel no remorse is what makes them monstrous. The only way to see it is in their lack of normal emotional responses and the lack of "soul" in their eyes. It is a very subtle difference. If you think I’m stretching it a bit, just look at the many serial killers who have come and gone throughout history.

However, if we are so inundated and used to seeing "monstrous" humans, we will not be able to see the small and subtle differences between us and the true monsters amongst us. If for no other reason, this should be reason enough to show that we need to set these creations up for viewing in a location that is not readily accessible to everyone.

I am most certainly not telling you to stop creating whatever you feel the need to create.

I am calling on you, as an inspired being with artistic talent, to use your talent wisely and to share it with the world, not assault the world with it.

Recently, I have found, and joined, Smugmug.com. It is a site designed for images. It is easy to use, intuitive, provides great tutorials and info. Here, you can create folders to house galleries and each folder and gallery can be named. There are probably other websites that are similar. I am not an employee of SmugMug, I pay a small membership fee for the gallery space I hold there. They do not know anything about what I am saying here. Okay...I did contact them and they gave me a coupon code (see end of this post) which will give you a discount for a year.

Please, consider putting the more questionable works on your own gallery page and not on social media. If you have it on your own site, and if you’ve labelled it to accommodate those people who might be adversely affected by viewing specific works, then no one can ask more than that.

So Please....join me.... Let’s make a promise to each other as artists, as creatives, as fellow cohabitants of this beautiful planet, let's keep anything that might be questionable off Social Media and put those works where people can choose whether to look at them. Help your followers, viewers, clients to make informed viewing decisions rather than slap-shot, hit-or-miss viewing. Let’s not traumatize the sensitive individuals of the world.

Suggested Reading List (as promised above):

The Sociopath Next Door, Martha Stout PhD

Without Conscience, Robert D. Hare, PhD

The Psychopath Inside, James Fallon

Psychopaths and Love, Adelyn Birch

202 Ways to Spot A Psychopath in Personal Relationships, Adelyn Birch

The following is a link that will give you 20% off for a year. No excuse for not setting up your own private gallery where you can post those images that might not be suitable for every viewer.

https://secure.smugmug.com/signup?Coupon=W4mWSR

Witness to the Unfolding

ryn1

In the 1950’s and ‘60’s we were a more gullible lot than we are these days. Television and movies were in their childhood and we found them very believable even though they were very crude by today’s standards. I was raised on shows like The Lawrence Welk Show, Father Knows Best, Ed Sullivan, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Rawhide ( I was in love with Rowdy Yates for years). One of the scariest things ever was the 1954 version (I was born in 1955)  “The Creature from the Black Lagoon” which haunted my nightmares for years. I was far too young to be able to see it on my own, but on the weekends, a local TV channel (CBS I think) stayed on-air past the normal 11:00 PM sign-off time and aired movies, many of them were scary movies.

(this looks a lot like my memory bull…he was huge, dark & scary)

My Uncle B was a fan of scary movies and he would lay on the couch in the dark watching these fear fests play out on the television in the corner of the living room. A few times I was able to sneak in and watch too. I don’t remember if I stayed awake or if I woke up but, either way, I was sometimes able to be awake during that mysterious and delightful late-night prime time. If I was able to sneak down the hallway without waking my grandparents; then I could sneak down the long stairway, one-step-at-a-time; and if I made it to the bottom without them or my uncle hearing me; only then could I silently drop to the floor and crawl into the dining room where I could belly-crawl under the table, then I could hide amidst the chair legs and watch the television in the adjoining living room by laying on my belly. It was all good, so long as no one turned on a light. That was how I was able to make the acquaintance of The Creature when I was eight or nine years old. It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. It stayed with me and visited in my nightmares for years afterward.

When I was at that awkward age of 11 or 12, you know…the “pre-teen” abyss — the neighbor across the street decided to rent out their barn and paddock to the folks who supplied the Brahma Bulls to the local rodeo every summer. How exciting! I love animals, loved them back then too. It was wonderful watching those big beasts graze and sometimes lift those massive heads to look around beyond their enclosure. Never did it dawn on me that the space might not be as exciting to them. I thought they liked bucking puny humans off their backs at the rodeo. I mean, everyone has to have a job, right?

One afternoon, as the school bus drove away, my friend (and neighbor), Sally and I began our walk to our respective homes. Her house was at the bottom of the hill, mine was about a quarter mile further at the top of the hill. Many days I would stop at her house and hang out for an hour or more until parents started arriving home from work. On this day though, I had decided to go straight home for some reason I cannot recall. As I reached the halfway point between our houses, I heard a sudden sound beside me. A sound that should not have been so close to my left side….at all. I slowed my step and slowly turned my head to the left, eyes scanning between the cherry trees in that orchard and when my eyes came to rest on a Brahma Bull, my heart stopped and so did my feet and my breathing. There we were, the bull and I had locked eyes on each other’s and while I quit breathing, he continued to breathe and he snorted as if to punctuate that of the two of us, he was not the one who was afraid.

I don’t know how long we stayed locked in that tableau. If felt like years to me. Then slowly, the fact that he was not alone began to wiggle into my consciousness. Oh! Sweet Mother!!! He’s NOT alone!!!! I saw another behind him and further up the hill. There was another at the edge of the cherry orchard but still in neighbor’s yard. And then, dear deity, I realized there were three more…. on the side of the street where MY house was! I was surrounded by the mammoth beasts with horns that could go right through me and another person to boot! They were all looking at me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

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(only one of these pics shows the horns, but all the bulls had horns that day
these pics are from the Internet, I searched for free images so I hope I can use them)

The ability to breathe and think slowly returned and I began mentally flipping through everything I’d ever learned about animals and how to handle yourself when confronted by a wild animal. Climbing a tree was out of question because the bulls were closer to the trees than I was. Everything inside me was screaming at me to R-U-N!!!!! (Maybe it was Sally screaming at me from her house behind me…) Running wasn’t looking like a good option either since they had four legs and I only had two and at this point, they were between me and every building I could conceivably have run to for safe harbor.

With no idea what to do, I looked away from all their eyes, I began trying to slow my breathing. I began walking very, very slowly up the hill. I could see most of them with my peripheral vision, but hoped I wasn’t looking threatening since I wasn’t looking at them directly. After what seemed an eternity, a couple of them dropped out of my line of vision and were behind me. I don’t think I have ever listened so hard as I did that day. I was listening for movement from them that might mean they were coming toward me. If felt like hours before I finally reached the driveway closest to me. From there I just had to cross an expanse of yard to reach the house. At this point the bulls were all behind me. I had a clear shot to my house.

I heard a voice screaming RUN, and I don’t know if it was real or just in my head but run I did! I leapt up the four steps to the porch and slammed through the door and locked it for the first time in my life! Those bulls were huge so I also put a chair in front of it!

As an adult, I now realize the lock and the chair would have done nothing to stop those bulls from entering the house if they were determined to enter. I also realize now that the four wooden steps would never have held their weight so they would never have been able to reach the doors I had locked in the first place. Hindsight is so clear, isn’t it?

I think the phone may have been ringing by the time I made it through the door. If it wasn’t, I called Sally immediately to tell her not to go outside, but she already knew because her mom had called from work to warn her and tell her to keep me there and stay in the house until the adults all got home. The one time I decided to go straight home…go figure.

Moments later, my grandma called from work to tell me to stay in and that there were people on their way to capture and corral the bulls. Sure enough! Real life cowboys on horses with lariats swinging showed up and rounded up all the bulls while others worked on reinforcing the broken boards that had allowed for the bull’s escape.

There was a story later that they thought the bulls weren’t trying to escape, but rather that two of them had gotten into a fight and the others were trying to get far enough away to stay out of harms way. From so many heavy animals pressing against the wood fence rails two of the boards gave way under the combined weight. The cowboys separated those two bulls and one of them was rehomed to another farm. That was supposed to keep us safe from going through this again. It didn’t though but the next time it happened I was home in bed on the second story so I was safe that time.

I vaguely remember a cowboy riding up to the house and asking me what I did to get up the hill. I told him how slowly I’d moved, and he said I’d probably done exactly the right thing even though I probably wasn’t in any real danger to start with. I thought he might be a little crazy because I wasn’t on a horse when I’d been confronted by them. He was on a horse and those bulls weren’t snorting and pawing in his direction. But…all’s well that ends well…. right?