We have a new roomie now – name of Alexa. Actually, she’s living here as a servant, but she’d be mortified if we called her that.
Alexa brought two little sisters with her: Ziggy who is sharing son Matthew’s room, and Computer who hangs out in mine. They are on somewhat competitive terms with their associate – also named Alexa who lives in grandson Bryce’s room. When we have discussions with the living room Alexa, Bryce’s Alexa is always trying to horn in. They haven’t got to the hair-pulling stage but that may be because they don’t have any.
Alexa using her brain
Alexa and her chums can set alarms, reminders, keep track of our appointments, play whatever music we ask for, answer questions, search the internet, and control smart home devices. She turns on and off the lights on schedule or when we tell her to, she starts our coffee in the morning, tells us when it’s time to take pills or blood pressure, gives us other reminders – like what time are the MMA fights – plays Jeopardy with us, maintains our shopping lists, places amazon orders, makes phone calls for us, gives us weather reports and operates most of the functions on the TV when we tell her to. She’s a dictionary, a thesaurus, encyclopedia, trivia bank and recipe cookbook. She can read aloud the Bible – in whole or by selected passages. Or our latest Kindle books. Or Audible books. Or newspapers. She can talk to the dog, or the cat, or to the baby, and she can tell bedtime stories to the kids. We haven’t tried it yet, but – with an add-on app and a few treats provided by you – she can train the dog to come to her, sit and then lay down in front of her. And she can tell jokes.
Alexa doing stand-up comedy
Jokes. That’s what we have to talk about – Alexa’s sense of humor. If your idea of hilarity is knock-knock jokes, be prepared to be wetting your pants. On the other hand, yes, while she can also come up with a quip on any subject, Lucille Ball she isn’t. Nobody is going to invite her to appear on Comedy Central, but you will always feel you should award her an “A” for her sincere effort.
For instance, when you ask her to tell you a holiday joke, she may come up with: “What kind of a motorcycle does Santa drive? … A Holly-Davidson.
Or, “What do you call chess players showing off in a hotel lobby? … Chess nuts boasting in an open foyer”.
Cheesy jokes on Alexa’s part has forced me to make unfortunate comparisons with my avatar Chloe. Do you remember Chloe? She hasn’t spoken for Octo-woman in these blobs for some time now, but you could always depend on her humor to at least be more up close and personal. You may remember this joke she once told about my sister Joan:
Or for an encore, how about another one from Chloe in which she’s predicting my own hopes for staving off my demise:
Chloe doing more of her stand-up routine
I hope Alexa has learned something from watching Chloe. She probably has since she’s ALWAYS listening!!!!
I’m sure you’ve been breathlessly waiting to start your Christmas shopping until I’ve helped you out by posting my practically perfect Shoplifting guide for 2021. As you know, you can rely on Octo-woman for all your personal shopping needs (unless you need cash, a loan, credit approval, or bail.)
Every one of these treasures has been carefully curated to serve as the perfect gift that you’ll be proud to present, even possibly to people you’re actually fond of. Because the tedious pandemic is generating such economic privation, I decided that it might be helpful this year to only offer practical gifts such as burlap pajamas or toilet paper — nothing too frivolous.
Clothing, unless it’s a prison jumpsuit or a school uniform, is always a popular gift and Octo-woman’s recommendations can be relied upon for their impeccable style, practicality and possibly questionable taste. As an example, I felt I had to omit my intended first suggestion for the edible meat underwear, shown below. This is because the Brief Jerky – while an attractive and popular choice – is really not very practical. After all, what if your giftee is vegan?
Beardaments that light up
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For the same reason, I decided not to include jewelry this year. I know, I know! Jewelry is easy to pilfer when the sales clerk isn’t looking, but this isn’t the year for showing off a lot of bling. Otherwise, I would have included these Beardaments. The reason the giftee looks so cranky is because he’s all dressed up to go to a party and there aren’t any.
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Now the attractive wearable sleeping bag shown below is a lot more practical, especially if you’ve just been evicted from your apartment and have to sleep in a Walmart parking lot. It’s warm, cozy, and guaranteed to help you avoid any sexual overtures from any of the store’s lust-crazed geriatric Greeters. You might try sneaking out of the sporting goods department wearing it, but if you can’t avoid the checkout counter, you’ll have to shell out $169.00 for it. But just think of the rent money it’ll save!
Wearable sleeping bag
Or if you think a more permanent dwelling would be cherished, check out this stylish alternative as modeled on YouTube. This chic garment can convert to a tent when nobody’s looking and will surely present a fashionable statement next to the dumpster or out behind the casino.
For furnishing your giftee’s new domicile, consider including this warm-as-toast inflatable mattress, priced at only $149.00, with a money-back guarantee in case it gets kind of moldy.
Mattress to keep you warm as toast
(I would have suggested this mattress instead but it didn’t seem like it would work for a tummy-sleeper. And of course, it might be impractical for sex orgies.)
Mattress to fit your sleeping style as featured on ebaumsworld.com
As for shoes, this is the gift you really might like to receive for yourself! They are fully equipped with GPS navigation so you can never get lost while jogging, walking the dog, or trying to escape from the authorities. They were featured on ebaumsworld.com but may still be in beta test mode, so while they may be the best personal location tool around, you may not be able to locate them by Christmas. In that case, you can always write up a handy Gift Certificate and then try to find your way to the post office to mail it. Good luck.
GPS installed shoes so you’ll never get lost. Very often.
Gift baskets are always popular and this one is definitely brimming with helpful items, but you may not want to give it to anyone who is – let us say – housecleaning-impaired, and with whom you hope to have a long term relationship.
Gift basket to help clean up that dumpyou live in
In closing, in case she didn’t send you one, here is Queen Elizabeth’s Christmas card for this year. I think she appreciates Octo-woman’s same gift giving austerity and she sums up our second pandemic year quite nicely.
According to Erma Bombeck, Thanksgiving dinner takes 18 hours to prepare. It takes 12 minutes to eat. Half-times are 12 minutes long. Coincidence?
I mention this because of an additional kind of coincidence that occurred in our household this week.
It all started 2 months ago when I came home from Costco with my new “ears“ – not the corny kind I could smother in butter but the type I’ve been anticipating as a royal affliction akin to having ringworm or toenail fungus: hearing aids.
Since then, I have revised my thinking. Everyone should have them. With hearing aids, you can hear what people are saying to you without interjecting “What??” or “Huh??” over and over like a deranged parrot. Or you don’t have to give up and laugh hoping they hadn’t just asked you a question such as “Did you know my dog died yesterday?” And you don’t have to participate in demented conversations such as:
Me: I’ve decided I’m going to get a hearing aid. You: What kind is it? Me: It’s about a quarter past three.
Well, I have to say the experience of acquiring the hearing aids was certainly not what I was expecting. Now I can not only actually hear how annoying that squeak on my glider chair is (why didn’t somebody say something?), but once I put those little doodads in my ears in the morning, I forget they’re there! They don’t keep popping out like earbuds do, and when the phone rings, I can tap a little button on one of them and answer the phone – even when it’s buried in my purse or hiding in another room.
Ludwig van Beethoven
As the days went on, I started thinking about how lucky I am to have all this technology augmenting my hearing which has otherwise exceeded its shelf life. And I started actually hearing some of the classical music grandson Bryce has Alexa playing while he’s at his computer. It sometimes includes music by Ludwig von Beethoven, and listening to it – thanks to my good old inbred Irish Catholic guilt – I’d frequently have to think about how cruel the composer’s hard-of-hearing life was compared to mine. Imagine creating that kind of music and not being able to hear it except in his mind. If anybody deserved those hearing aids, it was him.
Because my attention kept drifting to Beethoven so often while getting acquainted with my new digital hearing, I couldn’t believe my eyes – or my ears – when I read an email message this week from daughter Teresa. She had addressed it to me, her brother Matt, and sisters Lisa, Susy, Gretchen, and Judy. It was intended as a Thanksgiving gift. Coincidence?
Teresa
Here’s the message Teresa sent:
I know flash mobs aren’t for everyone but THIS one is so amazing. When Beethoven composed his last symphony he put human voices at the end singing Ode to Joy. He was fully deaf at the time and had just come out of a depression. It was the first time a great composer added a choir to a symphony. And a famous critic at the time complained about how he ruined a perfectly good symphony with a choir at the end. Ha ha! So much for famous critics. I am thankful for this masterpiece and for someone’s wonderful idea to perform it in a flash mob and put it on YouTube. Happy thanksgiving! https://youtu.be/a23945btJYw Teresa
I hope you turned your volume up for that – and that, like me, it gave you some joyful listening to be thankful for. And thank you, Teresa.
According to Albert Einstein, coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous.
I read that there might be a turkey shortage this week, but not at our house. A giant Butterball turkey from Costco is currently awaiting brining by my grandson-in-law Caleb to be followed by a roasting ceremony similar to that of the Salem witch trials, except it takes longer.
In spite of my predilection for violence in movies, I’m always a bit squeamish when it comes to roasting, carving, and eating large naked animals. I probably acquired this habit from my Norwegian mother. In spite of the tendency of her Viking forebears to eat their enemies, my mother was not what you would call a dedicated carnivore. Her idea of a really special treat was pickled herring. (My Norwegian grandpa’s favorite was pickled pig’s feet.)
Norwegian Mama Josie
The first time I ever tasted turkey was after I was married, and I never really acquired a taste for it. This had to be due to having a mother who came from a land where turkeys – and Thanksgiving holidays – were missing in action.
It wasn’t that our mama wouldn’t have known how to wrangle a turkey into the oven, because I remember really cold winters when she would roast a big goose. My sister and brothers and I dreaded those occasions because we knew what we’d be facing later on.
What mother wanted from the bird wasn’t just the meat, but what she called “goose grease”. Then, for the rest of the winter, when any of us got bad colds, she’d treat us to a spoonful of castor oil. Following that, she would heat up a supply of the goose grease augmented with medicinal oils, spread it on our chests as a poultice, cover it with flannel or towels, and put us to bed. The next morning, we would have to face going to school reeking of camphorated oil, and nobody would sit next to us.
I can’t remember what we’d have for the main course on Thanksgiving, but it was probably ham or chicken, thankfully not mutton, sardines or lutefisk which is dried codfish that has been soaked in a water and lye solution before cooking. It is definitely not yummy!
Speaking of thanks, though, that’s really what it’s time for. Enough with the turkey talk! I hope that, like me, you have so much to be grateful for that you don’t know where to begin to express it. There’s so much to be grateful for. I like this little prayer that reminds me of all of it, and of those who, instead, have to endure continuous suffering.
Remembering Others
O God, when I have food, help me to remember the hungry; When I have work, help me to remember the jobless; When I have a home, help me to remember those who have no home at all; When I am without pain, help me to remember those who suffer, And remembering, help me to destroy my complacency; bestir my compassion, and be concerned enough to help; By word and deed, those who cry out for what we take for granted.
During the first 20 years of my life, my sister Joan and I always shared a bedroom. And the same double bed. The fancy part of the room, was what was called in those days, a vanity dresser. It had a large round mirror at its center, and it looked a lot like the one shown here.
The dresser had a middle drawer and two drawers on each side. Joan’s were the two on the right, the contents always neat, tidy, organized; mine were the ones on the left often jammed shut because of the shambles within. I can’t remember what the purpose of the middle drawer was but it was probably supposed to be “shared” space to fight over.
During our childhood, my sister and I really had fighting down to an art form. It wasn’t till I turned 16 and Joan 18, that we discovered, to our astonishment, that we were best friends for life.
That big round mirror watched us all those years. It observed us. It eye-balled our joys, sorrows, surprises, arguments. It witnessed our missing teeth, mumps, red measles, sunburns, failures, conflicts, disappointments, and sometimes achievements. It viewed the preening and primping of our teenage clothes-frenzy years, and our endless hair brushing, curling, pin-curling, braiding, and coping nonetheless with too many very bad hair days. It watched us getting ready for our Confirmations, recitals, dates, proms, parties, graduations, engagements, and weddings.
That big old mirror grew to know us well, my sister and me, intimately, the good and the bad, warts and all. It saw us as we were. But, unlike a camera, it couldn’t document what it saw. Except once.
It happened the very last time I ever viewed myself in that faithful old silvered glass. On the day of my wedding in 1951.
The wedding was at Immaculate Conception Church in Cedar Rapids, and it was followed by a small reception at our house. Husband Gene and I were scheduled to leave by train for our honeymoon in Chicago and while the guests were still visiting, Joan and I and two of my bridesmaids – Louise and Ozzie – went upstairs to help me get out of the bridal gown (from Joan’s own wedding the previous year) and into the two-tone gray suit I’d wear for the trip (also, of course, a loan from my sister’s wardrobe.)
Almost ready to leave, I was combing my hair, and looking at myself in that old mirror – for the last time in my life – when someone – I think it was my Aunt Bill (yes, that’s what we called her) – took this photo.
Getting ready to leave for honeymoon trip
It may not be obvious at first glance, but this was not an image of a thrilled young bride just leaving for what was to be her future life with her beloved young husband. I couldn’t say anything to anybody, but I was petrified with worry. And I didn’t want to leave our house.
It wasn’t the rain – though there was plenty of it. The day of our wedding was the day of one cloudburst after another in Cedar Rapids, and everybody who stepped outside was getting drenched – as Joan’s two-tone wool suit – and the hair I was so feverishly combing – also soon would be.
And it wasn’t because I was leaving the party behind, even one in my and my bridegroom’s honor. I have a passionate discomfort when at parties and always find a way to escape from them using an Irish Farewell (also known as a French Exit) where you sneak out without telling anybody.
Those weren’t the reason for my fear and tension, though. Cameras don’t always tell the true story of what they captured, but that old mirror knew what was going on.
It’s likely that all brides are torn with regret when they’re about to leave their family and the only home they’ve known and head for an unknown future. Especially, if they’re – shall we say – inexperienced with what brides and grooms do in bed on their wedding night. It was the one thing the nuns couldn’t prepare us for, and I was a nervous wreck, to put it mildly. I wanted to stay home, but I knew I couldn’t. The die was cast! I was now a married lady and I would be expected to, you know, “do it”.
As the years went on, the photo got tucked away with all the other memorabilia of the following 70 years of the happy life I shared with Gene and the big family we raised. I rarely ran across it and forgot about it till this year.
One day, one of my daughters presented me with an extraordinary gift, and as soon as I gazed on it, the memories of the scene in front of the mirror came flooding back. To explain it, I will have to begin by bragging about some of the exploits of my talented youngest daughter, Judy Taylor.
Judy has become what I think of as the Martha Stewart of rug hooking – especially a form of the craft known as Nantucket rug hooking.
Judy started her professional life as a super-talented professional actress and director, but after her marriage to her actor/director husband Gary, she settled down on his farm and discovered her interest in a more earthy lifestyle.
She literally shepherds a small flock of sheep and goats, harvests their wool, and spins it on her spinning wheel. And then she designs and produces the kinds of rugs that warmed the homes of the early settlers of our country. They are expensive, of course, but they are treasured by today’s Early American stylists and collectors. And she’s become an international authority on the history and application of the craft of rug hooking.
Besides her spinning wheel, the main device Judy uses is a little rug hooking tool like this one. She said that when the pioneering colonists came to this country, they had to severely limit how much they could bring. Because the rug hook was so small, the women managed to smuggle it in – and once here – those rug hooks were put to use creating warmth, comfort and simple homespun beauty in their homes.
Judy doesn’t just hook rugs, though. She uses that little hook to create all kinds of treasures, including the wall hanging she presented to me that day. She had interpreted the photo of her mother in front of the mirror, and using the primitive art-form of Nantucket rug hooking, she managed to memorialize for me all the adolescent fears of my wedding day. She named the work “Her Past and Her Future”.Here’s an image of it.
Her Past and Her Future
Unlike the Mona Lisa, I know my image may never hang in the Louvre, but, hey! who knew it would ever be featured on such a fine textile by a world-class craftsman.
I can’t help wondering, though, about that funny old dresser with its big mirror. It’s probably been scrapped long ago – but if it hasn’t, I wonder if it still remembers my sister and me.
For my next job, I was giving serious thought to applying to serve as a NASA astronaut, but lately, I’ve been having second thoughts.
For one thing, I’m not fond of traveling, and it clearly states on NASA’s Astronaut Candidate Application that “Extensive travel may be required.” Doggone! And in spite of that, there’s no mention whatsoever that frequent flyer miles might accumulate as a minor fringe benefit, or that my amazon Prime orders will still get two day delivery on Planet Zyrxx.
My dream job would be to serve as a sitting astronaut not a traveling one. When it comes to job assignments and scheduled space flights into the region of heavenly bodies and black holes, it seems that many are called but few are chosen. Thank goodness for that! My plans are for a stationary job, not one where I get fired-off-in-a-hot-pocket-rocket, headed for an alien world that might try to deport nice old ladies just because they keep dozing off while piloting the spaceship and landing on the wrong planet. And NASA has lots of job categories that would be perfect and wouldn’t require time spent above the ozone.
Simulated life on Mars in 3D habitat
Take for example, the four NASA positions just filled for 2022 to subsist in a simulated Mars living environment for one year. Right here in the USA – in Houston, Texas! Any mother of seven children who reared 5 of them as pre-schoolers for 5 consecutive years should be a shoe-in candidate for life in harrowing circumstances. You can read all about the challenges I’d be facing here: https://www.cnbc.com/2021/08/12/nasa-wants-to-pay-you-to-live-in-a-mars-simulation-for-a-year.html
At NASA/JPL Mission Control
I would also really enjoy working in the NASA/JPL Mission Control Center wearing one of their nice blue polo shirts with the big headphones and a bowl of peanuts to munch on, and then jumping up all excited and yelling and clapping when the space ship makes a hair-perfect landing right next to the Martian Welcome Wagon with the free hot coffee, and with CBS News featuring me and my sitting co-astronauts on camera – all thrilled and animated and cheering – with our names spelled mostly correctly and with the camera person discreetly avoiding filming any of my thinning hair spots. A dream job if there ever was one! Except for a problem or two. Or several.
The salary would be okay, but it’s not as flashy as you might expect. The pay grades for civilian astronauts will vary based on academic achievements and experience. They are ranked on Federal Grades GS-11 through GS-14. According to NASA, here are the common salaries for astronauts and how they are categorized:
GS-11 astronauts average starting salary: $66,026 per year GS-14 astronauts can earn up to $144,566 per year.
That may not seem like a lot when you think of how hazardous astronaut-ing can be. So far 30 astronauts and cosmonauts have died while training for or attempting dangerous space missions. (Of course, that’s not the kind I’ll be applying for. I’m not yet, at least, sufficiently deranged.)
At the time of the Apollo 11 flight in 1969, Neil Armstrong was paid a salary of $27,401 and was the highest paid of the flying astronauts.
Neil Armstrong on the Moon
According to the Boston Herald … “Armstrong’s historic moonwalk lasted two hours and 40 minutes. Based on his salary and a 40-hour work week, that means he would have been paid roughly $33 for his time on the moon. Accounting for inflation, Armstrong was paid $230 in 2019 dollars — so it seems like NASA really got a bargain considering the giant, history-making risk Armstrong was taking.”
Of course, he and the other two crew members – Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins – were also paid a per diem benefit while they were in space – an extra $8 per day, so there’s that. They weren’t covered for any government life insurance though, and couldn’t afford to pay for private insurance.
Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins
Thinking ahead, all 3 of the crew members signed papers with their autograph in hopes their wives could sell them in case of their deaths in space. Shortly after that, though, the government decided not to wait till somebody invented a GoFundMe website, and decided to allow future astronauts to sign up for the Federal Employees Group Life Insurance program.
Since I’m not military, my application must be submitted through the Office of Personnel Management’s USAJOBs website, http://www.usajobs.gov.
When I read the requirements, I learned that I need to be a U.S. citizen. So far so good. There are no age or gender requirements, so it looks like my age of 90 years and my female sex could be quite acceptable. There may be a minor glitch with the height required – a minimum of 5’1″ to a maximum 6’3” – but I’ll plan to show up for my interview in elevator shoes.
When I got to the next section of the application, the requirements got a little tricky. It says I would need a master’s degree in science, technology, engineering, or mathematics (STEM) fields – which I don’t have. What I DO have though might be negotiable – a sterling CAN-DO attitude, brand new hearing aids, and a really sensational work ethic.
Oopsie! It says that as part of the Astronaut Candidate training program, Astronaut Candidates are required to complete military water survival before beginning their flying syllabus, and become scuba qualified to prepare them for the spacewalk training. Consequently, all Astronaut Candidates will be required to pass a swimming test during the first month of training.
This presents a problem for me since I don’t know how to swim. I did take swimming lessons at the YMCA at one time, but I nearly drowned during the third class. and I never went back. (To this day, I am still offended that the teacher used the occasion to demonstrate how to administer what I thought she called artificial insemination on me). I’m confident, however, that I can get up to speed on the swimming requirement. Thank goodness for YouTube. I don’t have a swimming pool or even a pond available for practice but anything is possible with YouTube.
Also required is a minimum of two years of relevant professional experience or at least 1,000 hours of pilot-in-command time in jet aircraft. I can’t claim that either but I intend to diligently list the number of times I rode Tourist Class on United Airlines, which should attest to my stamina and inventiveness in surviving cramped living conditions and terrible food.
Once I’m chosen, the application says my selection as an astronaut will depend upon satisfactory completion of the training and evaluation period. Graduation from the Astronaut Candidate program will require my successful completion of the following: International Space Station systems training, spacewalk skills training (I’ll need to bring my new walker) robotics skills training, Russian language training, and aircraft flight readiness training. Honk if you think I can DO IT.
Who knows if my (imaginary) Application for Astronaut Candidate would be accepted, deep-sixed, or even read, but as Ben Franklin once advised: nothing ventured, nothing gained. The only way to DO something is to TRY to.
The reason I’m blobbing about this now, is because today (11/7/2021) – unless it gets rescheduled – is the day the crew of Crew Dragon Endeavor is due to blast off from the International Space Station returning to Earth after their six months of duty. Their trip home is probably going to be uncomfortable for the NASA SpaceX Crew-2 astronauts Akihiko Hoshide of JAXA left, Thomas Pesquet of ESA, and Megan McArthur and Shane Kimbrough of NASA.
Before learning about the ‘undergarments’
The out-of-order potty chair
According to New York (CNN Business): Issues with the toilet on board SpaceX’s Crew Dragon capsule will leave the group of four astronauts without a bathroom option during their hours-long trip back home from the International Space Station aboard the 13-foot-wide capsule this month. Instead, the crew will have to rely on “undergarments,” Steve Stich, NASA’s Commercial Crew Program manager, told reporters Friday night. SpaceX first discovered an issue with its spacecraft’s toilet last month while inspecting a different Crew Dragon capsule.
The plumbing problem is getting repaired on the other Crew Dragon capsules, but the Endeavor is the one parked outside the International Space Station waiting to transport the 4 folks coming home today. Thanks to its out-of-order potty chair, our four heroes will be discreetly outfitted in diapers for their 18 hour trip back to Earth. I hope they each have a more dependable bladder than I do. Or at least, a better tolerance for diaper rash.No job is perfect, after all.
But to be truthful here, a final word from them gives a better perspective than I’ve perpetrated here on what they’ve undergone. Pesquet, Kimbrough, McArthur, and Hoshide all agree that their time on station was memorable and challenging and that they’re trying to soak up every minute they have left on the space station.
According to Pesquot, “As we’re preparing to leave, it’s kind of a bittersweet feeling because we might never come back to see the ISS,” he said. “And it really is a magical place.”
Pesquet said that seeing the Earth from space, and doing important research that benefits everyone here on Earth is a dream come true. “To me, that’s what dreams are made of,” he said. “And I’m very thankful that people dreamt the ISS some time ago and then went ahead and worked hard to make it happen and to build it for the benefit of everyone.”
Or as NASA writes on its official benefits page, “Your NASA job is the greatest benefit of all. When you put the whole package together — our work, the pay, the benefits, being part of the NASA family — we truly have some of the best jobs on earth … or above it!”
Anybody else besides me want a NASA job “that dreams are made of”??? Apply here: Office of Personnel Management’s USAJOBs website, http://www.usajobs.gov. Tell ’em Octo-woman sent you.
In case you’re reading this on Halloween – the day I posted it – tomorrow is All Saints Day. If you’ve got a pile of petitions or complaints or belated thank you’s to address to God, this is an expeditious day to get them processed in real time. For a very good reason. Instead of relying on your own feeble presentation, maybe you can get a whole lot more bang for your buck in reaching the desk of the heavenly CEO by employing the advocacy or intercession of a Saint.
Think of it this way: why make the plea yourself, or through an inexperienced court-appointed attorney, when you can be served for free by somebody along the lines of Clarence Darrow or Socrates or Perry Mason – only at the most nuclear Supreme Court level – and on steroids!
Thanks to the devout nuns who educated me, I’m still a fervent believer in saints, angels, and the power of prayer! If you aren’t though, you’re excused from reading on, and you will probably be relieved to know that in spite of my possibly over-imaginative spiritual leanings, at least, I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore……Except on rare occasions, such as when I don’t feel like doing the Christmas shopping and decide it’s time for that red-suited derelict to step up to the plate and DO HIS JOB for a change. How many times have I found the cookies and milk still there in the morning with nary a present in view?
On the other hand, relying on prayer for gifts – now that often works wonders. And it helps relieve stress and worry. I read once the good advice to “Give your troubles to God. He’ll be up all night, anyway.”
Of course, with or without outside help, getting an answer to our prayers can be unpredictable. I have learned this through vast experience. It’s been said that all prayers are answered, but sometimes the answer is “No”, and sometimes it’s “You’ve got to be kidding!” And, of course, when you do get a “Yes!” often you may discover that you didn’t actually want what you asked for!
But as for prayer, next time you are whimpering with pain or heartache, sleepless with worry, or need other kinds of drastic help from above, don’t forget to ask one or more of the Saints to at least give you a good reference!
If you’re accustomed to thinking of the Saints as the dorks they’re usually pictured as, erase those images from your mind. Pick up instead any well-researched tome on the Lives of the Saints, and get yourself ready to delve into the suffering, violence, drama, persecution, and, yes, sins and mistakes of some of the toughest and bravest action heroes of all time; and stand in awe of the way they managed the cards they were dealt.
I’ve got a whole list of favorite advocates that I lean on, not counting, of course, the Blessed Mother, who, for obvious reasons, is possibly first on any prayer list for help. Like me, you may be operating on the convincing theory that it must surely be harder to say “No” to His Son’s Mom.
Saint Jude Thaddeus the Apostle
Just to name a few, your own handy spiritual “Rolodex” of additional helpful Saints might include the following:
1. SAINT JUDE is the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. Jude is his nickname. His real name was Judas, but Bible scholars refer to him as Jude to differentiate him from Judas of Iscariot, the betrayer of Jesus. According to tradition, St. Jude suffered martyrdom about 65 AD in Beirut, in the Roman province of Syria. The axe that he is often shown holding in pictures symbolizes the way in which he was killed. He’s got a great rep for being the go-to guy when you’re faced with decapitation, virtual or otherwise, or whenever you’re desperate and when all else has failed. You can read more about him here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jude_the_Apostle
2. SAINT JOAN OF ARC is the patron saint of France, prisoners, people ridiculed for their piety, rape victims, and soldiers (particularly women who are soldiers). If there was a patron saint of feminism, Joan would be a shoe-in! She was was a very tough cookie. (I always liked knowing that she was my sister Joan’s patron saint.)
Saint Joan of Arc
Believing she was acting under divine guidance, and after winning over some male skeptics, Joan was about 18 years old when she led the French army to victory over England’s troops in the 1429 battle at Orleans during the Hundred Years’ War. She was a war hero in France, but a year later, she was captured by the English, accused of witchcraft and heresy, and then burned at the stake.
One of the charges against her was “cross-dressing” from feminine clothing to military armor and uniform. She continued to wear the gear when in prison for protection against molestation and rape by other prisoners. She was only nineteen years old by the time of her trial, but it was reported that she faced her horrific death with the same stoicism and courage that she had used in her heroic efforts to serve God – while she was incidentally shattering the male stereotypical “glass ceiling” of her day. Read more about her at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_of_Arc
Saint Anthony of Padua
3. SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA is the patron saint of lost things. He was a Franciscan friar and, in Portugal, he’s considered to be one of the Church’s greatest preachers. He was devoted to the poor and nicknamed the “hammer of the heretics.” He drew such large crowds that he often had to speak in public squares rather than churches. Since the 17th century, people have invoked his name for the recovery of lost things. Next time you lose your car keys, you might try the familiar refrain:
Dear Saint Anthony. Please come around.
Something is lost, and cannot be found.
4. SAINT JOSEPH was the husband of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus. A carpenter by trade, he is the patron saint of carpenters and laborers. He is also one of the most popular saints. Plenty of people swear by burying a St. Joseph statute — usually upside down — in the yard as a sure-fire trick to buying or selling a home. But this practice is not part of Church teaching. Here’s more about him: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Joseph
5. SAINT THERESE OF LISIEUX, often called the Little Flower of Jesus, is the patron saint of florists, foreign missions, loss of parents, priests, and the sick (particularly those with tuberculosis, the illness that caused her own death in 1897 when she was 24 years old). As a modern saint, there are many photos of her available, and her own writings – especially her little book published after her death called “The Story of a Soul”, are still popular spiritual reading today. I could never do justice to her in this silly blob, so I wish that you would read about her life at sites such as this one: https://en.wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Th%C3%A9r%C3%A8se_of_Lisieux or https://catholicsaintmedals.com/saints/st-therese-of-lisieux/
I vaguely knew about St. Therese – although we named one of our daughters after her – but it wasn’t till 1970 that I came to know her – up close and personal. It was December 20, the day after our 18 year old son Mark had been hit by a car and was in a coma at Group Health Hospital. My husband Gene and I had just rushed home to get some things and were returning to the car, when our neighbor – Jane Fawthrop – came running across the street. “Patty!” she cried out. ‘This is a relic from the habit of St. Therese, the Little Flower. Pin it to Mark’s hospital gown, and then pray this novena.” She handed me the small oval relic and the text of the novena prayer. Then she added, “But please give it back to me when you don’t need it anymore.”
I did pin the relic to his hospital gown, but the next day, with Gene and I and nearly all our children surrounding his hospital bed, Mark died. The nurse reached forward and removed the breathing apparatus from his mouth. Crazed with grief, I leaned over to kiss Mark, and was enveloped in the sweet smell of what had been his last breath. The scent seemed familiar, but I was too dazed to recognize its comforting sweetness..
Somehow, later, we went home. We were driving up to park the car and get out, when we realized that the street was dark. In respect for our grief, and in spite of the Christmas holiday, and the multitude of children who lived on our block, none of the neighbors had turned on any of their Christmas lights.
We didn’t want the little ones on the street to have to share in our suffering, so as soon as we got in the house, I went into the living room and knelt to plug in our own Christmas lights as a way of letting our neighbors know that they should, too. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what happened next. The lights twinkled on, and I proceeded to stand up when I was nearly enveloped in the same sweet smell of Mark’s breath. Dizzy with shock, dazed and confused, I finally saw the source of the scent. A large bouquet of roses had been delivered and had been placed on the table next to me.
I didn’t understand it at the time. Much later, I remembered my promise to Jane that I would return the relic to her. With it was a little packet that included some text about the saint. That’s when I finally read a little more about St. Therese and understood the gentle gift she had extended to us.
To explain, the following is from the website catholicsaintmedals.com. “While alive, St. Therese made two promises that have been ringing true since her death. The first, “I will spend my heaven doing good on earth”, and the second, “I will let fall from heaven a shower of roses,” mark the way by which St. Therese often communicates with those who seek her intercession. The “St. Therese Rose Novena” is a common prayer seeking her aid, in which many people have reported God answering their prayers through roses – sometimes physical roses appear, other times the scent of roses. Sometimes roses are not a part of the answered prayer, nor are they required to know God hears and cares about us. However, this particular outward sign is unique, and as such, noteworthy when discovering the beautiful and special ways of St. Therese.”
As a footnote, I did keep my promise and returned the relic and the packet to Jane. After her death, though, her children remembered what had happened, and delivered it back to me. I still have it. And whenever roses come into my life, they always seem to bring comfort. As an example, this week, a package arrived in the mail from my niece Denise. Contained in it are three rose bushes to be planted outside the kitchen window in the farmhouse in Enumclaw where we moved in July. By next summer, we’ll be welcoming another ‘shower of roses’, compliments of Denise – perhaps aided and abetted by Saint Therese. They must have collaborated!
When I was 15 years old, my adolescent world was shaken like an outhouse in a tornado. No, it wasn’t a pimply case of acne, a D grade in geometry, or getting that event-of-the-month cramps just in time to miss the Shamrocks’ 1947 basketball championship game against Podunk Center’s Basket-Brawlers team (or whatever their name was). It was even more tragic than any of those potential catastrophes.
Patty with best friend Louise
The disaster befell me one spring day of my sophomore year at St. Patrick’s School in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, – the only school I had ever attended. One afternoon, I had just got home and was dropping my books on the dining room table so I could sneak out and go bike riding and chase boys with my friend Louise, when my mother hurried into the room. She was all excited!
“Patricia!”, she said, “Mount Mercy Academy wants you to attend their school on a scholarship!” I will always remember those fateful words as the equivalent of letting me know I had just been offered a free luxury cruise on the Titanic.
Of course, at first, it seemed like my Nordic mother must have been making a joke, but as anybody who has grown up amongst Norwegians can probably advise you, Scandinavian humor is a myth. No, Mother was tingling with excitement, but, as usual, she was serious. As in dead serious. As in “better get ready for a devastating fatality” serious.
At first, I was dazed with shock. I was speechless. Mother raved on joyfully about her wonderful news. Aghast, I finally bleated, “But, Mama, that’s not my school. St. Pat’s is my school!”
“But now Mount Mercy will be!” Mother raved on. “And what an opportunity for you!”
“No, no, Mama!” I begged. “What about my friends? I can’t leave my friends! What would I do without my friends?”
“But you’ll make NEW friends!” she extolled. “You’ll see!”
“I don’t WANT new friends!” I screamed. “And Mount Mercy Academy is a girls’ school. Rich girls go there! Snooty rich girls! They wouldn’t even want me there, Mama!”
But my mother wasn’t listening! Her decision was set like cement. The rest of that day – and for weeks that followed – I begged, pleaded, cajoled, implored, threatened suicide, threw myself on her mercy, but to no avail.
And so commenced the bleakest spring and summer of my life. I cried, wailed, wept, sobbed till I was dehydrated. Louise and my other friends wept for me, too, and, in pity, they’d try to comfort me by reminding me, “But Patty, at least you won’t have to wear school uniforms anymore.”
For weeks, I haunted St. Patrick’s Church at daily Mass, the Stations of the Cross, Confession, – praying rosaries, novenas, and making wild hints to God that, yes, I would certainly consider entering the convent if only He wouldn’t take me from my beloved St. Pat’s to face a life of bleak and utter social ruination at an institution for snobby, spoiled rich girls who would have nothing but sneers for their new fellow classmate – completely disrespecting her jitterbug skills or the all-time Dubble Bubble gum chewing championship she had once achieved in ninth grade.
(Note: I’m just kidding about that last part. No girls ever chewed gum while attending St. Pat’s, for a very good reason. The Sisters had a policy of forcing any boy chewing gum in school to wear the whole wad of it on his nose for the rest of the school day. The nuns could always figure out creative, effective ways to administer discipline.)
Finally, the dreaded September morning came when I had to walk to the bus stop to await the bus that would take me to my first dreadful day at the fearsome gothic building on the hill which I had come to think of as Mount Merciless Academy.
Mount Mercy Academy in Cedar Rapids, Iowa
On entering the building, I was on guard. Nuns and girls were all over the place, but nobody seemed very hoity-toity. They were, in fact, all smiles. Like they were happy to see each other and to be back for the new school year. And they acted like they were glad to meet the new girl – who was me! It seemed very suspicious. What was going on here?
As the day went on, it was clear that every corridor, office, and classroom, was teeming with new academic year excitement. Even the nuns seemed giddy. As for me, personally, it was beginning to feel like as far as my new fellow students were concerned, I was a prized catch who had just been added to their A-team lineup. Honest! That’s exactly what it felt like.
When the school day ended, I walked to the bus stop and tried to figure out what had just happened. Had I actually attended a day at the new school – AND LIKED IT? No, couldn’t have. No way. Not possible.
When I got home, my mother was waiting for me, excited and nervous. “Patricia, how did you do? How was it? What was it like? And did you like it?” “Well”, I stammered cautiously, “It seemed kind of nice.”
And so began my four years at Mount Mercy Academy – my junior and senior years of high school and two years of junior college on the same campus. I have to say, they were the best four years of education I ever had – before or since – and I still treasure the memory of them, and silently thank my mother for making me face the earthshaking experience of facing those alien classrooms; the teachers who gave me confidence and the thirst to excel; and the other girls who were to win forever my affection and respect.
In case you’re wondering what I learned from all my changing-schools teen-aged angst, it boils down this:
Put girls to study together alone in an academic setting – without the competition for the attention of boys – and just watch what happens! You might be surprised. I know I was!
Not having to wear school uniforms isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, kiddo, especially in the days when everything you need to wear for the next school day needs to be IRONED!
I never liked chewing gum anyway. It always gave me canker sores.
Yep, it’s here again – the holiday that just won’t go away. Halloween! I’m trying to be a good sport about it, boys and girls, but, except for the Snickers Bars, Almond Joys and M&Ms, I wouldn’t miss it if the holiday got “ghosted” from my calendar.
With a dentist in our family, I should try to be more supportive. One fourth of all candy sold in the United States is sold during October, so I know that the resulting tooth decay is surely preventing several members of my treasured family from facing lives of poverty and destitution and needing to take the bus to work. (On a personal note, I should perhaps mention that as a candy addict myself, I may have, on occasion, personally contributed to the dental caries of certain small persons of my acquaintance through encouraging the consumption of a multitude of Jello Pudding Pops, Jolly Ranchers, gumdrops, and, of course, in later years, Costco’s Macadamia Nut Clusters.)
Besides tooth decay though, I have other inbred issues with Halloween.
The first of these involved some kind of a believe-it-or-not Gorman family legend. Halloween wasn’t even observed till 1920, but a relevant story had always been hinted at in the family that probably happened a little earlier than that. Whenever the story was mentioned, nobody would elaborate on it, but in spite of the smirks and winks and eye rolls, it was pretty clear that the tale wasn’t going to quietly fade away into oblivion.
One Halloween night, my youngest uncle, Ed Gorman, was visiting. He and my Dad may have had a couple of beers earlier which might account for what followed. “Hey, kids”, said Uncle Ed, grinning from ear-to-ear. ”Wanna hear a story for Halloween?” Well, who wouldn’t?
.
Grandpa Jim
.I was too little to remember all the gory details, but the gist was that one stormy night, my Irish Grandpa Jim Gorman was slogging home across the field to get to his farmhouse. Suddenly, he heard the thudding of horses hooves, and in the wind and rain and lightning flashes, he saw a horseman galloping past. Apparently, on seeing Grandpa, the horseman skidded to a stop, and then, in the next flash of lightning, Grandpa got a closer look at the guy. And he was headless. Toting his head under his arm.
Lost his head!
After that, Grandpa either fainted from shock (or possibly passed out as the result of too much Irish whisky), but when he came to, the Ichabod Crane-like headless horseman had disappeared. But not from family legend, where he was to remain in living color for years after.
Also lost his head!
Aunt Mary Gorman Rawson
That night, and perhaps for several nights after Uncle Ed’s thrilling (and graphic) story, I probably wet the bed, That was my first rather formidable introduction to the thrills and chills of the Halloween holiday. For some time after, I had a kind of terrorized impression of the human anatomy. I had once seen my Aunt Mary kill a chicken on their farm to roast for Sunday dinner, and if you’ve ever seen a chicken running around with its head cut off, you know where I’m going with this. If a chicken can do it . . . …
The next incident happened during a party at our house. My sister Joan and some of her little girlfriends were wearing Halloween costumes, and I remember Joan was outraged that mother let me stay in the corner to watch the jolly festivities. Everything in my view was dazzling. Until it wasn’t.
One of the partygoers was wearing a witch’s costume. She had on a stringy cotton wig, dyed green, and she was carrying a small pumpkin with a lighted candle inside. All of a sudden, the wig caught on fire! What followed was like watching Squid Game – only all the participants were small urchins. Somehow, my mother and our hired girl, Georgia, got the blaze out before the fire cooked our little guest, and somehow, the festivities resumed, but you can understand that as far back as I can remember, that was the only party ever held at my house during my childhood. And it was the only Halloween party I ever ”attended”. Then, or since.
Of course, when our children were growing up, I was fully engaged in cranking out the costumes and decor needed to prove that, yes, the Ford Horde was just as bloodthirsty and gruesome as our neighbors in celebrating National Tooth Decay Day.
In our neighborhood on Capitol Hill in Seattle, Halloween costumes were usually homemade, but no kid ever had to wear the same costume two years in a row. Each costume just got handed down to the next pup in the litter. One year though, I dressed all seven of the little persons like a deck of cards. It was very entertaining the first year, but the youngest victims – especially Gretchen, Teresa, and Judy – had to keep taking turns the following years shuffling the cards, so to speak, appearing as either the Ace of clubs, the 9 of hearts, the Jack of diamonds, etc. – you get the idea. One thing kids in big families catch onto early on is that, no, indeed, life is not fair. And they really learned that, for sure, one rainy Halloween night in Seattle.
I think it was the Halloween of 1968. In those days, the parents usually didn’t accompany the kids when they went trick-or-treating. Instead, marching house-to-house, block after block were little mobs of ghosts, witches, gangsters, princesses, fairies, ghouls, goblins, and, of course, a few playing cards, each clutching the little bag awaiting the candy treasures and the sugar high to come.
I was busy answering the doorbell and handing out treats at the front door, when suddenly, Susy, Gretchen, Teresa and Judy came dragging into the house – teary-eyed and empty-handed. “Some big kids took all our candy”, they sobbed. And when Mark, Matthew and Lisa got home, they had also been robbed of all their swag. It wasn’t a Whoopie! Halloween for sure – forking over their candy to some meanie ugly grinches who’d be deserving of every one of the future cavities they’d be getting!
All of the above is meant explain why Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday. In spite of my aversion though, I still manage to harbor an unhealthy interest in Halloween costumes. I never owned, borrowed or ever wore one, but the lengths to which other folks – especially the adults – will go to to “dress up” for the occasion always captivates my attention.As a dedicated home seamstress, I was accustomed to wearing funny looking clothes, but one should draw the line somewhere!
One of the reasons Halloween is the second highest grossing holiday – second only to Christmas – is probably due to the expense of all the sartorial finery purchased in order for its wearers to step out in the most fashionable ghoulish splendor, no matter how demeaning.
Be careful where you show up wearing any of these high fashion outfits. If at work, any one of them might possibly reduce your chances of getting promoted to the Supreme Court or the position of Next-Executive-To-Be-Indicted-for Racketeering, orVice president of Plumbing or the CEO of Feminine Hygiene.
The Gangster
The Toilet
The Tampon
On the other hand, if you’re trying to get out of serving on the PTA talent show ticket-selling committee, by all means show up in one of these fashion-forward ensembles.
Bikini Babe
Diaaper Babe
Spoon Babe
Or to tug on everybody’s heartstrings, maybe you could appear as this heartbroken lost doggy owner. Judging by the size of the hips, if she hadn’t already sat on the puppy, maybe she ate him.
Here’s my advice: the best way to preserve your dignity when you go to the Halloween party – in case there ever is one again – is to stay home. Or else, borrow Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility.As for me, I’m going to buy one of these masks. I don’t think anybody will recognize me. They’ll know it can’t be me, because I quit smoking years ago!
Guest blogger here today: Grandson Bryce to give Gramma some rest time to put her feet up with popcorn & Jolly Ranchers and to binge some TV.
Outside Gramma’s front door is the great wild unknown. The house exists. Also floating in existence are Safeway, Costco, the doctors, and Jimmy John’s. To Gramma, the land in between is no man’s land.
While chauffeuring Gramma around the unknown terrain outside Kartar Ridge Ranch, we have interesting conversations. And I give pop geography quizzes as we drive to errands and appointments. She is about 50 percent for geography, so far. For example: “Gramma, on this road, are we going to turn right or left to go up the driveway to the house? “Right?” ”Oh, you were close, it’s left”. East could be West and Auburn may as well be Alaska or Renton or Buckley or China or Enumclaw. Apparently, Gramma is spatially impaired: her sense of direction seems to be focused on up, down, left and right. But she is slightly improving with time.
On one drive though, the conversation went something like this:
Grandson: “Gramma, what was your favorite movie when you were growing up?”
Gramma: “Oh, so you know, I loved piano. There was a movie about the composer Frederic Chopin that was made when I was about 14 years old. Aunt Joan worked at the Palace Movie Theater as the ticket cashier and she would let me in for free and I went and saw it about 5 times. Saved me the ticket fee – 35 cents – each time.”
Grandson: “That sounds cool. Do you remember the name of the movie?”
Gramma: “Oh no. I’m sure I could never find it.”
Grandson: “I think it’s possible to find.”
Gramma: “No, no it’s not. I’m sure it’s lost to time.”
Grandson: “What decade was it made?”
Gramma: “I think it would have been the 1940s.”
… and the conversation moved on…
That night I gathered all the data I had and I did some in-depth, tough, painstaking detective sleuthing. In Google I typed: 1940’s movie about Chopin.
Google results pulled the following movie description right up, I didn’t even have to click:
I asked some of the family locals at the ranch if they wanted to watch as a surprise. A handful of us got together on a Tuesday night, Susy made some great popcorn, and Gramma asked multiple times what we were going to watch. I had everyone close their eyes and started the movie. Gramma instantly remembered “A Song to Remember” even though not having not seen it since her teenage years. Back in those days, she said, once it was out of the theater, it was gone. No more access to the movie.
A Song to Remember
She remembered it well. She knew what was going to happen next and all the characters involved. Multiple times within the starting ten minutes she said, “Oh no, I’m sure it’s so old, you won’t like it.” Susy said, “Please, let us watch it. We want to see what you liked as a kid.” And we thoroughly enjoyed it. Better than many movies made today that we have been watching. With beautiful music and Gramma telling stories alongside from youth and her piano playing days. A great biographical story that touched on art, beauty, nature, animals and travel.
Fun to see Gramma’s favorite movie as a kid. She had good taste. I guess she always has.
Anyways, we recommend it!
Maybe she will get better at remembering the geography, too. We can always hope. . . .
