Going on 80

It seems pretty obvious to me that the story of the Nativity was recorded by men. I feel it’s necessary for Octo-woman to step in and straighten them out.

The story was set in the Roman Empire before it became “Holy”, and was triggered by a guy named Augustus Caesar, nephew of Julius. Julius was the dictator dude who wouldn’t leave office so he got stabbed 23 times by a sub-committee of senators chaired by his former best pal, Brutus, of “Et tu” fame. It was politics as usual.

Augustus was a more enterprising emperor than Julius primarily because he implemented the first really successful Internal Revenue Service. It was similar to ours: that is, pay your taxes or go to jail for life with no parole, or, alternatively, you could sell your children and then starve when the denari (dough) ran out, or you could be scheduled for several public floggings, or as a last resort, you could get thrown to the lions.

As it happened, Augustus Caesar suspected he wasn’t getting a juicy enough tax rate and decided that all men had to return to the town they were born in to be counted in a new census. Women were exempt because they didn’t have any denari worth counting.

Enter a young girl named Mary – age somewhere between 12 and 16 years old. And St. Joseph, a hero if there ever was one. They both lived in a small town called Nazareth (population 400).

Their relationship was instigated by a real angel as I explained in a previous post . . .

Mary could never have been elected to be the homecoming queen.  Nobody was going to name her “Miss Nazareth” or write a song about her called “The Girl I Want To Marry”.  Far from it.  Mary was a teen-aged pregnant, unwed mother-to-be.  In those days and in that part of the world, the only thing her station in life could have qualified her for was death by stoning.   Certainly, as far as the Jewish bachelors in her village were concerned, Mary was dog-doo.

But, enter Joseph, our hero: a hard-hat carpenter by trade. I’ve never believed that it was Mary who proposed.  In the first place, the girls weren’t allowed to in those days, and anyway, she was probably too bashful.   No, it had to be like the nuns told us: an angel did it.

The conversation might have gone something like this:

Angel (think Tim Gunn here): “ Joseph, for your next assignment, you are to get this kid off the streets and marry her.  There’s something important she has to do.  In return, we’ll help you start your own furniture line.”

Joseph: “Well, I don’t know . . . “

Angel: “Do it!  Make it work!”

And he did.  Joseph just couldn’t say No.

Try to imagine the reaction of his drinking buddies:  “You’re going to marry WHO?  You’re going to marry a pregnant VIRGIN?  Are you nuts?”. . .

Soon, when the census decree got decreed, the newly-betrothed Joseph realized that the internet was still down, and that he was going to have to show up to be counted in person in his home town of Bethlehem (not the one in Pennsylvania). This Bethlehem was the one about 90 miles from Nazareth (about 475,200,000 cubits in biblical measurements.) That’d be about a week of travel on foot or donkey rental. If you’re lucky.

Joseph thought about it. The journey would be up hills and down hills, and – this is the truth – passing nearby forests full of lions and wolves and boars and bandits, Oh My. With a young lady who was maybe nine months pregnant. On a donkey. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well abandon her to the nosy neighbors, the Pharisees, the money changers and the sanctimonious rabble-rousers in the Nazareth town square. So he made a fateful decision. The conversation probably went something like this:

Joseph: “Hail, Mary!”

Mary: “What’s up, Saint Joseph dear, besides your rescue of my good name for all eternity?”

Joseph: “Well, here it is. Howdja like to have a fun getaway to celebrate our engagement? I was thinking we could maybe duck over to Bethlehem for the holidays.”

Mary: “To Bethlehem? Well, I guess not because actually I’m not sure traveling at this time . . .

Joseph: What’s the problem? Is it the heartburn?

Mary: No, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’m due and . . .

Joseph: Bummer! The angel didn’t tell you your due date? Can’t you call him and find out?

Mary: Well, I could, but he didn’t leave his number. Maybe you should go without me.

Joseph: No, I can’t. I can’t leave you here alone because you’d probably get stoned.

Mary : ME? You mean – like with WEED?

Joseph: No. Like with ROCKS! We better go start packing.

So that’s how it happened that they had to go on the road, but you can be sure that Mary didn’t go willingly. She may not even have been due to deliver, but after seven days of lurching around on a donkey, what could you expect? A premature delivery in a stable, that’s what.

As for that part about those bulky swaddling clothes, I don’t buy it. The Blessed Mother would never have left home without a diaper bag. She’d of brought along some onesies and Pampers and a couple of nice soft receiving blankets to present her little baby in to any shepherds or angels or kings who might be dropping by.

And one more thing. I’m not sure the good Sisters at St Patrick’s School knew this, but it’s entirely possible that Mary wasn’t a Catholic. I could be wrong, of course. You can’t expect me to know everything!

There’s several other corrections I need to make to the narratives as presented by St. Luke and St. Matthew, but they will have to be continued next year because now I have to go make some potato salad. To keep you going on the right track though, tune in below to view yet another version of our wonderful story.

Before I sign off, I want to thank you for patiently reading these posts, even when they’re too wordy and dull. It’s not so lonely when I know you’re out there. And I truly hope you and all your loved ones have a Christmas that’s brimming with joy and affection even if you can’t be together. Have peace and be safe.

Had he lived beyond his 18 years, our oldest son Mark would have been 69 years old this year. You might figure that’s enough time gone by that we should be letting him rest in peace, but thanks to the tenacity of the Ford Horde, we’re never going to really let him leave us.

Some days are good days and some days are bad. And some days are both. For my husband Gene and me, December 19th, 1970 was that kind of day. It was Gene’s birthday, but it was also to become the worst day of our lives.

Gene was still at work. I was busy cooking his birthday supper and two of the girls were setting the table when the phone rang. I picked it up to hear the news all parents fiercely dread: our 18 year-old son Mark – running across the street to his Sea Scout Skipper’s house – had just been hit by a car and was unconscious. He died two days later.

I don’t need to describe the grief to you. Today – 50 years later – the memory of the pain of it still takes my breath away. God giveth and He taketh away. But in our case, He had also given us our merciful means of survival – six other children. What must it be like to lose an only child? How do the parents ever survive it? It’s incomprehensible.

Mark himself gave us one other survival tool: from 7th or 8th grade in school, he began writing a collection of poetry that has lived on and sustained us all these years. Many of us are still able to quote lines of it from memory, and it seems like it keeps improving with age. An example of its timelessness is the last sonnet he wrote. He had just finished it two days before the accident that took his life. Last year, my daughter Teresa produced a video rendition of it that appears at the end of today’s blog.

But the real reason I’m writing this today is because I’m flat-out amazed and excited that a collection of Mark’s poems and a memoir that daughter Judy Taylor wrote about him is being published and, in a few weeks, will be available on amazon.com, and, we hope, in libraries. It’s called “The Boy Who Wrote Poetry”. Judy has already produced several award-winning books on Nantucket rug hooking, but this is her first venture into a subject like this one. If you’d like a glimpse, the following is the Foreword of the book.

My brother, Mark Peter Ford, was a poet.

Mark’s influence in my life has been profound, thanks to a little gray book of poetry which has captivated me for five decades. I marvel at the skillfulness of his writing, particularly considering his age when he wrote. But I am even more impressed with the perceptiveness in his poems, displaying wisdom far beyond his age. Indeed, as I approach my sixtieth year, I still struggle with issues such as “What is love?” “Why are we here?” and the depths of grief, forgiveness and loss. Mark not only asked these perennial questions, but he achieved great clarity in his answers.

Mark was the oldest of seven children born to Patricia and Gene Ford. I am the youngest of that Ford brood. By the time I came along (1961), the Ford family occupied an 1800 square-foot, two-story shoebox on Capitol Hill in Seattle, Washington. It’s fair to say I played only a bit part in the story of Mark’s life, since I wasn’t alive for the first half, and in the second half, I confess I was more interested in Barbie dolls and roller skates than the wonders of iambic pentameter. My role in the story took place many years after my brother died.

There were four “bedrooms” in the Capital Hill house, although if you were to look at them today, you might think them walk-in closets with doors. The remodeled attic had “cubby holes” which served as bedrooms for the younger children. There was one bathroom. Yes, you got that right. Seven grubby (and two relatively clean) humans–one bathroom.

Everywhere the Ford family went, it was a production. Mom used to count seven heads as we left the house, then when we set off for home, she would count seven heads again (then there was the time when I got left behind at Baskin & Robbins, but the scars of that emotional tragedy will have to wait for another book). By the standards of our Catholic neighborhood, our family was actually considered small. Ten to fourteen children per family was the norm.

There were at least 100 school-age children just on our block, and the Ford kids played every day until dusk along 20th Avenue East and Aloha Street. We played kick the can, capture the flag, red rover, baseball, kickball, water fights and snowball fights. Several times a year we would decorate our bicycles and wagons, dress up in costumes and “parade” down the street, for the amusement of our parents. Most of the kids went to St. Joseph’s until the eighth grade; then the girls went to Holy Names Academy and the boys went to Seattle Prep.

It was the 1960’s and Mark was growing up. Although we shared this large, bustling family and neighborhood, Mark and I didn’t really get to know each other. I was the baby of the family, and he was on the verge of manhood. My older siblings seemed like giants to me then. Way too cool for kids. I have fond memories of my oldest brother, but we never got to develop that closeness I now have with my other brother and sisters today. How could we have known that we would not get the chance?

Mark died when he was only eighteen. At age nine, I was old enough to understand that death meant the person would never come back, but I could scarcely comprehend the grief my family suffered, especially my parents. I could perceive only that a great tragedy had befallen our family.

Ordinarily, when a sibling dies, you would expect the memories to fade over time. The images in your mind tend to soften around the edges, like black and white photographs, tattered and wrinkled. At that point, it would surely have been the end of Mark’s story for me, except that, when Mark died, my parents, amidst what must have been unimaginable grief, did an extraordinary thing. They published a book of Mark’s poems, as a tribute to his life.

7

One can only imagine what it must have been like for my parents to lose their oldest child, just at the time he was on the verge of adulthood. They could have gotten angry at God for snuffing out this precious life too soon. They could have rejected God’s plan and questioned their own faith, but they didn’t. My parents are people of tremendous energy, creativity, courage and faith. Rather than dwelling on the tragedy of Mark’s death, they chose to affirm and celebrate his life.

They chose eighteen of his poems for the book, one for each year of his life. This little book was printed on heavy, textured paper with a simple gray cover. My parents asked my sister Gretchen (then age 13) to add her own sketches to the poetry. Gretchen’s drawings are simple and spare, adding to the images in Mark’s words.

My parents gave the little book away at Mark’s funeral (excerpt on the following page), and we have continued to share the book with close friends and family ever since. I was too young to understand Mark’s poems at the time, but I continued to read them as I grew up. I found that they changed for me as I matured. As I got older, I was able to discover new layers of meaning and depth in his words. In times of joy and in moments
of despair, Mark’s words would echo in my head.

2020 will be the 50th anniversary of Mark’s death. After enjoying these treasured poems for so many years, I am moved to ask questions about who this extraordinary young man was. What were the influences in his life that made him express himself with poetry? How did he develop his talent and skill? With the help of my family and Mark’s friends, I hope to find out.

This concludes the Foreword of Judy’s book, and I hope it makes you look “forward” to the rest of it, too.

In the meantime, here’s our talented Teresa’s video interpretation of Mark’s last sonnet. Mark was so excited about it that he had brought it to me at work to read the day before the accident. The driver of the car found it in Mark’s pocket when he was searching for his ID and was deeply affected and consoled by it.

I was thinking about my brother Leo today.

Leo was always unpredictable. Take his socks, for instance. One time, I said to him, “Leo, look at your socks! Why is the one on your left foot blue and the other one’s green and yellow argyle?” He looked down, studying the socks intently. “What’s wrong with ‘em?” he muttered. “I’ve got another pair just like this one.”

Our family never knew what to expect. Take Leo’s career choice. When he graduated from Immaculate Conception School in Cedar Rapids, we were at the cusp of the most promising and amazing technological revolution the world had ever faced, unravelling the development of atomic energy, computer technology, DNA discovery, color television, transistors, Teflon, credit cards, McDonald hamburgers and TV dinners. You might assume that Leo would surely choose some modern, high-demand, advanced high-paying occupation, but no. He decided to make his mark in the 20th century world as a Latin scholar.

Now I, too, love Latin. Amo, amas, amat. But the thing is, Latin isn’t the hot subject it was back in, say, 300 AD. Guys like Julius Caesar and Cicero were crazy about it, and Ovid even used it to write his book about how to pick up girls at the gladiator jousts. But sadly, Latin was becoming a “dead” language – no longer used in conversation. By 600 AD, only the monks were still conjugating the verbs. But by the time he began his teaching career, so was Leo, at least, up to the 1960s when the Catholic Church decided the liturgy didn’t need it anymore. At that point, in their infinite wisdom, the Departments of Education all over the U.S. got together and decided to drop it from the curriculum and to send all their Latin scholars into retirement, hibernation or onto unemployment insurance.

Not our intrepid Leo though. By this time, our family was semi-prepared for the unpredictable surprises Leo kept coming up with. The most spectacular of these was his revelation that he was about to get married. To a New Yorker – a drop dead gorgeous blonde – stylish, talented, intelligent – who was herself a teacher. Our Leo. We couldn’t believe it. Obviously, she hadn’t noticed his socks.

Her name is Peggy, and she wasn’t just a trophy wife. Peggy started her own teaching career as a piano teacher (a subject which also required additional career training after it, like Latin, was kind of obliterated from the educational arena). I myself took piano lessons for 9 years and I’m here to attest that for all the suffering they endured on-the-job, it’s only fair that all piano teachers go straight to heaven when they pass on to their celestial award-winning stardom.

Well, anyway, after Latin and piano playing were rudely abolished, both Leo and Peggy retrained themselves to be teachers of – in Peggy’s case – business subjects, and in Leo’s the subject of study skills. For Leo, it was downright fortuitous. To deal with his own chancy memory, he managed to develop some really innovative study and memory retention techniques that are probably still in use in New York State schools, and if they aren’t, they should be. I’ll tell you about them on another post. (As long as I don’t forget! I may not have been his most retentive student!)

I still miss Leo. He died in 2013. I was thinking that he might like it if we’d do a little review in the practice of his favorite language – Latin. It’s not true that it’s “dead.” We’re practically swimming in it up to our eyebrows every day. Most of our body parts, our food, our money, our clothing, our housing, our laws, etc., are named or derived from it. Speaking of etc., it stands for “et cetera” translated by all those Romans to mean “and others of the same kind”.

Some of these “lessons” will just be a refresher because you already know and use them, proving that maybe Latin’s not so “dead” after all. But just keep at it. By the time we’re done, you’re going to be able to TRANSLATE LATIN like a gladiator. Honest. So here goes. Let’s start with . . .

LESSON 1: A Review of Some Common Latin Terms and Phrases

• carpe diem: seize the day
• modus operandi: a method of working
• alter ego: another self
• Dei gratia: by the grace of God
• Deo gracias: thanks be to God
• ante bellum: before the war
• corpus delicti: current evidence that a crime has been committed. Example: a corpse
• veni, vidi, vici: I came, I saw, I conquered. (Julius Caesar)
• terra firma: firm ground
• summa cum laude: with the highest praise
• persona non grata: person not welcome
• tempus fugit: time flies
• quid pro quo: something for something; or, this for that
• caveat emptor: let the buyer beware
• cognito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. (Rene Descartes)
• in absentia: while absent
• mea culpa: my fault
• post mortem: after death
• pro bono: done without charge
• vox populi: the voice of the people

Now wasn’t that easy.? You didn’t even need to do homework to master the first lesson. But now it’s time to proceed to . . . .

LESSON 2: Some Useful Everyday Latin Expressions

Excerpted from this wonderful blog: https://foxhugh.com/list-of-lists/funny-latin-phrases/

• Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit – To boldly go where no man has gone before.
• Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris. If Caesar were alive, you’d be chained to an oar.
• Canis meus id comedit – My dog ate it.
• Clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis – I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.
• Fac ut gaudeam.  – Make my day.
• Illiud Latine dici non potest – You can’t say that in Latin.
• Imus ad magum Ozi videndum, magum Ozi mirum mirissimum – We are going to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz.
• Labra lege – Read my lips.
• Monstra mihi pecuniam! – Show me the money!
• Nihil est–in vita priore ego imperator Romanus fui. – That’s nothing–in a previous life I was a Roman Emperor.
• Purgamentum init, exit purgamentum– Garbage in, garbage out.
• Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?  – How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
• Sit vis vobiscum – May the force be with you.
• Solum potestis prohibere ignes silvarum– Only you can prevent forest fires.
• Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur – Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.

Done practicing? Now for everybody except my grandchildren under the age of XVIII years old, let’s go on to . . . .

LESSON 3: How to Swear like a Learned Latin Scholar

• Es mundus excrementi: You are a pile of shit.
• Deodamnatus: Dammit!
• Bovis stercus: Bull shit!
• Obesus porcus: Fat pig!
• Fututus et mori in igni: f___k off and die in a fire!
• Filius canis: Son of a bitch! (literally – son of a dog)
• Podex perfectus es: You are a complete asshole!
• Flocci non faccio: I don’t give a damn.
• Irrumatar: Bastard!
• Morologus es: You’re talking like a moron!
• Stercus accidit: Shit happens.

You probably never heard any of the above “conversational” Latin during Requiem Mass at church but it was very popular among the toga crowd. But now, get ready. I want you to actually translate some Latin for yourself. This is a Latin pun which I have constructed just for you. All you have to remember is that the meaning of “ubi” is “where, “O” means “Oh”, “est” means “is”, “sub” means “under”, and “meus” means “my”. Got it? Okay, now we can go on to . . .

LESSON 4: Latin Translation Practice

Translate to English the following Latin pun.

What did St. Thomas Aquinas say upon arising every morning?

“Ubi, O ubi, est meus sub ubi?”

Did you get it? Cute, huh? It would have been better if I could have found the word for “socks”, but I guess the Romans, civilized as they were, didn’t wear any. Actually, I’m not even sure they wore underwear. I’ll ask Leo when I see him again. It’ll be nice.

Hi, World. How’s it going out there on the Outside? Still there?

As for the rest of us housebound hermits, we know we have to get geared up for a kind of bleak Christmas this year. Santa’s travel schedule will definitely be restricted; nobody will be sitting on his lap getting their picture taken; chimneys will be under quarantine; it won’t be safe to pass around homemade cookies, fruitcake or fudge; and you can skip buying the 22 pound turkey or ham you planned serving to your dinner guests because no one will be coming.

But it’s not hopeless. As long as you have plenty of Clorox, disinfectant wipes, rubber gloves, hand gel, N95 masks, and COVID testing, you can at least sing heartwarming Christmas carols to your dog, or put together an interesting Zoom celebration with your family and friends who may or may not be speaking to each other following the election, or failing any of the above, maybe you can try drinking a whole lot of eggnog.

To get you into the Christmas spirit, I put together a Holiday Gift Buying Guide that I hope will help you find presents to give that are practically guaranteed to leave a lasting impression. Of some kind. And here’s some tips. They say you should never give a present you wouldn’t want to receive yourself. That right away rules out Covid, the “gift” that never stops giving, so don’t plan on delivering the package in person. And you have to use good judgment when choosing the gift. Just because it’s useful or needed doesn’t mean it’s welcome. A subscription to a weight-loss program, a nice big box of Depends, or a deed to a prepaid cemetery plot might not be as well-received, as, say, a winning lottery ticket or a heated toilet seat. No way.

After hours of screening amazon.com and several glasses of wine, Octo-woman hereby offers this suggested list of five can’t-miss Practically Perfect Presents:

GIFT #1

A HAND-CROCHETED MERMAID TAIL BLANKET. What woman wouldn’t want such an exotic gift and one which, according to the amazon.com seller, “will make her feel like a goddess of the sea”. For only $21.99, how can you possibly go wrong? Maybe all she was hoping for was a halibut hoodie or lobster loungewear or a sturgeon stole, and then the mailman shows up with a glamorous mermaid tail blanket! She’ll be thrilled, and swimming in compliments.

Such an exotic gift can only be coming from a faraway land. And it is. The seller is called DDMY and apparently their grammar, spelling and punctuation were earnestly acquired in a class for English as a Second Language.“Perfect for christmas or daily wear. Beautiful design for the coming Christmas festival.you also could choose for your girlfriend, kids, wife, as birthdays, Christmas gift. or as women gift. Washing Note: advice wash before wear! Please wash separately due to crochet instrction, and hand wash or dry clean only, no machine wash. Please note that this product is made DDMY.IF NOT,without any responsibility on our part！！！We provide return and exchange service of goods, we guarantee to be satisfied of you.”

A word of caution from me, however: your giftee may not want to be wearing her mermaid tail in case of fire. I’m not sure how good her locomotion would be on dry land. In an emergency, flipping, flopping, sidewinding and butt-crawling probably wouldn’t make for as fast an exit as running like hell. And it might be mortifying if the firefighter has to haul her down the fire escape yelling “Make way for this goddess of the sea! Her tail has been burnt to a crisp!” https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01LWL5IXF/ref=ox_sc_saved_title_5?smid=A25YAXC2Q2067Z&psc=1

And with that, let us move on to . . .

GIFT #2

YOGA NOTE CARDS. These cows truly have star quality! Who knew that bovines could so perfectly execute 10 of the classic “yogurt” poses! Instead of standing around meditating and munching wet grass in the meadow and moo-ing at passing cars, these amazonian wonder-cows are out there showing the rest of us self-conscious wusses how to be the crème de la crème. They are positively sure to inspire any of the females on your gift shopping list, even if the only yoga pose they formerly practiced was sleeping. And a bargain at only $10.98 at amazon.com. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01E0M3VPO/ref=ox_sc_saved_image_3?smid=A2ZEACN6HZG406&psc=1

And next we have . . .

GIFT #3

GENIE GARDEN GLOVES. Imagine the thrill when your lucky recipient opens this package and discovers these wonderful claws, perfect for anyone gardening, back-scratching, scaring the dog, or premeditating a murder. Or buy 2 pairs as His and Hers gifts for a couple contemplating a divorce. The possibilities for slashing and cutting are limitless, but the primary purpose of the gloves, at least according to the hundreds of 4 star reviews on amazon.com, seems to be digging weeds or planting seeds. They’re only $12.99 per pair, they come in a nice designer bag, and some folks report that a little charm was enclosed. As if it wasn’t already charming enough! https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07H9MSXRS/ref=ox_sc_saved_title_7?smid=A2YE1W13KCSRZC&psc=1

Almost as charming as this . . .

GIFT #4

UMBRELLA HAT. Besides protecting the gardeners on your list, I was thinking this exciting hat could provide welcome hands-free protection from rain or sun while fishing, golfing, or standing in the Covid testing line. I may have to reconsider my recommendation though because the man doesn’t look too happy. Neither do the cows. I think they’re waiting till he leaves so they can practice their yoga moves. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07PV8549K/ref=ox_sc_saved_title_1?smid=A230DT8RCPDGBC&psc=1

But moving on, for the music lovers on your list, consider presenting this engaging instrument here suggested as . . .

GIFT #5

A GENUINE YODELING PICKLE. This unusual gift is sure to utterly charm the man who has nothing. This talented dill pickle can yodel on demand. It goes “yodeleleee-oh-oh-oh-oheee-yodelee-yodelee” and apparently, it hardly never hits a sour note. It doesn’t even need refrigeration. It’s officially listed on amazon.com at $19.99 as “Archie McPhee’s Yodelling Pickle, a seller who seems to knows a lot about pickling, but doesn’t appear to use spell-check.

According to the Archie McPhee enterprise, “Are you sick and tired of trying to teach your pickles to yodel? Pickles can be so stubborn. At last, the yodeling pickle you’ve been waiting for. With a mere press of a button (yes, it has a button) this little pickle will yodel its heart out. You’ll think you’re in the Swiss Alps listening to a yodeling pickle.” https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0010VS078/ref=ox_sc_saved_image_3?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&psc=1

This exciting product is rated with over 4 stars by over 2,000 customers. 78 questions and answers are listed to help clear up any confusion about how to operate the pickle. Some of them are:

Question: Is the pickle dill or bread and butter? Answer: It is the pickle of your dreams. That is all you need to know.

Question: Is this compact? I would like to enter into a yodeling competition and just hide this in my pants. Will this be discreet?
Answer: Yes, but be aware that someone may ask if you are pleased to see them…..it is about 6″ long.

Question: Why should I by a pickle online? Answer 1: You should always be by a pickle… online or not.
Answer 2: Because the pickles sold in grocery stores tend not to yodel.

Question: How experienced is this pickle? Is it a professional? Answer: No, it’s a terrible pickle. It took off and left me for a cucumber. I need to update my review.

Question: Does the pickle fight people? Answer: The pickle does not fight. It has, however, been known to cause fights. Buy one now to get your traditional family Christmas underway!

Question: Is it kosher? Answer: It is plastic. Do they make kosher plastic?

Question: Will this be a good replacement for my Tourette’s pickle? All mine does is shout inappropriate things at my co-workers. Answer: Yes of course. This pickle brings nothing but delight.

Question: Is this Windows 11 compatible? Answer: You understand that this is a yodelling pickle, right?

So there you have it, Octo-woman’s carefully curated shopping list for your gift-giving enjoyment. I’m sure your recipients will be raving about these gifts. Just don’t mention where you learned about them.

One of the things I’m thankful for this 2020 year is that, at least, I’m not an undercooked turkey. Such a creature is not to be desired. And if you ever want to have dinner guests again, avoid presenting one to them. Undercooked turkey is not a popular main course to serve at your Thanksgiving day feast. Of course, an exception might be if the guest is your worst enemy.

I never roast turkeys anymore, but it’s not because of my humanitarian zeal. It’s just that I think Emergency Rooms should be avoided during the busy holiday season when the staff is already overworked and don’t have time to mop up all those bodily fluids.

And, anyway, what happened wasn’t really my fault. Let me explain. There are those who believe I should never be allowed in the kitchen without vigilant supervision, but at our house, Thanksgiving is always an exception. This is because there is only one non-football fan in the family and it’s me. Everybody else is busy enjoying football, while I’m out in the kitchen — the heroic martyr – slaving for 18 hours of cooking in order for the fans to inhale the meal in the 12 minutes of half-time.

As an improvisational cook, I usually use the smoke alarm for a timer, and when the neighbors hear it going off, no one ever calls the fire department because they know that Mrs. Ford is cooking again. My family was always accustomed to servings which could be described as extremely well done, They put up with it more or less patiently because it’s either that or cornflakes. Actually, I myself don’t enjoy eating burnt food either. That may be why what happened happened.

It was our first Thanksgiving in our house on Capitol Hill here in Seattle, and our good friends, the Quints, were our first dinner guests. While I had cremated a lot of meat in my time at the stove, I had never actually roasted a turkey before. And I did. I even stuffed it with real bread stuffing with chopped celery, onions, poultry seasoning and other ingredients I was pretty sure were edible.

I was pleased with how it looked roasting in the oven, and while everybody was drinking beer and hollering cheers and curses at the TV in the family room, I was very busy carefully basting the bird to perfection. I didn’t own a meat thermometer – (fortunately I didn’t think of using the rectal thermometer) – but I was thrilled to see the nicely browned exterior sizzling in all its glory. It looked downright appetizing, a nice change from the charred, dried out, smoking meat I usually served. So that’s when and why I did it. I turned the oven off.

The football game continued on and on to its interminable end, and finally all the Fords (there were only 7 of us in the family by then) and the Quints (6 of them) all sat down to partake of the mighty feast the guest mom and I had jointly presented. The piece de resistance of course, was the big majestic platter bearing the roasted turkey. With a mighty flourish, husband Gene picked up the carving knife and fork and proceeded to attempt to slice off a drumstick. And sliced some more. Finally, he was able to saw off the leg in all its oozing salmonella pink glory.

Now, as the cook, I still feel that the diners’ reaction to the blood and gore was a bit overstated, but I did acknowledge that my less-than-roasted turkey failed to be a less than thrilling culinary experience. Perhaps this is where the term “Cold Turkey” originated.

It was years before another turkey ever crossed our threshold, which was fine with me because I don’t even like turkey. Especially as leftovers.

But enough about turkeys. All jesting aside, we all know that isn’t what Thanksgiving is all about. It isn’t about food, or football or even partying with family and friends. Or about being the day before Black Friday to kick off the Christmas shopping frenzy.

One day last week, a family friend posted this on his Facebook and it’s been echoing in my head ever since. This is it:

“Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fishhooks or clay pots or grinding stones. But no. Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed.

Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts, Mead said.

“We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized.- Ira Byock.”

So I guess that’s what I’m most grateful for – that we have each other. Besides our families and friends, we have caregivers, soldiers, police, firefighters, teachers, legislators, and even politicians, who one way or another, rightly or wrongly, are struggling to help us stay safe and able to live in peace on our spectacular planet.

Aside from that all that philosophy though, I would still like to apologize to any turkeys whom I may have murdered and abused in my past life. I promise to never cook any of you ever again.

Switching off from daylight savings time recently reminded me of that famous old song about Grandfather’s Clock, a song which always used to – pardon the expression – tick me off.

… the one that goes…

My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

Remember it?

Here’s this faithful, hard-working clock ticking and tocking and chiming its heart out every day with no overtime pay or time off or fringe benefits, and what kind of honored place in nostalgia history does the songwriter give it? NONE. According to the song, the clock was a good-for-nothing quitter.

The grandfather in the song, on the other hand, was given a four-star featured role just for winding the clock once a week. What kind of an achievement is THAT? Anybody old enough to remember how to wind a clock, can wind a clock, can’t they? It doesn’t take any special dancing ability. But ask yourself – does the old guy know how to endlessly TICK? Or TOCK?

At least the granddaddy recognizes his own minor role in the clock’s story, even if the songwriter didn’t:

“My grandfather said that of those he could hire
Not a servant so faithful he found
For it wasted no time and had but one desire
At the close of each week to be wound.

And it kept in its place, not a frown on its face
And its hands never hung by its side
But it stopped short, never to go again
When the old man died.”

Now ask yourself: why would the clock – an obvious over-achiever if there ever was one – suddenly decide to just quit. Just because the old guy kicked the bucket and the warranty ran out? Are we supposed to believe that for one minute?

Or is this the more likely scenario? The numbskulls left in the room couldn’t figure out how to wind the clock, or how to locate and change the clock’s battery, or they didn’t know where to find the user manual, or they got tired of holding for Technical Support, or they found out that it needs a new Part that will cost more than buying a whole new clock. What a sorry demise for that heroic ninety year-old clock.

At least, that’s what I USED to think, but I’ve lately had to revise my thinking a bit.

For one thing, clocks may be becoming obsolete now. Show me an iphone user and I’ll show you a person who disdains the use of clocks and wrist watches. And flashlights. And cameras. And checkbooks, postal service, cookbooks, the Encyclopedia Britannica, Wordplay dictionary for crossword puzzle answers, newspapers, and whatever-else-you-could-possibly-need-or-want-to-know.

This is a very sensitive subject for me today. For a very good reason. Out in my garage at this moment is what may be the world’s most faithful appliance. And I never even purchased it. It was here in the house when we bought it in 1972, and it’s been my good friend ever since. (As mentioned previously, my social life is really pathetic.) The house was built in 1969 and the appliance was first installed in 1970 which would be 50 years ago.

In the 1950s or 60s when it was born, appliances were designed to be a permanent investment which – like the grandfather’s clock – was supposed to endure, at the very least, for the lifetime of the owner. And maybe beyond. (Of course, in those olden days the owners weren’t expected to have such a long shelf life themselves.)

Since its previous owners installed it, this elderly freezer, a Sears upright Coldspot Freezer Model 106-6222172 has never had any maintenance, except for manual defrosting every year or two, and except for the occasional power outage in Seattle, IT HAS NEVER STOPPED RUNNING. Ever. Not even once.

But a few weeks ago, something ominous started happening inside. All kinds of hoary frost started forming in the upper section. The user manual (yes, it still has one with the print date of November, 1957) says that it needs a “new gasket seal”. And indeed, the internet – that fountain of all wisdom – tells me that this condition can happen when warm air is getting in and that it likely means the freezer needs a new “door gasket seal” Part No. 576662, now listed as “No longer available”. If they were, the freezer would no doubt be able to keep freezing mountains of food for another 50 years.

So here’s my sad dilemma: the freezer is still operating under the illusion that it is functioning perfectly, and indeed everything in there seems nicely frozen even though it’s kind of entombed in a frosty Arctic landscape. If I call Sears Appliance Repair department, I know I’ll have to submit to the $169 “diagnostic fee” just to have them come out to tell me that they’re not in the antique business and they don’t have any parts to fix it. But the alternative is to face putting to death such an amazing old trooper, still out there in the garage valiantly working its heart out. Possibly, it’s just trying to hang in there till I make it to my 90th birthday, a goal which I would, of course, normally otherwise heartily endorse.

Now you can see why I changed my mind about the clock quitting? Whenever I go out in the garage these days, I keep hoping the freezer – just like the clock – will have the mercy to just…”Stop short, never to go again”.

It would make pulling the plug so much easier.

After the agonizing and chaotic week our nation has just weathered, I was thinking that this might not be the most appropriate time to post anything frivolous. While we haven’t been formally engaged in a bloody “civil war”, it has sometimes felt like it, and nobody’s laughing about it.

Instead of putting up with my pithy prose this week, maybe you’d be willing to spend the generous time you share with me each Sunday to remember these powerful words that most of us had to memorize in grade school. The Gettysburg Address. Only 10 sentences long, it took less than 3 minutes to deliver – not much longer than a tweet. It’s the message of peace and sanity and hope that was offered by Abraham Lincoln to his exhausted, broken nation at what was surely its lowest hour. It seems like a comforting reminder of the strength and resilience and tenacity of our remarkable country.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln
November 19, 1863

Thank you, Mr. Lincoln, for reminding us of what we are often failing but still striving to be.

But on a lighter note, for a more earthy comfort this week, son Matthew and I took a break from watching the TV news and viewed (for the fourth time) my all time favorite movie, “The Shawshank Redemption”. It’s a therapeutic treasure, and a story of hope. It’s on Netflix just in case you could also use a “lift” or you’re just in the mood for watching – or re-watching – a refreshing movie . . . See you next week!

Do you have a box, or, say, 675 boxes of family videotapes gathering dust in your cupboards? Or under the bed? Or in the garage? What about your closet? There has to be somewhere to put your clothes, you know. You can’t go around just wearing a towel. Usually.

Do you worry about what to do about all those treasured taped memories of wonderful events like christenings, birthdays, Christmases, dance and music recitals, weddings, showers, Halloween and Easter egg hunts, weddings, funerals, and T-ball, soccer, baseball, football, basketball, track and other sport events, science fairs, talent competitions, the Weightwatcher meeting when you got the award for six weeks of faithful attendance and zero weight loss, Tupperware parties, dog spaying celebrations, and worming ceremonies? But now those dratted videotapes, precious as they are, are taking up room, and you don’t have a VCR that’ll even play them anymore? Well, you can relax. I have the perfect solution for you.

INCINERATE THEM. Do not delay. Do it at night while the rest of the family is sound asleep. In the unlikely event that anyone notices they’re gone, you can feign ignorance. If you think you’re not very good at feigning ignorance and innocence, trust me, it just takes PRACTICE. You can DO it. You just have to apply yourself.

If the day ever comes when one of kids wants to know, like, where’s the videotape of the time she won the Miss America beauty pageant in Atlantic City, either suggest the dog ate it, or you have no idea, but maybe it blew away in a fierce tornado while we weren’t looking. See? (Feigning ignorance has become one of my most useful and masterfully applied skills, along with the discreet belching and farting for which I’m secretly responsible but never explicitly blamed. Feigned ignorance is highly underrated as a survival technique.)

Just think how good you’ll feel to get rid of all that clutter! To free up all that space! To lose all that weight! You’ll look years younger. You’ll feel like you have money in the bank. Who knew you could get a whole new lease on life just by shedding a few hundred videotapes?

So that, in my wisdom, is what I advise you to do with your videotapes. I don’t expect you to thank me though, merely to keep me continuously in your prayers, because- alas! – that ISN’T what I’m doing with my own family videotapes. At least not yet.

When the wonderful world of videotaping was first introduced to me in 1987, I was completely sucked into it. No scene involving my family or any of our relatives or friends was too dull not to be captured in its entirety. Twenty minutes of my niece Liz shoveling horse manure in her equine’s stall was my idea of really sparkling, award-winning video subject matter. And I once videotaped my grandchild Arden bobbing up and down in a Johnny Jump-up FOR FORTY MINUTES. Trouble is, today, even Arden won’t watch it. A whole lot of my video footage is as exciting as the scene recorded when the camcorder is accidentally in recording mode while bouncing up and down in the trunk of the car on a 2,000 mile car trip.

I realize now, too late, that when some normal doting relative wants to preserve their child’s performance in a dance recital, for instance, she carefully records the actual performance for posterity. Well, that never even occurred to me. I recorded such events by visiting the dance school in advance so I could record the classes in which the little darlings were learning the steps, the makeup session and costume try-on, the full dress rehearsal of every single dance in the show, and finally the big performance including the overture, every single dance number, panning shots of the audience trying to stay awake, and the final curtain call. And the shows were THREE HOURS LONG. Following the big event I always tried to get a brief interview with whichever grandchild or stranger I could trap in front of the camera, to kind of round off my potential Emmy-award winning documentary.

You can imagine how popular I was in my family and in the world at large. Some of the children are still not speaking to me. And I used to have friends.

It went on like that for years. In keeping with my lifetime motto that anything worth doing is worth doing to excess, I somehow managed to amass a lot of videotapes. A lot of them. Like hemorrhoids, the piles of them grew and grew even when I really didn’t want them to. And their formats kept changing: from VHS, to S-VHS, to mini-DV, to DVCAM, etc. And with every format change, I also had to cling to each of the antiquated camcorders on which those formats had been recorded so that the tape could actually be PLAYED on something. Not that anyone ever wanted to. As far as the family was concerned, all those tapes were just the embarrassing paraphernalia related to Grandma’s annoying tapeworm affliction.

Finally, the only places left to store my tape droppings were the refrigerator and my linen closet. The situation was getting dangerous. It was finally my bulging clothes closet that forced me to face the issue. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get my clothes INTO the closet, I just couldn’t pry them loose to get them OUT. I had to DO something. I couldn’t just show up to shop at Safeway barefoot and wearing a pillow case, when they were used to seeing me there all dolled up in a muumuu and patrol boots!

Now I wish I could tell you that I did the sensible thing, that I used the maturity and prudence expected of all upstanding AARP subscribers, and murdered every tape in my collection by drowning, barbecuing, gouging, shredding, or pummeling it to a merciful death. But of course, such a decision would have demanded common sense, an attribute I have never been accused of demonstrating.

Instead, I proceeded to actually digitize, roughly edit, and archive every event I ever recorded on a database, which allows me instant access and viewing, and fast exporting when I want to edit them further, or forward copies to any of you via email. You don’t believe me, do you? But it’s the honest truth. Would I lie? Well, yes, but not this time. This time I’m telling the truth. And the Truth is that nobody knows it yet but me, but some of those tapes are priceless.

When I started spitting out this week’s blob, my plan was to make it a tutorial of how I’m actually performing this archiving miracle using the knock-down fabulous treasure of the software product world called NeoFinder. Windbag that I am, I’ve already used up all your reading time (thank you for hanging in there) but if you leave a comment that you’d like to read/see such a walk-through as to how I’m doing it, I’ll crank one out soon. You can learn more about NeoFinder at the link below.

https://www.cdfinder.de/en/en/networking.html

I wish I could tell you that I have completed my gargantuan project but I can’t. So far, the movies I’ve archived are stored on a 12 terabyte drive (priced at $ 380 on Amazon.com, and kept backed up on a twin 12 TB drive. Except for that and the $35 that I paid for the license to use NeoFinder (a free version is also available) that’s all the expense the project has cost me so far — if you don’t count the few thousand hours I’ve spent getting the movies ready for human consumption on the archive.

So far, I’ve used up 5 terabytes of my drive. A terabyte is equal to 1,000 gigabytes. A full length movie is about 2 gigs long. That means that so far, I’ve archived the equivalent of 2,500 full length movies. Of course, mine can range anywhere from a minute long, up to a half hour or so, and there are hundreds of them. And I’m only about 30% done! That’s why you might think twice about following my path, and using the incinerator instead.

I don’t really mean that, though. Some of the stuff you’d lose on those tapes are true treasures — and photos of the same scenes can miss some special moments!

As an example, take a look at this. My son Matthew keeps pointing out that my blobs are too long, so I’m trying to reform my style (maybe next time). But I got to thinking, maybe I should show him a look at one of the treasures of HIM that NeoFinder has carefully bottled up for my instantaneous retrieval.

When you watch it, you’ll be painfully aware of the VHS resolution we had available 33 years ago when I recorded it. And of the pixel dropout we had to live with at that stage of the technology. And you may wonder why I would choose such a mundane scene to show you.

If you already know us, I don’t need to explain it. The scene was recorded not that long before my beloved son was near death. He survived, but was permanently disabled, and will never be able to speak or walk again as he could in the video. That little movie can surely be classified as a priceless memory.

My final advice is this: treasure those tapes long enough to transform them onto a friendly database like NeoFinder.

And then, for heaven’s sake, INCINERATE THEM!