Squirrels in the kitchen numbering one to twenty

At Eastridge Elementary we had perfect oblong pieces of lined paper especially for spelling tests. The spelling paper had a certain smell. If you say to me, "Print your name on your paper and number from one to twenty," I can smell the spelling paper and the pencil graphite.

From the very beginning I loved everything about spelling tests. I loved sitting up straight in my desk that smelled slightly of Comet cleanser. loved the teacher pacing around the room leaving just enough time between calling out words for us to write them  in print or cursive. Seeing the letters in such fine arrangements of correctness was as satisfying as a time-lapse film of a rose blooming.

The spelling test may be my earliest understanding of "form."  This concept boggled my mind as a college art major, and yet I knew it when I saw it in second grade. The pieces, the letters danced themselves into a perfectly logical, complete, and correct oneness that made my little heart glow warm. Spelling, rhyming, indenting, punctuating to the aromas of mopped beige linoleum tile and dripping overshoes in the cloak room.

And so this problem presented. The horns of a  matter learned or mislearned or hallucinated. B.A. Paris has a new book out, The Dilemma. How embarrassing it must be for the author and publisher that the title is incorrectly spelled on the jacket. Or NOT!

The horns of the dilem-NAH. It's Greek, surely. A root word we will need on the SAT, Shirley. Probably the minotaur leading Theseus in two dark tunnels of the labyrinth. Alas, according to my big old red beloved American Heritage dictionary there's no N in dilemma, and Ariadne is left rewinding her thread.

Say the word. Use the word in a sentence. Repeat the word. Pause.

I will never forget the first two words I missed on a spelling test. It was a devastating blow to my self concept. Not perfect after all. Squirrels. Kitchen.

© 2013-2020 Nancy L. Ruder

Pit stop heaven

Being kidnapped and taken to Buc-ee's is a Texas thang. Your friends feel sad for you if you have not experienced the roadtrip wonder that is Buc-ee's. So they take you to the nearest one and watch as you go slack-jawed. Welcome to the cult!

Buc-ee's is not a truckstop, nor a convenience store with gas pumps. Buc-ee's  is a Texas phenomenon with World Famous Restrooms.  The restrooms are clean and huge, and the stalls are large enough for a mom and several kids. They are the restrooms you wish for in every airport you've ever had the misfortune to visit.

Except for the Buc-ee's Ugly Christmas Sweater-style t-shirts I wasn't tempted by the branded merchandise. Planning ahead for next year's employee ugly sweater contest didn't seem worth $15.00.

The exciting news for this old litter educator is that Buc-ees and the Texas Department of Transportation have a cross-branded campaign to reduce litter on Texas highways. Don't Mess With Texas with Buc-ee's should be a powerful ad campaign.

My kidnapper and I are old enough to remember entering the gas station to get the key to the Ladies' Restroom out around the back of the Sinclair or Texaco station. Once in Utah the key was not required because the door had fallen off its hinges the last time the restroom was cleaned.

My mom, Fritzi kept a travel notebook in the glovebox. She noted mileage between clean restroom locations along highways AND places t o get a good piece of pie. Fritzi would have been a Buc-ee's cult convert!

On this day in 2010 my sister and I drove our dad from Lincoln, Nebraska's Eastmont Manor to the Life Care Center of Plano, Texas, the most difficult road trip either of us ever undertook. Today's adventure lacked the snow, the dementia, and the Depends, thank heaven.



Bob Daddy-O Wade passed away this week. Thank you, Daddy-O for the inspiration of your giant frog sculptures at Carl's Corner Truck Stop. They set me on a papier mache adventure of great creative joy.

Road trip reminiscence references:

• Stuckeys rhymes with Buc-ee's. A feature of mid-Sixties travel on Interstate 80. 

•  Sapp Bros. "Big Coffee Pot" truckstop west of Omaha.
• Bosselmans in Grand Island, Nebraska.
• Wall Drug in South Dakota.

© 2013-2019 Nancy L. Ruder

Canned food drive greatest hits

It's food drive time again at my place of employment, and probably yours, too. Again this year someone thought it would be fun to make the food drive a competition between departments. Again I am the volunteer team captain, which thankfully involves a spreadsheet, not pompons. We are collecting items for the South Dallas Community Food Center, part of the S.M. Wright Foundation.

Dropped my car for repairs on this beautiful afternoon and had time to ponder the food drive while walking home. Minnie's Food Pantry used to be housed across the parking lot from my mechanic's shop, spurring this reverie. The founder of Minnie's Food Pantry, Dr. Cheryl “Action” Jackson, is a rock star of food pantries. Oprah was the keynote speaker at the nonprofit's tenth annual gala.

So, my perambulating question is, "What do food pantries and those using their services really need?"  

• Food pantry clients include the elderly, persons with dietary restrictions, returning veterans, children, single parents, university students, families just "One Crisis Away."

• Clients need food they can use. They need food they can open! Consider donating food with pop-top lids for those who may have difficulty opening cans with a can opener.

• Many clients are children. Support their healthy food habits by donating food in kid-friendly sizes with easy-to-open packaging and no-cook food items. 

• Consider cash gifts. Food pantries may have bulk purchasing arrangements that stretch funds. Many employers have charitable giving matching programs. Monetary donations are used to purchase the foods that traditional canned food drives don’t bring in like fresh fruits, produce, meats, milk and eggs.

• Donate shelf-stable, nutrient-dense foods.

• Donate staples from other cuisines.

• Food pantries cannot use baby food, formula, alcohol, home-canned items, items in glass containers, items without ingredients listed in English.

This is not the time to pull all the fast food ketchup packets hoarded by your dad with dementia, and the three opened and expired jars of tartar sauce from his fridge. Don't even think  about those cans of beets and butter beans that have been in the pantry since the first Bush administration. The leftover Halloween candy is not appropriate. You think I'm kidding, but this is not my first term as food drive team captain! Don't waste food pantry volunteers' time and effort sorting out expired and inappropriate donations.  Now, GO TEAM GO!

Mountains of work, mountains off work

Lily Lake is mirror calm, surrounded by mountains, and looped by an easy, level trail of gravel and boardwalks. The obstacle of parking the car is past, the future is just this moment, and this moment. Shared with a six-year-old the mountains and the lake shrink in significance. Instead we listen to the swish of our steps on the gravel path. We watch brilliant blue dragonflies hover, circle away then back to the same spot along the lake shore. Ducks float, then tip heads under and bottoms up to eat. A water snake performs a hypnotic dance near the boardwalk. An unafraid chipmunk darts in and out between two boulders, capturing the imagination of a grandson. We are savoring small joys with a beginner's mind.

Home again, jiggity jig, back to the office, where mountains of work climb way past the timberline. Progress is at capital I ice age glacial speed, not the global meltdown pace. I must cultivate acceptance, but adding a cool reflecting lake to my meditation visualization couldn't hurt.

One of my favorite mindfulness meditations is "The Mountain," used by Jon Kabat-Zinn. The visual aspect seems to help me stay focused. In this guided meditation we sit as the solid base of stone mountain as the sun, clouds, and stars pass over, and the seasons change on our slopes.

© 2013-2018 Nancy L. Ruder

Gong Show

Even my meditation app hates me. 

Grateful I am that my employer is focused on employee wellness. Tuesday lunch break is given over to mindfulness meditation with instructor Janet Sandman. Other days I make a little meditation time in my office using the Insight Timer app on my phone. It's free. It gongs, and gurgles with falling rainwater. And then I still have time for my sandwich.

Between phone settings and meditation app settings I scored a fail, not to be judgmental, but there it is. I was just sitting and breathing and counting "one" on each exhale and gently reminding my shoulders to stay away from my ears and kindly escorting thoughts out through the back hall to the fire exit over and over and over and the water was gurgling and gurgling and how could this only be fifteen minutes? I finally left my breathing to discover that the final gong setting was unspecified. It was never going to ding, no matter how long I set my thoughts on tiny origami boats and floated them off down the stream. Infinitely treading water while the sunburned lifesaving instructor in the Speedo quits without giving two weeks notice, clears out his locker, and drives off in the VW microbus, spewing gravel in the parking lot.


Looking out the window at the gorgeous yellow ginkgo leaves I gulp my sandwich. Thoughts onward CASCADE® 

Do. Or do not. There is no try.

No matter what, my dishwasher declines to open the detergent dispenser at the appointed time in the cycle. I try creative visualizations of suds bubbling out of the cave from behind the magic door. Letting go of expectations for the appliance did not work any better than attempts to chisel the solidified detergent with a kitchen knife.

In the busy household with young kids the sound of major home appliances running was more constant than breath or heartbeat. Wash to rinse to spin was my inner timer. App was short for appliance! The dishwasher was my chuckling spiritual guide.

Preschoolers pause for a mini-moment of breath awareness. Breathe in slowly through your nose smelling a flower. 1 - 2 - 3. Breathe out slowly through your mouth blowing a bubble. 1 - 2 - 3.

Leaving the mental default habits of enumerating, naming, judging, anticipating to become one with the cosmos, right? Wrong. The computer declines to send jobs to the physical printer right beside me on the desk. It wants to send the jobs to a cosmic printer in the clouds. GONG! Gong! Gongggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg


Recent library acquisitions:

  

And just fyi, Chuck Barris was the host of "The Gong Show." Also, the lifesaving instructor was named Merle.

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Imagine walking into Stone Moth Canyon

At the far end of the trail you pass beyond a ridge and can no longer see or hear any signs of the city. No houses, no traffic noise, not even the tinkle of the popsicle truck. Thankfully, no litter.  Just the trail and the volcanic basalt, and the markings. The canyon has a low, continuous hum. Bending low, you realize it is the sound of small bees.

Imagine the petroglyphs scratched into the black basalt are symbols of moths. Hundreds, thousands of moths marking the boulders. You would have to climb in and around the stones to spy moths on every side, even on the top to be viewed from high on the ridge. What do the moth symbols mean? Who made them? Why?

We can only guess at the meanings of the petroglyphs in Albuquerque's magical National Petroglyph Monument. We can only be open to the wonder and the connection to those artists of so long ago. Are there moths painted deep inside caves? Are there moths in the art of indigenous peoples of Africa, Australia, even the polar regions?

Thank you to the moth-makers whose images I edited onto the basalt of the canyon. They seemed like images across millennia. Here are a couple sites that intrigued me as I went on this imaginary hike:

• Capturing Similarities in Rock Art
• Rock Art Database

The petroglyphs below were made 400 to 700  years ago. Most were made by Native Americans, but a few were made by early Spanish settlers in the area. They are very young compared to the estimate of 20,000 years old for the Lascaux cave paintings.

This one is my favorite. It seems to tell a tall tale of long-billed birds eating lizards and snakes. A person with big feet walked through the story!

When I see the hand symbols my thought is always, "I am. I make."

Keep making.

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Mural walking in Duke City

Popsicle stick fence in melted ice cream colors

Flew into Albuquerque for two days of creative refueling. I was there to see the Cross Pollination exhibit at 516 Arts in downtown. Started my adventure with the downtown mural walking tour.  This was one of two Cross Pollination theme murals new this summer:

Botanical Mural Project by Argentinian artist Pastel

Sam-I-Am takes the train to Night Vale

I really liked the mural at Silver Street Market. I would have taken better photos if standing in the middle of the street was a good plan. Albuquerque is a slow-moving small city most of the time, but getting run over would be a bad thing for the rest of the already short-staffed folks at my workplace. It reminded me of Green Eggs and Ham, Roswell aliens, and the Night Vale podcast. That's just the kind of place ABQ is. Would you, could you on a train?

Albuquerque has been called "Duke City" since conquistiadors arrived to complicate life for the Pueblo Indians who lived there. The minor league baseball team was named the "Dukes." Nowadays the baseball team, the Albuquerque Isotopes, is named both for Homer Simpson's Springfield Isotopes, and for New Mexico's connection to nuclear energy and science.

My other favorite was the 2016 mural "Color Sphere" on Gold Street. It looks like my friend Bonnie's blouse on a much larger scale. Bonnie and the blouse are not larger, just the mural. It's an unusual mural because of its loose, watercolor painting style.

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Sedum and weep

Sedum was already growing on the rock retaining walls when we moved to Eastridge in 1958. My parents didn't have the time, money, or inclination for gardening, although they had a knack for  danndelions and clover. We did have a few sorry, thorny rose bushes baking against the south side of the house, some violets, a pussywillow, and forsythia in early spring. Lilacs, iris, and peonies for decorating graves, and lilies of the valley struggling on the north side were all planted by the original owner of the house  Still, we were a wasteland compared to the gardening neighbors on either side.

One neighbor sneered at our deficiency The other shared their bounty and contagious enthusiasm for flowering plants.

Cuddling

But sedum clung to the rock, flowering and attracting butterflies beside the driveway where we played jacks and hopscotch. At some point I figured out that a straggly bit could be broken off and stuck between the rocks on down the wall, and it would probably grow. Cool! What a hardy, cooperative plant! It preferred crowded spaces and neglect. I've broken off bits from that rock wall in Lincoln and planted it in new cities and states.

Huddled beneath that pineapple planat!

That crazy pineapple plant

  

My mom, Fritzi, with her non-green thumb would have turned 89 this week. How I would love to sit in the shade visitng with her, watching my sons play on her driveway by the old rock wall.

Stonecrop behind the truck

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Heavenly IT

A shortage of stars is preventing me from rating the audiobook of George Saunder's Lincoln in the Bardo. It is like nothing I ever experienced before, except that it is a type of collage. It is radically original and completely realized. If I could have listened straight through I would have, but 7.5 hours far exceeds my commute.

Nearing the end of the book there is much meeting of the minds in a cosmic intersection sense. Do not laugh, but it seemed appropriate that the remote I.T. techs had to take over and enter my computer to download an updated driver for my balky, stubborn HP printer. The cursor was possessed by an Other, and I could only listen for my few phone cues to log back in or unplug cords.

Energy! Light! Matter! Will! Acceptance! Plus Abraham Lincoln!



© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

CCTPTA

A moment of silence followed by the serenity prayer for the first meeting of Compulsive Collectors of Toilet Paper Tubes Anonymous --Charmin Chapter.

We admitted to ourselves and to another human being that we had to get rid of the big bag of toilet paper tubes. We really should be able to construct temporary housing for homeless persons with all the toilet paper tubes if we collaborate with the compulsive collectors of plastic gallon jugs, bottle caps, wine bottles, corks, and six-pack rings.

Paper wasps are constructing a village in an abandoned flower pot on the apartment balcony. I am willing to share my home, but not with wasps. With whom would we offer to share our homes? Could I just offer them the big bag of tp tubes?

It's been a nice couple days for car safety inspections, clock-shifting, and meeting old friends for lunch and a nature walk. What was the young black man living under the High Five doing this weekend?

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Going over the falls in a barrel

Juggling Deepak Chopra, cosmic consciousness, OCLC, and disturbances in the Force. Having bees live in your head is not the same as having ants invade your apartment. Only one of these things crawls all around your shower curtain!

What are the proper subject headings and Dewey decimal assignment for a book about cosmic consciousness? OCLC WorldCat suggested "Reality" and 111.0. But what about time and space, mind and body, energy, matter, quantum physics, spirituality, cosmology, rainbows, electricity, not to mention the 1901 PanAmerican Exposition in Buffalo, N.Y.?

The Exposition included President McKinley's assassination and Annie Taylor's barrel ride over Niagra Falls, plus the electrocution of the assassin and the rise of the Humane Society.  Margaret Creighton's book, The Electrifying Fall of Rainbow City, presents an intriging, depressing, and surprisingly timely look at American attitudes and prejudices. It's not as compelling and creepy as Erik Larsen's Devil in the White City about the Chicago World's Fair, but still worth your time.

But what is cosmic consciousness? How to you get it? Is it contagious? Is there a cure? And where should the book be shelved?


© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday...

Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders. Actually, it was the Friday before last.

In this endless summer/nonexistent winter the groundhog will emerge tomorrow to open the windows and turn on the ceiling fans. With its big teeth it will snarl, "Don't make me turn on the air conditioner!"

Time perception is my current preoccupation, following size and number considerations. Been listening to Krys Boyd's "Think" interview with Alan Burdick, author of Why Time Flies. It's a pleasant way to spend time compared to the time I spent waiting for IT to fix my time-saving computer earlier today. Was that really just today?

The past two weeks have been one really long scream preceded by, okay, a couple months of severe numbness and shock. The doctor would ask, "When did you begin experiencing this pervasive sense of doom? Why do you say it is getting worse? " Alas, I only have anecdotes, no contemporaneous records using a standard angst-o-meter.

How long is the interval:

• Between landing and actually exiting the airplane?
• Between paychecks?
• Between haircuts?

Arrange on a continuum by length:

• Webinar from one to two-thirty
• The first snow day off school in a blizzard
• The third consecutive snow day

As a child I loved feeding nickels and dimes into parking meters on the streets of downtown Lincoln. An hour was ten cents if I recall correctly. What a concept! I was buying time with coins. My parents approved this childish diversion, as it didn't involve gumballs or pony rides at Hinky Dinky. It should come as no surprise that You Tube is full of people who collect and refurbish vintage parking meters, possibly even the very parking meters decapitated by Paul Newman at the beginning of "Cool Hand Luke."


But what about "buying time," that present participle of the third-person singular simple present?

• (idiomatic) Purposefully cause a delay to something, in order to achieve something else. We need you to buy us some time, so distract the security guard for a few minutes. SEE Supreme Court nominations.
• Increase the time available for a specific purpose.  Renting an apartment buys them time to look around for a new house in Charlotte. 

Although we no longer appreciate, respect, or need experts, this timely news is in from the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists who have been tending the Doomsday Clock for seventy years now:

It's 2 1/2 minutes till midnight.

"The board’s decision to move  the 

clock less than a full minute reflects

 a simple  reality: As this statement

 is issued, Donald Trump has been the

US president only a matter of days."

(1/27/2017)

© 2013-2017 Nancy L. Ruder

Ptah and the Four Nums

Princess Peony, my granddaughter, created the universe through the thought of her heart and the utterance of "Ptah." She is totally in the toddler moment, and her special utterance happens to be the name of an ancient Egyptian god, one of those tightly wrapped dudes I vaguely recall from Peter Worth's art history class at UNL. You don't need a lot of words if you use one word with wisdom and generosity. I wanted to know what "Ptah" meant in toddler-speak. 


"Ptah" is a useful expression conferring multiple meanings by way of different tones, volumes, and punctuation. It's like "Dude," but without any negative connotations.

From Wikipedia:  

Ptah (ptä), in Egyptian religion, great god of Memphis. He was one of the important gods of ancient Egypt and, according to Memphite theology, created the universe through the thought of his heart and the utterance of his tongue. As master craftsman, he was a patron of metalworkers and artisans. The Greeks identified him with Hephaestus.

Pronunciation alternatives:

• ptah   
• ptah
• ptah

Anecdotal usage:

Received a "Num num num NUM" approval score.

1. Peony recognizes a favorite object, points, and says, "Ptah!"
2. Peony offers a favorite object to Grancy saying, "Ptah."
3. Grancy gives it back, and Peony says,  "Ptah."
4. Peony sees a favorite food on her highchair tray and excitedly demands a boost into her seat with, "Ptah!"
5. Peony wants a favorite food or toy delivered quickly...
6. She wants visitors to know she is favorably impressed with their presence in her realm,,,
7. Daddy gets home..."PTAH!!"

Conclusion:

Princess Peony utters "Ptah" to express pleasure, approval, significance, interpersonal connection, appreciation, the offering of a gift, wonder, the making of a request, recognition, adoration, and acknowledgment of existence in the present. Her "ptah" is pretty much the toddler equivalent of Ram Dass's BE HERE NOW.





© 2013-2016 Nancy L. Ruder

Thanksgiving losses, gains, and late hits

Tonight I'm thinking about my blog muse, and feeling very, very grateful for her encouragement to try the new-fangled concept of blogging back in '03. My dear friend Juliet, who shall remain nameless, thought I might enjoy trying a new creative outlet. She volunteered her early techie support, cheerleading, and the courage to read pretty much everything I sent out into the blogosphere. From this distance it's clear we were new friends then, just a couple steps up from acquaintances, what with "friending" not even a THING yet in that primitive era.

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday having won that title when the Fourth of July became too nerve-wracking as a mom. All Thanksgiving asks is that we spend some time in mindfulness and gratitude. Everything else is gravy.

Thanksgiving does not insist on family, togetherness, football on tv, front yard football leading to dislocated collarbones, long-distance travel, TSA security checks, belief in the Pilgrims/Indians legend, agreement about cranberry or stuffing recipes, aprons, crockpots, brining, yams, family storytelling, or table decorations crafted by children out of toilet paper tubes. Family storytelling is preferrable to political arguments, though.

Over a lifetime I've observed Thanksgiving in many roles. I've been the mother, the child, the grandchild, the grandma, the host, the guest, the cook, the communication hub, the in-law, the parent without custody for the holiday, the parade balloon, the quarterback sack, all alone in nature, the charity case, the hospital kitchen worker, the sandwich generation caregiver, the griever, the teacher, the listener, the organizer, the raker, the pitted black olive thief, and the recorder.

The first Thanksgiving after losing a parent will be difficult, Dear. The pieces don't fit, the floor seems slanted, all conventions are off, but the family stories  bubble up from a long-plugged well. It's all good. The thoughts of many will be with you and your family. I'm thankful for you.


© 2013-2016 Nancy L. Ruder

Upside of an unbearable campaign

Can't listen to the radio on my long commutes. The news makes pledge drives seem delightful by comparison. Best audiobooks of this excruciating presidential campaign:

    

  




© 2013-2016 Nancy L. Ruder