Telegraphers and turtles

The woodpeckers were wearing nametags and funny hats, drinking beverages with tiny umbrellas, filling the Oak Point Nature Preserve with giddy messages as they hammered out the news.  Big flickers, little downies, black and white woodpeckers, bipartisan sapsuckers all going to a party in the tree.  P. D. Eastman could have written a book. 

(Last weekend the turtles had their convention at the Heard Nature Center.)

I'm spelling relief "H-O-S-P-I-C-E".  I tackled the ginormous pile of ironing, and other neglected household tasks this morning.  When I got over to see Dad he was a new man! Had the hospice nurse worked magic on him? Maybe, but it seems like two days on antibiotics caused the improvement. Dad was hungry, wide awake, and (avert your eyes, Gentle Readers) needing to read the Sunday newspaper in the bathroom. Dad was, okay, still nutty as a fruitcake, but all the rest was good.

Dad seemed to emerging from a fog. He knew he had been sick. He asked me if I could find the 52nd Street exit ramp because he didn't think he should be out walking around yet. (It's been two years since he walked.) He told me he didn't want to upset my apple cart, and wondered what I had planned for the afternoon. He thought we were driving a van. He drank two cups of coffee. Then he ate some of the turkey, hashbrowns, minestrone soup, juice, roll, chocolate cake, and zucchini.

I'm still in the fog.  I've cycled through Funky Winkerbean, Henry Winkler jumping the shark, and Washington Irving to finally reach Rip Van Winkle.  Get up!  Now is the time for all woodpeckers to get going!

Along the way I remembered riding all the way to Omaha with my sixth grade Sunday School class to see "The Bible:  In the Beginning" movie at the Indian Hills Cinerama on Dodge Street.  There is a connection, however tenuous.  All the way up and back the car radio kept playing the new hit song, "Western Union" by the Five Americans.  1967.  Telegrams?  Even then it was outdated technology.  Check the links above for Sixties flashbacks!

After the Sunday School trip I dutifully reported to my parents that "Adam and Eve were a little obscene."  I don't remember anything about Richard Harris playing Cain vs. Franco Nero as Abel.  A few months later I would see that pair as King Arthur vs. Lancelot in "Camelot" at the Stuart Theater on 13th Street.

This turtle is not pleased about the blue bag litter in Rowlett Creek.  There are only so many battles I can wage at the moment.  Sorry, but I have Morse Code and woodpeckers in my head.

*Jumping the shark is a widely used idiom – first employed to describe a moment in the evolution of a television show, characterized by absurdity, when a particular show abandons its core premises and begins a decline in quality that is beyond recovery.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

What is this peculiar sensation?

Mark the calendar!  I feel relaxed.  Wow.  I can't remember when last I had this feeling.  How can I replicate it, bottle it, maybe sell it like a magic elixir on eBay?  What is the recipe for feeling this relaxed? 

• No spa massages or lovers' trysts were involved.  I did spend five dollars in quarters to experience the good vibrations of the self-serve car-wash wand and brush.  The Buick Skylark may have had an orgasm.  Just removing the petrified bird poop and snow slush to achieve a clean car was a peak experience.  Engaging in work that makes an obvious difference is very satisfying.

• Relaxation does not derive from an absence of labor.  I worked at the library Saturday reading book reviews and taking photos to document the appearance of the building prior to the upcoming renovation and expansion.  Work, yes.  On the clock, yes.  Delightful, completely.  I took 141 photos to document the building from every angle possible without a helicopter.  Then I spent four hours in intense Photoshopping to edit the photos down to sixty useful records.  All time spent "in the flow" to the best I can understand Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

• Sunshine and sixty-something temperatures helped enormously.  Pulled on Janie's big boots for a second effort at creek clean-up, wading in the shallow water and collecting ugly litter.  Hauled three bags full to the dumpster.  Wade in the water...

• Tried something new without allergy anxiety.  Just pulled the onions out of my lamb kebab sandwich from Fadi's. 

• Took Dad an old-fashioned root beer float from Sonic.  Tasted so good, but Dad's coughing and choking informed me that was his last root beer float.  We laughed together and shared family news.  He was completely sharp and in the moment.  Then suddenly he was talking about the little boys playing leapfrog behind his bed.

• Spotted Eeyore the tailless squirrel near my condo.  Could there be a whole gang of tailless squirrels?  How big can Eeyore's territory be?  Don't get around much anymore.

• Fooled around with the design for this blog.  This was play without expectations for an outcome.  In the big scheme of things it doesn't matter if there's an Itty Bitty Blog Roll. 

• Walked, vented, and lunched with a friend. Ritual and habit bring their own stress reduction.

• None of my problems are solved, but it's O.K.  All is good.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Bioluminescent grocery cart

This post has teeth.  Dad's partial swims in its fleshy pink box.  He can't wear it any more and doesn't care. 

Someone rolled a grocery cart down the creekbank years ago.  Much of the year it is hidden in leaves.  Small trees grow through the crumpled grid.  Its teeth glare at me like a fang fish.  I see no way to extricate it, and don't want to break a leg trying.  In January it looks the most like the angler fish that glows in the pitch blackness of the deep ocean, all jaws and bones and empty stomach.

When Sylvan Goldman invented the grocery cart he couldn't have foreseen the many places his creation would be abandoned.  I hope none of them have reached the deep ocean, but I wouldn't be surprised.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

A blue bag slideshow

These are photos of the blue bag litter along the creek and in the water at Rustic Park, taken 1/15/2011 and 1/13/2011:

https://cid-8ba26c61ef2ce6a8.skydrive.live.com/redir.aspx?page=play&resid=8BA26C61EF2CE6A8!350&authkey=2nJr2bx4!Pk%24

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Blue bag blues

I do a lot of walking along Plano's creeks in my neighborhood, in city parks, and on our trail system. I am disgusted by all the trash, but particularly bothered by the amazing number of bright blue bags littering the banks and water.

Plano doesn't have "blue bag recycling".  What's the source of all these blue plastic bags? Are they left on front doors for used clothing collection? Do they blow and then end up in storm sewers? Bags are never left on doors in my condo complex, but you can find a blue bag every twenty feet along the creek behind our units.

Yes, I'm a crabby CollageMama.  Having just succeeded in convincing a county judge to collect his large fallen campaign sign in a nearby vacant lot, I'm ready to take on my next eyesore. 



This dusk I wore the boots to scramble down the creek bank, but not the gloves to clean up the mess.  Untangled some bags and didn't break my ankle climbing back up.  Sad to say, the blue bags are from a very worthy organization, the Children's Advocacy Center of Collin County.



Now how to convince the organization to use a better method for distributing and attaching bags on doorknobs?


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Not that Green

Mylar balloons have joined juice-drink pouches on my Most Wanted List of litter criminals. This St. Paddy's Day balloon snared along my shallow creek of moss and Mr. Mallard Ducks makes me crabby.





© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Nitty Gritty & it's a pity

This is not the first time I've ranted about lunchbox juice drinks, and it won't be the last. I've been trying to ignore the litter along the creek when I take my 365 Project one-block radius walks.

Toward the end of a glorious hour-long photo tramp and birdsong concert I spotted a mangled, upended grocery cart, half-buried in the mud and leaves near the water. The late afternoon sun glinted on the crossbars, making it resemble a Native American bone breastplate. Here lies the fallen warrior beside the clear-running stream ... Bury my cart at Wounded Knee.

I crossed the bridge to walk along the creekbank, following a smart-dressed sparrow and a cardinal's song. Listening to this little suburban creek trying its best to ripple reminds me of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. In the middle of the stream there's a dang Capri-Sun drink pouch reflecting the low sun rays.

I've got ripplin' water to wake me
To the mornin', my woman, and love.
Tall pine trees are pointin' us easily to heaven above.
Blue spruce clingin' to the grate in the evening
They take the chill away fine.
Cut the telephone line and the story's the same.

There are senior moments and menopausal moments of forgetfulness. Then there are the John Denver moments. Did Jimmy Ibbotson write that song? Did someone forget to dispose of their juice pouch in a responsible manner?

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Sad rope swing

Went for a long walk to cure antsiness, and to procrastinate cleaning house and folding laundry. Only three days before Christmas, and it is seventy-seven degrees! Returning to our complex, I decided to walk along the creek. "Our" creek is two blocks long, and the city calls this tiny wilderness "Rustic Park". Thought I would walk along to the place where a rope swing hangs from a tall tree over the creek.

We moved to this condo complex nearly seven years ago now. We moved out of the house where we had lived as an alleged two-parent family for seven years--the only house Steven remembered. When the boys discovered the rope swing, that spot along the creek became Steven's emotional tether to our new place. Snakes and a horrible bout with poison ivy did not dissuade him. Swinging on the rope helped all of us reconstruct our ideas of what made a family and a home.

With all the fall leaves gone, the creek looked sad today, especially around the roots of the rope tree. The most obvious eyesores were the plastic bags--EVERYWHERE. Styrofoam, bottles, cans, ropes, wires, a smashed grocery cart, motor oil jugs, small rugs and a garden hose for crying out loud... I found a large Sunkist produce box and decided it was a sign to fill it up before heading home. That amount of effort did not make the rope swing inviting for any new family making a stressful transition! Next time I'll wear gloves, take clippers, and bigger boxes. I'll listen for the woodpeckers I know are there. I'll celebrate how far we've come as a family, and honor a place that helped us along. I'll probably get a bit teary next time, too.