A wonderful idea for runners

A woman came into the library yesterday wearing a "Walk like a champion" shirt. We usually chat. She said she was involved with an Alzheimers walk and ended up with all the leftover shirts. I said art teachers need shirts, but she had a much better idea. She gave them to a Medicaid nursing home. She said the patients sometimes arrive there with nothing but the backless hospital gown they are wearing. What a great idea!


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Looking for a sign

Walking along my usual route thinking it sure would help to receive a clear cut omen, directive, or prophecy. Nothing Delphic from some oracle who inhaled too much sulphur. I don't need, "Put your faith in a wooden wall," thank you very much.

Then, right at my feet in some worm castings I see the sign. The sign is 2. I was expecting doves or smoke signals, but the sign is a plastic square that probably escaped from a child's game. The surrounding clover isn't four-leaf, but I'll overlook that (with apologies to Mort Dixon).

So BIG!

"How big is baby? So big!"

We all want to know if how big we feel matches how big we look. That's the reason for all those newspaper comics and late-show monologues about whether this dress "Makes me look fat?"

My art students are delighted with our trace-around project. They get to see evidence of how big they really are, and then paint their paper twin.

It's been a few years since I tried this project. My current teaching arrangement doesn't have the big drying space that makes it feasible. I'm trying to work around the logistics problems because the life-size project is such a hoot!

The youngest group of preschoolers listened to the classic 1944 picture book by Marie Hall Ets, In the Forest. I'm sad that wearing a folded newspaper hat and imagining a parade of animals in the forest is too low-tech for children now. Will Peekaboo be the next to fall? When I am in charge of the world these things will be preserved as the Yellowstones of children's literature.

Two old-time (ancient Twentieth century) activities helped me understand my childhood stature. The first was the annual class photo shoot. You could always find me in the "short row".

The second activity was having my foot measured on the Braddock Device at our shoe store, Brady's Juvenile Shoes. I believed that Prince Charming traveled about the countryside measuring all the female feet using just such a device to find his Cinderella.

The kids love this book about life-size animals. Look for it at your library (even if you are a grown-up!)



© 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

The Kinglet on the Eightfold Path

My 365 photo project is getting me out for a walk most days. These are not the long, fast, aerobic walks my doctor recommends for my blood pressure. Nor are they the weekend venting waddles that have sustained my walking buddy and me for more than a decade. These are slow, seeing, sensing, solitary walks.

I walk the perimeter of the one-block radius that is my preferred source for 365 photo inspirations. When I get away from the traffic sounds, I'm surprised by the bird calls and flow of the creek. Wind rattles the dry leaves. My senses wake up step by step. It's the gradual rebooting of an older computer whose operating system isn't updated or supported by the company anymore. Still, it is opening windows.

I'm probably searching too much on these walks, hoping for obvious photo ops. Letting go of desire and control would lead to fresh surprises. Today I went looking for cedar waxwings, but found a woodpecker and several robins.

Spent ten minutes with a teasing ruby-crowned kinglet in the thorns, vines, and eye-poking branches without ever getting a good photo. The tiny greenish bird hopped about too quickly although it was often within six feet of me. It could hover like a hummingbird for a second or two. "Ruby-crowned" sounds too pretentious. The bird is less than four inches in length, and the "crown" is really a little red dot to help camouflage it in a berry bush.

As soon as I got home, started downloading my photos, and took off my shoes, the soapberry tree beyond my patio fence filled with cedar waxwings. Guess it is good I didn't go looking for gorillas to photograph, or I might have found a kitchen full of primates on my return.


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

One-block radius

I took a slow walk around my one-block radius, being surprised by flocks of robins and cedar waxwings. I love cedar waxwings for their dramatic eye make-up, and their flash mob behavior. I love the way a flock will land in the bare branches of a winter tree and seem to be only yellow leaves hanging on late into winter. I adore the way the ends of their tail feathers look like they were dipped in bright yellow Testors model enamel paint. A cedar waxwing could inspire some excellent Olympic figure skating costumes.


The robins and cedar waxwings were taking turns drinking at a spot where fallen branches make a nice perch just above the water. I was surprised they were so close to a trio of pre-adolescent boys chopping and pounding. I tried to look like I wasn't spying on the guys. They are building a hide-out with scavenged rotten fence sections amidst exposed tree roots at the creek. They were just around a bend from the spot where my sons used to ride a rope swing across the creek a dozen years ago. This gives me hope for the future!

Got home at dusk to find this anole lizard on my front stoop. He seemed to have just molted, and was dark-colored, showing stress. I took several bad photos with my camera settings all wrong before he got perturbed enough to crawl sluggishly back to the shadows below the siding. It's only fifty-five degrees, breezy, and gloomy. Doesn't seem like anole weather at all, and not a good day to shed one's skin.


Last night the moon was a Cheshire cat smile when I took the recycling to the cart in between the men's figure skating performances. The moon reminded me of Harold and the Purple Crayon. Harold's line follows wherever he goes, and the moon goes along. Harold likes nine kinds of pie. Some of my students are learning about the silent E that makes vowels say their names .... pie ... nine ... line ... skate ... shave ... smile.

How strange for a lizard to be roused out of winter slumber just to shed its skin. Talk about wanting to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock! I feel your pain, Mr. Anole. I was awakened by the recurring snooze alarm knowing I'd been invited to a sensuous paisley party, but had forgotten to shave my legs.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Nutrition experts debate food pyramid

The first preschooler announces that Cheerios are in the Crust Group. The second student is sure the base of the food pyramid is the Brain Group. We've been talking about breads and grains.

Preschoolers have been prejudiced against bread crusts for generations. I bet the prejudice goes back to the true crusts of home-baked bread, and was held over during the Wonder Years. The crust was often drier and more difficult for a youngster to chew. Still, it could be useful for leaving a trail away from an evil stepmother.

Now, if you tinted bread crusts neon turquoise, added Sponge Bob zinger exploding crystals instead of oats and seeds, and packaged the entire sandwich in a plastic squeeze tube you would become famous. If you could freeze-dry it, then reconstitute it with added sugars, run a steam-roller over it, roll it up, get a celebrity endorsement movie tie-in, and package it in a single-serving plastic container with a tiny dollop of Ranch Dressing dip you would make a fortune.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Capital P and that rhymes with T and that stands for true

Comedians are keen observers of our daily existence. That's why they can deliver those zinger punch lines that hit where we live. I read the best parenting advice in a long time in the Sunday Parade magazine's celebrity interview, a source I rarely give much credence. This time, I found it spot on:

In the deli, the server makes a “yada yada” joke, and Seinfeld good-naturedly says, “Hey that’s my line.” Sitting down over a cup of coffee, though, he stops making cracks and starts talking about one of his favorite subjects: raising children.

Although his own children obviously want for nothing, Seinfeld works hard not to be too indulgent. He bemoans the way some people cater to their children’s every whim. Seinfeld has three rules of parenting, what he calls “the poison Ps.” The first is Praise—“We tell our kids, ‘Great job!’ too much,” he says. The second is Problem-solving—“We refuse to let our children have problems. Problem-solving is the most important skill to develop for success in life, and we for some reason can’t stand it if our kids have a situation that they need to ‘fix.’ Let them struggle—it’s a gift.”

Just as he’s explaining the third P—“Giving your child too much Pleasure”—a woman comes in the deli with her three young daughters and buys them all huge cookies. “Can you believe this?” Seinfeld says, gesturing like his TV counterpart used to. “It’s 5:30 p.m.—when will they have dinner? At 8?”

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

The trouble with tuna

Yes, the tuna salad was filling the ductwork here on the Enterprise. Captain Kirk didn't know what to do.

Tuna salad isn't as soft and fluffy as a tribble, and it doesn't make annoying chirps. I was making really excellent tuna salad with pecan bits, chopped celery, green grapes, and green olives, while going easy on the mayo for the staff dieters.

I knew when I whipped up the tuna salad I was tempting Mother Nature. That was the whole idea! If I made a big tub-O-tuna, I was sure we would have a Snow Day.

Be careful what you wish for, or you might have to eat tuna salad for four straight days all by yourself.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Basking above the creek

Our amazing snow will soon be a memory. The dripping sound of melting lasted all night and all day. Early this morning it was joined by a chorus of screeching grackles in the soapberry tree across the alley. Grackles can make a particularly annoying call that sounds like the winding of an old-fashioned alarm clock. Okay, I'm up!

We stood squinting and blocking traffic in the parking lot of Corner Bakery after lunch, just three fifty-something ladies slowly realizing snow glare had been replaced by sunshine. It was vaguely familiar!

The condo hawk had the same experience. It was getting back to its job sitting on the highest tree above the creek. It didn't seem to be surveying all that it rules. I think it was just squinting into the sun, glad to warm its breast feathers.

The hawk is a regular this month. I'm practicing my binocular skills on it. My neighbors must think I've gone crackerdog and flopbot, standing out in the driveway trying to focus. Where did the hawk go during our snowstorm?

My camera can't capture what I observed with binoculars. The hawk's breast feathers look so soft, colored golden brown and white, sometimes ruffled by the wind. The hawk uses its beak to smooth some feathers. Its brown head seems flat-topped, due to my viewpoint. I watch the head swivel back and forth, and know the hawk sees me far better than I see it. Once it opens its wings and spreads its tail. Both look banded with gray and black. The moment is gone. My arms are shaky.

I go back to the curb, lean against the Skylark for support, and refocus the binoculars. The hawk's yellow legs don't have feathery knee socks or knickers. To my astonishment, the hawk raises its leg and stands on one foot for some very long seconds. The move looks just like that of a woman who has worn uncomfortable but stylish yellow shoes for too many hours.

Who will blink first? The hawk decides to fly. It swoops low before high, then far off into the neighborhood. Not much for making an identification, except it keeps its tail closed, not fan-spread like a red-tail.

Enough basking, facing the sun, for the condo hawk. What is basking? Exposing oneself pleasantly to warmth... from the Norwegian baska, according to my old American Heritage Dictionary. The Online Etymology Dictionary adds this Shakespearean hint:

Modern meaning "soak up a flood of warmth" is apparently due to Shakespeare's use of the word in reference to sunshine in "As You Like It" (1600).

When we lived in Edmond, Oklahoma in the late Eighties, our Ripple Creek neighborhood had a street named "Basking Ridge Trail". Were the residents supposed to go out into the street in their Norwegian buff to bask and survey all they ruled?

If you bask, wear sunscreen.
If you squint, get out of the road.
If you binoc, keep practicing.

BIG snows

I started this post a week ago in solidarity with my sister's family and the Woolly Mammoth at the beginning of the Washington, D.C. area's Snowpocalyse. It never occurred to me that the DFW area would have its own record-setting snow. Our nine inches yesterday tied a record for the most snow in any one calendar day. Nevermind that it will be long gone before the pot of split pea soup.

"This winter is like the big snows of the Sixties," says the helpful shoveler at Dad's house in Lincoln. On Christmas Day they got 9.5 inches, and it wasn't slushy and quick-to-melt like here. Lincoln has had 38" of snow so far this season, bringing it into the top ten winter totals, with weeks to go. That's the word from the High Plains Region Climate Center at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.

I remember walking to Eastridge Elementary between piled up snow taller than me. It was like a snow lab rat maze. Other times we walked atop the hard-crusted drifts right down the middle of the streets. As a teacher, I try to imagine the logistical nightmares in those Sixties schoolrooms getting all the kiddies into their snowpants and galoshes and mittens-on-strings...
Life for my mother was pretty hectic in the early Sixties. When this picture of my brother was taken my sister was an infant and I had not yet started kindergarten. That the winter snow film wasn't developed until July 1960 is a good indication that time and money were in short supply. I was looking through a box for photos that only exist in my mind, but the images are very clear in my memory.

On February 11, 1965, Lincoln got 19" of snow, part of the snowiest month on record, with 26.1 inches. That must have been a rough year for parents of bickering children stuck inside with cabin fever. I know exactly what I was wearing (black stretch pants with foot stirrups, tan/white/black horizontal stripe knit top) when my mom hit her limit. We were all going OUTSIDE, and we were going to WALK up to Clark Jeary nursing home at Eldon Drive and A Street(Mapquest says it is 0.76 mi.) and back in the snow. Mom would pull the sled so my sister and brother could ride some of the time. At the time it seemed to be uphill all the way, both ways, which isn't true, of course. We were properly bundled, but the cold and exertion knocked a lot of obnoxious belligerence out of us. When my boys were young I was often near that parental point, but without the snow cure available!

Great snowfalls of my memory in Lincoln, Nebraska, according to National Weather Service archives:

--Jan. 3, 1971, 11.4"
--Dec. 18, 1973, 9.7"
--Mar. 19, 1977, 8.3"
--Mar. 26, 1983, 7.6"

Results of one blizzard are still very evident in the city. The October 26 storm of 1997 with 13.2" of heavy snow devastated Lincoln trees that had not yet lost their leaves.

I walked around the condominiums this noon and was glad to see only one tree with a big fallen branch. Last week's pruning probably helped spare us other damage.



© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Pinball dental

Nice to pop out of bed this morning to answer the phone. My jaw and I had slept well. Refreshed, I was glad to make my "phone tree" calls. I admit I was not displeased to have a snow day off from the classroom.

Out on the front step to retrieve the newspaper, my view of giant snowflakes floating down seemed almost as psychedelic as my recent nighttime headaches. Last weekend I spent sleepless hours with sharp pains shooting from my left jaw to my right ear, and then pingponging around my skull like an evil pinball wizard. Geez, I hate it when my junior high health class teacher is right about flashbacks. This was a bad dental trip!

My dentist alerted me that I'm storing stress in my jaw, and grinding my teeth during deep sleep. That was my wake-up call for the week, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to change and prevent further damage to my teeth (and to put his kids through college).

I got to make the wake-up calls today. My voice is so rarely turned on before eight a.m., that I sounded funny making calls to the seven school families on my branch of the phone tree at seven a.m. No school today:

SNOW DAY! Don't spend it all clenching your teeth.

Snowy walk on the wild side

...that would be the east side of Custer Street. There's an undeveloped tract across the street from our condos with no fast food pad site, nail salon, strip mall orthodontist, or car wash. Most of the year it is just grass back to the trees along the creek. Beyond the creek there are homes and apartments, shielded from the traffic noise. Nothing much happens in this tract beyond the occasional mowing, invasions of campaign signs, and temporary corrals of construction equipment. I've spotted coyotes over there two or three times, but in fourteen years I never walked OVER THERE.



Headed out into our slushy, fluffy snow this morning to move all the recycling carts back to the curb after the collection. Walked a loop around the complex a couple times with my hood up. The scrunch of the snow under my shoes was enticing. There were few cars on Custer, so I just walked across the street and into the wild.

With no traffic fifty footsteps brought me into a new awareness of sound. Two cardinals, a bluejay, a crow, and some small twittering birds were unphased by my approach. The cardinals seemed to be singing a psalm to a snowy creation. Children were giggling somewhere across the creek, glad to be out of school. The Plano recycling truck was working its way down an alley. Each dump of a recycling cart made a jingle of glass bottles and aluminum cans. The creek burbled and wet snow plopped off skinny branches. An emergency vehicle siren a mile away added to the music.

Back home and out of my wet shoes, it was good to have silence. Later I listened to the redemptive themes of Janacek's "Jenufa". A crazy squirrel hopped along the top of the fence straddling the 2" snow cap. Wouldn't that feel cold on his tummy and private parts?! The snow cap is carved in regular serrations by his jumps.

This evening the crockpot lid is rattling and letting off steam as the ham bone and split pea soup cooks. Snowfluffs have changed to freezing rain, and more snow plops off trees and roofs. Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock have the cd player. Who has the wild vacant lot?

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Free time valentine

The first grader brought me this valentine he drew during his free time after lunch. Because we were talking about penguins during art class, he drew his version of a penguin on some scrap paper. I love that the penguin has a toll-free number to call to report problems!

The little guy didn't really know why he made the penguins inside the card blue, but he did say he wasn't happy with the hearts he drew. He thought they looked more like hats. One blue penguin holds his heart on a string like a balloon.



I gave him a hug and told him how much it meant to me that he used his time to make the card. Many valentine cards will be exchanged at the school party tomorrow, if we aren't iced out by the weather. This one beats anything from the drugstore or a class project made with fun foam.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Dip di-dip di-dip

Driving home from work I got a sudden severe case of "Grease" lyrics flashback [Med diagnosis code GLF]. One of the preschool students was working the puzzle of Things That Go Together. You know--bird/nest, rake/leaves, paintbrush/easel, paper/scissors, rock/lyrics stuck in my head!

We go together like
rama lama lama
ke ding a de dinga a dong

NO! NO! This can't happen right now! I've got to think of some easy valentine to make for each of my preschool students ASAP. I don't have time to get stuck in a 1973 warp.

We're one of a kind
Like dip di-dip di-dip
Doo-bop a doo-bee doo

What would the little kids understand about belonging together? Flash! Their idea of an inseparable match is a dip di-dip of carrot sticks in Ranch Dressing. It's a horse and carriage! You can't have one without the other.
Now I just have to do the paper cutting. Inspiration is weird. You know why Van Gogh cut off his ear? He had sockhop lyrics stuck in his head.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder