Prairie Creek Park

After work on this dark, misty afternoon I followed a sign to a nearby park knowing I needed to get in some nature, walking, and photo time before I could watch Dad eat jello with his fingers and soup with a fork.  Prairie Creek Park was lovely.

NEEDED ...  


Indeed I felt knee-dead, and knee-deep in the muck of preschool world.  I needed my sewing sore shoulders kneaded, but that wasn't likely to happen.


The park is a jewel.  Now that I've found it, I'll return often.  

 More Eve's Necklace berries.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Sore muscles from ...

...sewing!  Finally finished the comforter/quilt for Dad today, and glad to check that off my Big List.  Spent much of the the day rassling the bulky project around the needle of my little sewing machine.

Be clear, dear reader, this was not wrestling, a sport where varsity and JV teens of assorted bulks in silly uniforms turn red and pin each other to mats for black and white yearbook photos.

Indeed, this was a primitive tussle with a grizzly-ghastly, not a sport.  When I walked into Dad's room he was wearing a teal green sweatshirt, a diaper, and some puke yellow crew socks.  He had thrown off his blankets and was trying to get his waxy, skinny legs out of bed.  "Out" and "off" were muddled in his brain.  He wanted the tv off and the sweatshirt off, therefore he needed to get out of bed.

This sewing was rassling, but I got a hold on it.  The comforter is finished.  Dad seemed interested in the new visual stimulation.  Being done with the project is helping my muscles relax.

ras·sle  (rsl)

intr. & tr.v. ras·sled, ras·sling, ras·sles Nonstandard

To engage in wrestling or wrestle with.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

My what big i

The Occupy Alphabet owl protesters have made their point. Now it is time for them to move on and work within the system.

These hand puppets were a happy accident preschool art class project.  If you haven't drawn across corrugated cardboard with a Magic Marker lately, you owe yourself some sensory fun.

My blog muse donated a craft pack of corrugated cardboard and a how-to book with a basic puppet plan.  Never thought of cutting places for the little kids' thumbs, but I can see clearly now how that improves the design.

Already had a roll of wide wale corrugated paper.  Also the bag of tiny paper cups that fell on the floor months ago.  Too dirty for drinking, but too good to throw away, the cups became "art supplies".  The playing cards for wings just happened to be in the same bag with the cups. Beaks are Styrofoam grocery trays, but of course!  The great horns for the owls should have been shorter strips of paper, but they add to the owl personalities.

Blackland Prairie Raptor Center will present a program with birds of prey tomorrow.  That's always a highlight of my school year.  Glad the owl art helped the little kids get psyched.

Last evening I attended the condo homeowners  annual board election.  Whoooo was elected?  Thankfully, not me.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Shared sightings

The trails loop around and crisscross in the woods above Rowlett Creek.  I was trying not to follow the young couple on the trail.  First spotted them as they were having such fun balancing like gymnasts on the big fallen log that blocks the trail.  I struggle just to get up and over the log each hike, praying not to break my hip.  I instinctively like the pair, as they seemed to be good friends, not just hormonal adolescents.  I miss having teen sons and their good friends gathered around my dining table.

The second time our paths cross, the couple was studying something in the tall grass.  They excitedly waved me over to see their find, a very big orb spider.  They were trying to take a cell phone photo without disturbing the web or getting into the weeds.  Sensible young spider enthusiasts!

"I feel like I'm cheating," I told them.  "I hike these trails looking for spider moments.  You found the spider, not me."  They finished their photo shoot then told me, "She's all yours now."

Fitting for a cheater, my photos of their spider did not turn out.  This photo is a similar spider I found all by myself two weeks ago on the other side of the creek.

Third time we met I thanked the teen couple for sharing their spider and followed them on the shortcut out of the woods and back to the pond.  Then they headed left to be hormonal adolescents, polite but glad to be rid of my chaperoning.  I headed right looking for a great blue heron.

Bumbling along taking photos of dried seed heads and cattails, I met an older cyclist paused and staring at the empty fishing pontoon pier.  He waved me over to see what he saw.  What the hey-ho?!!  A big dang water snake was writhing and slithering on the pier.  It was at least as big around  as a toilet paper tube.  I can speak with some authority here, having spent part of my day with the preschoolers making festive Thanksgiving napkin rings using toilet paper tubes and gold tempera paint.  It was a seriously goose-bump inducing snake, but the older cyclist was cute in a mature nature-watching way.  The snake slid off the edge of the pier back into the pond.  The moment was over, just a pushpin on the Geography of Bliss trail map.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Then you should get an ink, I think

@

my

Target

Hello Kitty

for real nuke

 not unEasy-Bake 

Pink kitchen flashback

Princess Barbie coffee maker

Susan G. Komen pink ribbon blender

please explain intended demographic

need a fix from My Little Pony

unicorn margarita machine

plus a shot of soothing

fuchsia magenta

Pepto-Bismol

liquid

asap

!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Morticia and Gomez fix computers

At the library where I work on Saturdays we are having lots of computer difficulties.  The librarian put up a new sign on all the broken computers that says

IT is working

on a solution...

Nobody reads further down the sign.  Everybody tries to log onto the broken computers thinking "It is working" when really "I. T. is working on a solution".  Alas, I. T. is not working very fast.

So, order a plastic hula skirt from Oriental Trading Company.  Gather the waist tight.  Wear the skirt over your head.  Add a hat and dark ZZTop glasses to become Cousin Itt.  Snap your fingers. 

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Get away bliss

Road trip!  Road trip!  I need to get away, as Southwest Airlines would say.

A girls' art weekend in Fort Worth's Cultural District is almost in view.  Caravaggio at the Kimbell.  Diebenkorn at the Modern.  John Marin watercolors at the Amon Carter.  Barbecue at the Stockyards.

Then a grandma-to-be getaway to the wilds of Oregon and Powell's City of Books. Lots of unknown territory out there for a CollageMama who has never been much west of Moab, Utah. 

Thank heaven neither of these trips will require salt pills for heat prostration or carrying a heavy backpack.  Will either make me happy?  Will either refuel my creative gas tank?

I'm racing through The Geography of Bliss:  One Grump's Search for the Happiest Places in the World.  What is the recipe for happiness?  Can it be pinned to a place like the hummus notecard under the magnet on my refrigerator?

Eric Weiner's book has not addressed the matter of landscape compatibility so far, and I am up to Thailand.  I am always more content, at ease, and happier when I can see a long way to the horizon.  I'm a prairie/plains girl.  I love mesas, but get anxious hemmed in by mountains.








What I've gleaned from the book is that personal happiness requires:

1. An atmosphere of trust
2. Participation in useful work
3. A good personal fit with societal expectations
4. A strong cultural identity
5. Freedom from excessive poverty
6. Freedom from excessive affluence
7. Tolerance for boredom, failure, and waiting
8. Habits of mindfulness and attention
9. Choices that matter
10. Experiencing and practicing kindness
11. Moderation--Knowing when enough is enough
12. Cohesive family relationships
13. Being fully present in the moment
14. Realistic expectations
15. Freedom from envy
16. Connection to nature
17. Opportunities for creative expression
18. Belief in the act of believing in Something Other
19. Knowing that the author of Flow's name is pronounced "Sticks in my eye".  

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

28,800 beeps

The back-up battery in the fire EXIT sign high above the circulation desk is dead, so something up there is beeping at least once per second.  Once per second for eight hours works out to 28,800 beeps, fifty questions, and a dozen jokes.  "Your popcorn is done!"

Yup, really done.  The building manager will "get right on it" Monday and change the battery.

This must be how Dad and all the other nursing home residents feel with the perpetual beeping of call buttons, fall alerts, and escape attempt beeps around the clock, day after day.  The library staff is alternately zoned out on the beeps or agitated.  We are trapped, just like Dad.

My blood pressure machine squeezes my arm, then beeps.  Again, with the trapping and beeping.

Library reading pressure is on.  My reserved books have come in all at once, and I'm feeling the squeeze.  I have two jobs, and Dad, and beeping, and a half-sewn comforter to finish, and a blood pressure log to keep!  Now I have Stephen King's hefty 11/22/63 begging me to time-travel.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Keep your nose to the grindstone

You can keep your nose to the grindstone, or you can hold my nose to the grindstone.  You can grin and bear it, or knee the bastard in the groin. You can grin and bare it but you better have a gimmick. You might have a millstone around your neck. It would not be a gewgaw, but it might come from France through the port of Galveston in 1851.

I had not properly girdeth up my loins for a long perusal of the Big Red Dictionary. You might say I was groping, and that's not so bad as long as political office is not my goal.  You can stomp on a ground cherry calling it a Chinese lantern or a pop berry.

The historical plaque next to the grist mill stone reads:

THIS GRIST MILL STONE WAS BROUGHT TO TEXAS IN 1851 THROUGH THE PORT OF GALVESTON BY WILLIAM TERRY EDMONDSON.  MADE IN FRANCE, THE STONE WAS ORIGINALLY LOCATED AT A GRIST MILL NEAR THE CORNER OF CEDAR SPRINGS ROAD AND KING'S ROAD.  EDMONDSON'S DESCENDANTS CITE THIS PRESENT LOCATION AS THE NATURAL SPRING WHERE HE WATERED HIS HORSES WHILE ELUDING THE INDIANS. EDMONDSON'S DAUGHTER, ANNE ELIZABETH, MARRIED WILLIAM HARRISON PRATHER, A CONFEDERATE VETERAN AND THE GREAT GRANDFATHER OF HUGH E. PRATHER, JR., WHOSE FAMILY GENEROUSLY DONATED THE STONE TO THE PARK CITIES HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND THE TOWN OF HIGHLAND PARK.            MAY 7, 1995

Here is my nose ready to be kept or held.  Holding someone's nose to the grindstone is far different than keeping your own nose there:

grindstone 

early 13c. “millstone,” from grind (v.) in sense of "sharpen" + stone; meaning “revolving stone disc used for sharpening, etc.” is from c.1400. Phrase nose to the grindstone in use by 1530s; originally to get control of another and treat him harshly:

This Text holdeth their noses so hard to the grindstone, that it clean disfigureth their Faces. [John Frith, "Mirror to know Thyself," 1532]

The main modern (reflective) sense of "work hard" is from 1828.  Don't know about you, but it seems like my nose has been there since at least 1828.  A dictionary diversion is in my budget.

Grin is related to grimace and groan.
Grind is bizarrely or burlesquely related to being a boring study buddy, a cup of coffee, or a striptease pelvic rotation.
Nose to the grindstone is to work diligently and continuously, but a large, heavy
millstone could be around your neck if you have a perpetual problem or responsibility that prevents you from doing what you want.
Grist for the mill means something that can be turned to one's advantage.
Grits are coarsely ground grain, especially corn, related to bran.
True grit is plucky, indomitable spirit, and two movies I've never seen.
Worms need grit in their gizzards, as do birds, reptiles, and some fish.  My vermicompost worms are besides themselves over coffee grounds and smashed eggshells.

Ground cherry is the name for many plants that produce a fleshy fruit contained in a papery husk.  When I was a kid we called them "pop beans" or "pop berries", and sometimes "Chinese lanterns".  We love to stomp on them.


Groin derives from abyss or depression
Groin architectural the curved edge at the junction of two intersecting vaults


This would be Olga Korbut vaulting in 1974.

Then she called to the cat and the duck and she asked, "Now, who will take this wheat to the mill to be ground into flour?"
"Not I", said the duck.
"Not I", said the cat.

"Very well, then", said the little red hen, "I will take it myself".

So the little red hen trudged off to the mill, and in a few hours she was back with a sack of fine flour.

grist 

O.E. grist "action of grinding, grain to be ground," perhaps related to grindan "to grind" (see grind), though OED calls the connection "difficult." Meaning "wheat which is to be ground" is early 15c.; the figurative extension from this sense is from the same date.

gewgaw 

early 13c., giuegaue, contemptuous reduplication, possibly connected with O.Fr. gogue "rejoicing, jubilation; joke, prank, mockery, game;" or jou-jou "toy," baby-talk word, from jouer "to play," from L. jocare (seejoke).

gird¹

vb girds, girding, girded, girt (tr)

1. to put a belt, girdle, etc., around (the waist or hips)

2. to bind or secure with or as if with a belt to gird on one's armour

3. to surround; encircle

4. to prepare (oneself) for action (esp in the phrase gird (up) one's loins)

5. to endow with a rank, attribute, etc., esp knighthood

[Old English gyrdan, of Germanic origin; related to Old Norse gyrtha, Old High German gurten]

Can't play anymore.  Off to the daily grind.




© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Soup by committee

How many crockpots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?  We have three large crockpots pledged for the school "Thanksgiving feast".

After a lengthy discussion it was decided that both the Pilgrims and Indians would have multi-grain mini Club crackers to go with their soup and apple slices.  Those Pilgrims had it easy.  Kellogg's has ninety-seven kinds of crackers from which to choose.

Sometime after my eye muscle twitch became visible, the group decided to go with cheddar cheese cubes from Sam's Club instead of string cheese aka cheese sticks.  I would be thankful if I never opened another cheese stick for a preschooler to consume in disgusting dangling ways.

Edamame was chosen as the protein component of the soup several meetings back.  Corn and carrots were agreed upon last meeting, along with the veggie broth base.  Today we had a quorum to elect potatoes for thickening the soup. Garlic made the flavoring short list, but celery was voted out.  Peas, tomatoes, and onions were overruled on procedural grounds.

Baa bah humbug, have you any soup?  Yes, sir, yes, sir, three crockpots full. Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,  pease porridge in the pot nine days old.



© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Not nuts

Early staff meeting today, so I have no business even sitting down at the computer, let alone looking up the proper spelling of squirrely.  

squirrely

 [skwur-uh-lee, skwuhr- or, especially Brit., skwir-]  

If this meeting goes as poorly as the last one, I'll be visualizing my special place.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

The difference is night and day

"He doesn't do that when the staff feeds him," says the hospice nurse. That being coughing, choking, and growling loudly to clear his throat. That is also taking forty minutes to an hour to eat a meal.

I help Dad at supper because it's easier for me to have a task.  When I visit, any time between four and seven p.m., Dad usually doesn't talk, and if he does, he doesn't make sense.  He stares into space, and often won't get his hands out from under the blankets. So I cut his food, put bites on the fork, help hold the coffee cup so he doesn't drench himself, and wipe his chin when he misses his mouth. I raise my arms in the air when he chokes so he will mirror the action.

The dear aide, Big Red, confirms that Dad growls, and she is more than willing to feed him his supper.  Let the pros handle it, all the staff seems to say.  Let the pros handle it, my siblings chime in.

Made a surprise visit to see Dad before work.  He had finished breakfast, and wasn't growling.  He spoke audibly in complete sentences.  His eyes were bright.  He answered my questions clearly and directly.  He said it isn't because of me that he has trouble with supper.  He asked me to please come back after work.

So I did.  He was being spoon-fed by an aide with his hands in the blankets and dull eyes turned toward the Aggies/Sooners game.  The aide was anxious to leave.  Dad coughed, choked, and growled.  He didn't say a word.

Is this the phenomenon known as "sundowners syndrome"?  I don't know. The light level is still bright with Dad's west window. Is it fatigue?  He sleeps much of the day.  Is it noise levels?  I don't think it is just me.

Sunrise, sunset, sundowners?

Sunrise, sunset, 
Sunrise, sunset,
Swiftly fly the years, 
One season following another, 
Laden with happiness, 
And tears

Image borrowed from Root Cause Analysis Blog.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

We admitted we were powerless over fabric stores

Just when did my therapeutic meanderings between the calico and corduroy cross over to the dark side? It started so innocently, choosing festive fall prints to sew ninety napkins for students, staff, and real family.  The sound of the winding bobbin got my blood rushing. The smell of hot, steamy pressed-open seams was driving me wild!  True, it is difficult descending the dank ladder into the sewer of true sewing addiction when no amount of squinting can get a needle threaded.


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

depredations and depravity

This week's duel between book and audio book is almost as strange as last week's.  My choices are unusually gory for me, but work as restorative escapism seriously needed.

I can't seem to quit reading The Hypnotist even though there are no likeable characters, the crimes are incredibly gruesome, and the writing makes me feel like I have a groggy flu.  That could be the effect of a collaboration read in translation, or maybe I should take my temperature.

In the car, I can't log enough miles listening to Empire of the Summer Moon.  Since the audio book has eighteen cds, it may run longer than my old Buick has miles left.  The history of the Comanches and Quanah Parker is also full of  torture of captives and horrible cruelty.

Both books are full of depredation, deprivation, and depravity.  I hauled out the Big Red Dictionary, but to save time this morning I'll go with the Online Etymology Dictionary information:

• depredation   late 15c., from M.Fr. déprédation, from L.L. depraedationem (nom. depraedatio) "a plundering," from pp. stem of L. depraedari "to pillage," from de- "thoroughly" (see de-) + praedari "to plunder," lit. "to make prey of," from praeda "prey" (see prey).
• deprave   late 14c., "corrupt, lead astray, pervert," from O.Fr. depraver (14c.) or directly from L. depravare "distort, disfigure;" figuratively "to pervert, seduce, corrupt," from de- "completely" (see de-) + pravus"crooked." Related: Depraved; depraving.
• depravity   1640s; see deprave + -ity. Earlier in same sense was pravity, from L. pravitas.
• deprivation   mid-15c., "removal from office or position," from M.L. deprivationem (nom. deprivatio), noun of action from pp. stem of deprivare (see deprive).
• deprived   1550s, "dispossessed," pp. adj. from deprive. As a euphemism for the condition of children who lack a stable home life, by 1945.

So, in this literary week of plunder and perversion, I will close with two lighter notes.  First you may need the lyrics for "Dear Officer Krupke" from "West Side Story".

DIESEL: (Spoken, as Judge) In the opinion on this court, this child is depraved on account he ain't had a normal home. 

  ACTION: (Spoken) Hey, I'm depraved on account I'm deprived.   

Second, it pleased me no end to hear that my neighbor's little girl somehow got her Halloween wig stuck in a ceiling fan. These things happen!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Sensory dep

Pinned new posters on Dad's nursing home room walls.  He had been looking at Georgia O'Keeffe and Richard Diebenkorn for months with no say in the matter.  Dad says nothing about most matters when he has the option. His eyes seem to be sucking new input data from these posters, or else he has gone blind.  I'm never sure.  He seems to be staring at the art, but not looking at his supper while he tries to feed himself with both hands at once.   With his right he lifts the coffee mug and tries to get the straw between his lips while simultaneously attempting to maneuver a teaspoon of chicken dumpling soup with his left.

I just play the part of the trampoline spotter, keeping my eye out so Dad doesn't slide off the bed or spill hot coffee on himself.  An ancient episode of M*A*S*H shows on the TV. Hot Lips needs an appendectomy.  Colonel Potter's horse is constipated. My brain is running in the background like a slow-moving antivirus scan trying to visualize tomorrow's clay project with the preschoolers.  My brain is grumpy because I haven't downloaded and installed either the important or optional updates.

Dad is pushing buttons on the TV remote.  He doesn't look at the gizmo in his hands.  He has no feeling in his fingertips.  The TV image is grainy, but the volume is high.

The posters are teaching materials, not nice museum prints.  One an arrangement of musicians as depicted by Matisse, Picasso, and Romare Beardon.  The other a boogie-woogie of traffic scenes, Mondrian paintings, and piano keys.  Dad is either looking or not seeing.  Clearing his throat with loud growls and hollers, but nothing to say in this matter.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder