… a time to chortle … enjoying MoNdeGrEenS

I was supposed to be busy folding laundry, but instead I was peeking at friends’ and families’ blogs. During this diversion, I read an entry that made me laugh out out (lol in textspeak.) It seems that my neighbor’s children were perusing a Disney catalog of available DVDs, and the conversation went like this:

Daughter: “LOOK! Incredibles! (Or whatever movie she was looking at.) We [have] never seen that one!”

Son: “That’s Prince of Diarrhea!”
(Otherwise known to the rest of the world as Princess Diaries.)

First of all, I hope she doesn’t mind that I copied and pasted the dialog; and secondly, wouldn’t you know a boy – even a little one – is the author of a potty reference – even if unintentionally? But that’s NOT the focus of this post! (WHEW! You breathe in relief!)

Besides laughing at the incident, I recognized her son’s comment as a “mondegreen.” A what? Well, according to one of my favorite references, The Word Snoop: A wild and witty tour of the English Language! by Ursula Dubosarsky, a mondegreen is “what happens when we hear words without reading them and our brains have to work out what we think is being said or, more often, sung.”

The term was coined in 1954 by the writer Sylvia Wright. When she was young she misheard her mother recite a line from a poem:

“They have slain the Earl of Murray,

And they laid him on the green.”

which she heard as:

“They have slain the Earl of Murray,

And the Lady Mondegreen.”

OH NO! Not Lady Mondegreen, too?

Naturally, I recalled a couple of mondegreen experiences – not nearly as humorous as the Prince of Diarrhea, but memorable, for some reason. An old family story revolves around my sister Connie’s concern about starting kindergarten at Losin’ Clark Elementary School.

I can just picture what she thought was going on at an educational institution that loses people. Maybe teachers just misplaced students named Clark, but it still would give rise for worries, especially for a 6-year-old! With relief, she ended first grade knowing how to read, and therefore, learned that she attended Lewis and Clark Elementary! That tidbit clarified everything: It was LEWIS who lost Clark while exploring the great northwest!

I’m not immune to this condition either. I often “mishear” lyrics to songs, and I always have – even when I was younger and had better hearing, AND lyrics were less complicated: “She loves you. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” – for example.

Nowadays, as I listen to FM100 or 97.9, The Breeze, I hear several of Sheryl Crow’s many songs. One title I particularly enjoyed was “As God is My Hero!” What a wonderful sentiment! I thought as I listened to Sheryl sing the refrain. But then I heard it again, and thought she was considering God’s gender as she sung “As God is My DIVA!” Finally one day, I heard the DJ announce, “That was Sheryl Crow singing “The First Cut is the Deepest.”

WHAT???

I’m not really sure if this counts as a mondegreen experience or a hearing loss. But I’m standing by the mondegreen claim rather than entertaining the notion of buying hearing aids.

As I wind up this light topic, I am putting a call out to my many readers to share your experiences with mondegreens. I know my own grandchildren have come up with some doozies, but do you think I can remember what they are? (First the hearing and now the memory – what’s next? Sheeeeesh!)

Anyway, please search your family stories; talk with your spouses to see if you can come up with an example or two. Or grab a pencil and paper, tie it around your neck so that you are prepared to record the next humorous mondegreen that comes out of your little ones’ mouths – and if it has anything to do with potty humor, all the better!

See ya in the comment column!

May 23, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time and a season … an explanation

When a decade of yearly celebrations comes ’round, we humans often put a little extra into the revelry, whether they be birthdays, anniversaries, etc. For no other reason than that, I’ve determined that ten years equals a season. So, here I am 60-something; thus I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I am in “the SEVENTH season” of life – NOT the SIXTH; hence the corrected title of this blog. (I forgot that once you enter one decade or century, etc., time leaps into a higher round of numbers.)

While this more accurate title makes me feel older, I am convinced that psychologically it can work in my behalf. (See the comments that follow this update.) Another advantage is that the title won’t be so confusing. “The Sixth Season” was often referred to as The Sixth Sense. Even though I may write about those who have left this realm, that is not the purpose or theme of “Seventh Season.” SEASONS, not senses, are at the heart of my ideas.

While Mother Nature focuses upon 4 seasons, Ecclesiastes 3 teaches us that there are many more than those related to weather. “1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; 4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; 5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; 6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Taking my cue from this Old Testament author, “son of David, king in Jerusalem” (Eccl. 1:1), I plan to reflect upon my times and seasons. While Ecclesiastes looks into “the deepest problems of life,” and is “permeated with a pessimistic flavor,” my purpose is to see the light, the love, the larks, and lessons of life and reflect upon them. So, read on …

May 21, 2009
by rbs 6 Comments

… a time to weep and a time to laugh… (or I didn’t think I looked my age until …)

In 2002, Jamie Lee Curtis, former True Lies hottie and current Activia spokesperson, blasted the media’s perfection myth by posing in her modest underwear, sans makeup and Photoshop’s glamorizing touch-ups. Nora Ephron, writer and director of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, “feels bad about her neck,” and so she wrote an essay about its metamorphosis into a wattle.

While I applauded these celebrities’ willingness to face gravity’s heavy embrace, I chose to duck into clouds of delusion. Enjoying gasps from acquaintances who expressed disbelief that I could be the grandmother of 10, I thought I was successfully dodging Time’s plundering depredation.

But then the day came when I joined the madding crowds clamoring for friends through social networks. Unless you choose the anonymity of such sites’ blue silhouettes, it is necessary to post an image of yourself to accompany witty or sage comments.

Me as Jane Austen

At first, I thought I would remain incognito and choose a caricature of sorts. So I perused the galleries of Flickr.com to find a facsimile of Jane Austen, donned in clothes worthy of a trip to Bath. Her facial features, however, were not far removed from those of the blue silhouettes.

Me as a Victorian romance-writer

Next, I stumbled upon the likeness of a romantic Victorian lady writing, but I could hear echoes of my sons’ guffaws at my choice as they asked, “What the freak????

Glamour photo courtesey of the DMV

Eventually, my search for the perfect picture led me to my driver’s license, issued in 2004. Yes, that’s right – my DMV glamour photo! By a stroke of luck, a decent camera angle, a pretty good hair day, and a limited number of pixels, I have a picture ID to be proud of. And I don’t miss an opportunity to show it to any checker at any grocery store or any security attendant at any airport! I’ve even requested that the photo be published along with my obituary when that need arises.

In the meantime, I scanned, cropped, and uploaded the photo onto my computer and pasted it everywhere: My Google profile, my 3 Ning accounts, and Facebook! When long-lost friends found me on FB, I loved reading, “Cute picture!” or “You look fantastic!” I even laughed when my boss, who sees me every day, accused me of cheating because I used a glamour photo.

But then the proverbial “moment of truth” came when my daughter-in-law “tagged” a current photo of me, taken at my grandbaby’s recent birthday party. I knew that anyone viewing that picture would know I was suffering from the “Oprah Effect” – no matter what the day-time diva looks like on the TV screen, Oprah remains svelt and ageless on every cover of O Magazine.

So, in the spirit of Jamie Lee, Nora, and Susan Boyle, too, I decided to publish pictures that reveal the real! Friends, please don’t think I’m feeling sorry for myself or seeking reassurance that I “don’t look that bad” because that’s not the point of this post. I am merely laughing at with myself for a variety of reasons.

Nice grimace!?!

Moment of Truth #1: Profiles don’t lie. In spite of 20 lost pounds, the double double is still hangin’ around! And I thought the new hair-do was flattering. Let’s rethink that one! At least there’s a cute guy sitting on my lap!

In the ample arms of love

Moment of Truth #2: Cap sleeves don’t cut it after age 40. In Utah, 70% of the women call arms like mine “Relief Society arms,” named after the women’s organization of my church. (I wonder if Baptist, Presbyterian, Catholic, and Methodist women nick-name these appendages “church-lady” arms)

FYI: Global warming is the result of millions of female baby boomers' hot flashes. Now am I a candidate for a Nobel?

Female Baby-boomers: Known source of global warming!

Moment of Truth #3: You’re not experiencing a hot FLASH; it’s a freakin’ heat WAVE!!! FYI: The onset of global warming coincided with the advancing ages of millions of female Baby-Boomers. And for heaven’s sakes, Girl, don’t wear pink blush! In this condition, YOU DON’T NEED IT! (But isn’t that baby adorable? Awww!)

So, that’s it! Oh, there are many more pix in the mix, and I really have to chuckle at how I see myself when I’m NOT looking. If I truly examine these photos, I’ll pass by the pudginess and see the playfulness; I’ll see joy, not jowls; and I’ll look at the love, not the love handles. Besides, in 20 years or so, I’ll sort through this collection and say to myself, “And I thought I looked OLD in those pictures!”

May 14, 2009
by rbs 5 Comments

“… a time to [‘dislike’] …” hate is such a harsh word

Don’t be deceived by this furball!

May I say that I loathe voles? First of all, the name is so ugly: V–O–L–E. (Can you hear the disdain in my voice?) I had never heard of these creatures until moving to the western desert of Utah in 2004. Upon hearing the vile name, I concluded they were a cross between vampires and moles – hence the name. But then I saw the evidence of their existence: crop circles.

Yes, there in my backyard were two perfectly round circles. The largest measured about 9 feet in diameter, while the little one was only 5 feet across. Perplexed at the site, I initially dismissed the possibility of aliens, but when I considered the alternative – pranksters who sneak onto private property to create circles with tiny lawnmowers – the alien idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

At the time, Hubby was also unfamiliar with voles, and he guessed that gophers were to blame. I disagreed saying those varmints were totally unfamiliar with geometry, but then again, they do like golf and we live next door to a course.

When I asked our neighbors, I learned the ugly truth: Voles had landed in our yard and only our yard! As I understand it, they came from Volecan, a far-away planet that is slowly dying.

Originally their appearance reflected their name – very hideous, but they quickly shape-shifted into something akin to field or meadow mice. I guess they received some kind of intel that included glimpses of Mickey Mouse or Ratatouille and mistakenly thought we earthlings would welcome them or at least ignore them. Of course this was phase 1 of their ultimate plan. You see if we ignored them, they could repopulate at such a rapid rate, they would take over the earth in less than a decade.

But the Voles underestimated our dislike of pesty aliens who mess up lawns and gardens! Hubby and I immediately hired a Vole-Slayer, and none-too-soon! The repopulation was progressing at a terrific rate. THEY WERE EVERYWHERE!

I wish I could say that was the end of the Vole Invasion, but it wasn’t. I’m afraid the hired Vole-Slayers resorted to chemical warfare that fateful summer. And while the tactic exterminated many of the creatures, some obviously survived as evidenced by what we found after 11 feet of snow melted this year.

The Voles have returned, but they are not the same as their fore-creatures. While they may still look like cute little field mice, the chemicals definitely affected the survivors of the 2004-05 war against them. Instead of perfect crop circles, our backyard now looks like a miniature corn maze – dozens of crazy paths weaving and winding through our lawn – our once beautiful, lush Kentucky bluegrass.

We don’t dare risk hiring the Vole-Slayers again for fear of what the fuzzy, frenzied fur-balls might mutate into, but I’ve heard a former dolphin trainer has invented a sonar system, currently available at Home Depot, that makes yards uninhabitable for Voles and the like. While this may not kill them off, it may force them to look for another planet upon which they can reek havoc!

May 12, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

“… a time to embrace …” love in the spring

I subconsciously performed a little experiment this week, and it proved most interesting. For three days, flats of petunias, snapdragons, and lobelia patiently awaited planting in the tree island of my front yard. During those 72-plus hours, no one stole them, nor did anyone plant them. I now know I have honest neighbors who can’t take a hint! Oh well, I got up early this morning, and like the Little Red Hen, planted them myself.

The experience was actually delightful and didn’t take nearly as much time as my procrastination did: One hour of planting as opposed to 3 days of putting it off. Of course, there’s more to be done, but now I’m in the groove – or the burrow, if we’re going with gardening metaphors.

Before digging the first hole, however, I was distracted by two enormous earthworms caught up in a romantic moment! I tried to pretend I didn’t see them to save embarrassment on all sides; I couldn’t help but be amazed by this intimate scene.

First of all, I didn’t realize worms made love. Thinking back to Mr. Waldron’s biology class, I seem to remember that these slimy creatures could be cut in half and regenerate into two shorter, but distinct entities. Further contemplation, however, led me to doubt that the Lumbricus terrestris wriggle into the paths of oncoming shovels, hoping to be chopped in two in order to multiply and replenish the earthworm world.

This morning’s observation proved that these blind, cold-blooded hermaphrodites embrace each other to repopulate their species. I’m not really surprised that they have a romantic side; after-all, they have 7 hearts, don’t they? But then there’s this thought: What if the lovers were originally 2 parts of the same worm? Now that is really kinky!

Okay, I know some of you are shaking your head wondering why in heaven’s name I would ever waste so many words on the love-lives of two earthworms holed up in my garden. If you’ve ever read Diary of a Worm by Doreen Cronin and Harry Bliss, you’ll understand. These slimers can be very interesting, and they serve mankind in important ways. Why even Charles Darwin spent 39 years studying them!

If this entry hasn’t fulfilled your curiosity about earthworms, I suggest that you first build your background knowledge by visiting the Worm Facts website and then dive into the aforementioned autobiography, Diary of a Worm.

Maybe tomorrow I will disturb a praying mantis couple before the wife polishes off hubby. Ooooh! Sexual situations and violence! Here’s a PG-13 preview if you can’t wait!

May 6, 2009
by rbs 5 Comments

… a time to expire …

What is the big deal about expiration dates? I think these additions to food stuffs have created an atmosphere of hysteria. I didn’t grow up with “sell by —” or “best by–” dates stamped on milk. We just used the old sniff test. If it smelled yukky or poured out in clumps, we figured we shouldn’t drink it. Likewise, left-overs fermented in the fridge until they stunk it up or turned green, blue, or gray. If none of those conditions existed, we drank or ate it and lived to write about it.

And I had no idea that spices had a shelf life. I so rarely use oregano, all spice, poultry seasoning, etc. that one small can lasts decades. I thought organizing the tiny tins and bottles on tri-level shelves was going above and beyond spice control until my daughters-in-law started sorting through my kitchen.

The conversation started with, “How long has this been in here?” I checked out the container of lasagne and shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

“If you can’t remember, it’s been way too long!” she added ss she handed it to me. I realized she expected me to dump it into the garbage, but I had never thrown out food that wasn’t discolored. I always made sure those scores of Tupperware containers of left-overs bulged with fermented gases before scraping them into the disposal. Waiting for that corrupted state created guilt-free waste, for heaven’s sake.

Then there was the day another daughter-in-law started picking through the spice cupboard. “Hmmmmm,” I heard her quietly mutter.

“What?” I challenged.

“Wow, I didn’t think Safeway made Crown Colony spices anymore,” she smirked. “In fact, I don’t know of any Safeways that are still in business.”

No comment.

“Wow, there’s not even an expiration date on this nutmeg!”

“Well, there you go,” I wanted to say. “It’s still good!” But I didn’t get the chance, and I watched the rusted antique container drop from sight as it settled in next to the expired salad dressing bottles, moldy sour cream, and brown lettuce.

“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” Right?

May 1, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time to wonder … about Daddy & dying

As a youngster, I hoped that ghosts were only ideas for popular Halloween costumes or subjects of comic books, like that cute little Casper. I didn’t like to think that a wavy, transparent rendition of my grandpa might show up at the foot of my bed “one dark and stormy night.” And I hated the idea that the steam fogging over the windows of my old boyfriend’s Chevy may not be the result of our teenage passion but rather an outlet for my grandmother’s wrath as she attempted to scold me from the other side.

Although I didn’t want to believe in ghosts, I can’t say I didn’t believe in them. Some think ghosts and spirits are the same thing, but I don’t envision spirits making many trips from the spirit world; whereas ghosts seem to show up anywhere at anytime. When enough people share a sufficient number of stories about visiting apparitions, possibilities sneak into the listeners’ thoughts, dreams, and imagination. Nevertheless, I never asked for living proof; I was content to wonder. And then my sweet daddy died.

He left us in the middle of a September night in 2007. He was 83 years old. Mom, my sis, and I huddled around his bed, holding his hands, waiting for the last labored breath to signal his good bye. But when it came, it wasn’t his final farewell. Seconds after his lungs emptied, shards of lightning shattered the dark, and rolls of thunder heralded his leaving. Since that night, I’ve longed for the spirit or ghost of my father-past to drop in for a minute or more. Is that a ridiculous wish?

It’s interesting how losing someone you love so much rearranges fears. I am no longer afraid of the possibility of spirit visitors, but I am afraid of the impossibility of them. Or at least I was. Lately little things have been happening to blow away those tiny motes of doubt that float in with sweet memories. And it’s not like I have been consciously seeking reassurances either. They’ve just come – unexpectedly, randomly, and subtly.

The first one came in the form of a story – well, a novel, actually. For the second time, I checked out The Lovely Bones from the library. I couldn’t get past chapter one the first time I listened to the audio tape, but friends recommended that I give Alice Sebold’s debut novel another chance. Although there are many painful parts of this remarkable tale, a beautiful tenderness soon emerges from Susie’s other-worldly “watch care” over her family and friends. Her interactions with them are only possible because of her love for them, and it’s the best kind of love, as it is grounded in who they are and who they are not. By the time I finished the last chapter, I believed in the characters, and I believed in their experiences.

The second little reassurance emerged from a more expected source: church. Last Saturday evening, a well-known and beloved religious leader visited our congregation, and when he rose to speak to us, he announced that he felt prompted to share an experience that he had never spoken of publicly. And then he talked of a time when he left this life to visit the beautiful and peaceful realm beyond this one. Now I’ve read of near-death experiences where individuals see a bright light, and they are filled with warmth and a desire to stay in that state. But this was the first time I heard such a testimony from someone I know, someone I respect, and most importantly, someone I trust. This unusual experience reoccurred 3 more times in his life. I know I was not the only one in that chapel who needed to hear that message, but I do realize it was meant for me, too.

The latest chapter was delivered via email. I opened a “Teaching and Learning” newsletter that featured an essay by one of my favorite authors, Amy Tan. “Saying Thanks to My Ghosts”was submitted by the author as part of of NPR’s “This I Believe” series. Ghosts/spirits have visited Amy throughout her life, but she didn’t realize it, even when her mother recognized their unique contributions to Amy’s writing. Now if any mother could rend the veil between heaven and earth, it is Amy’s mother, and according to the author, she did!

So, there they are. Three little incidents that reminded me that ghosts or spirits can wander back and forth between worlds, and that is no longer frightening, it is comforting. I may not awaken one night to see Daddy sitting by my bedside, but we keep in touch through little messages sent through others or through warm rememberings, and quite often through dreams – some silly, some sweet.

I love you, Daddy, and I am happy that you are near.

April 29, 2009
by rbs Leave a comment

… a time to begin …

Why have I had such a tough time publishing this first post? I can compose an epistle for my professional blog; I can whip out Tweets on Facebook; I can even “wax poetically” when responding to all my Ning buddies. But creating something witty, wise, and wonderful on the site I’ve designated to be my web log, my personal journal, my diary, my life history, I’m stuck. Bogged down. Waist-deep in quicksand. Dead in the water. You get the point.

So here I am at 12:34 A.M. attempting once again to draft something, anything, everything. I lie awake at night composing entries, and they sound good until I sit down to face my Dashboard. I want to shift into first and start cruising, but here I am stuck in neutral, stringing together a list of cliches!

Even while I am writing about not being able to write, I am thinking of a thousand topics I could tackle. But none of them seem good enough for this first entry. Shouldn’t it be a topic that sets the tone, operates as a landmark, or ignites a world of interest for whomever stumbles upon this rambling wreck?

Alas, no such luck. The muse has forsaken me. Some ill force is against this noble endeavor. But I’ll fool him/her/it. I’ll publish something terribly mediocre, but at least I’ve begun!

Writing My Life

Now and Then