Whatever You Are

It happened again. Has happened over and over and over. I depend on it. God never abandons me out there, high and dry, needing help that doesn’t show up.

On Thursday A.M. I didn’t want to leave the house. The prospect was daunting, too much to do. On Tuesday when I usually shop for soup kitchen, I was helping at the polls. Then on Wednesday when I ordinarily cook and refrigerate the main dish, I was sick. Now it was Thursday and I had to shop, cook, serve, clean up all in one morning. Impossible.

However, relying on history, I got out of bed, dressed, and hit my local Bottom Dollar. Experience has shown that when I need help, it’s just simply there. If I stand up and put one foot in front of the other, whatever I need to complete the job will appear on time.

An hour later, I pulled up at the church’s back door and groaned, all that heavy stuff to drag in. As I climbed out of my car, another pulled in behind me. A friendly voice said, “Let me get that.” Problem number one solved. A younger, healthier person carried in the groceries.

Problem number two. The menu called for spaghetti pie, a multi-step favorite that requires someone to hoist huge pots of hot water while someone else fries umpteen pounds of ground meat and a mountain of chopped onions and another mountain of chopped peppers.

A big, strong young man walked in the door, politely introduced himself and said that he’s been thinking about helping at soup kitchen, decided to give it a try. I’ve never seen him before in my life but there he was, in the knick of time, the just-right person.

By 1:00 P.M. it was over, all the food cooked and served. All the pots scrubbed and put back. Kitchen cleaned. Garbage carried out.

That young man is not a church person. When I told him that he’d been a miracle, sent by God, exactly on time, he looked uncomfortable. It’s true, though.

If I had on hand all the human miracles who “just happened to” show up at soup kitchen over the last five years, they’d stretch from here to Williamsburg. I’ve learned that as long as I’m willing to try, God will round up a posse. Part of the ongoing adventure of my life is that I get to see God in action, doing His work in the world.

Remember the miracle of the loaves and fishes? Well, God only needs a sack with a couple of buns and a can of tuna, some token of human willingness to participate. That would be me. And it easily can be you. Offer whatever you are.

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Who's The Holley Alternative?

Portsmouth creeps closer to the required number of signatures. A forced recall election would come after another 6.668 names. That has to be do-able given the amount of disgust for Mayor Holley.

If I were a Portsmouth resident, would I get out and help to collect signatures? Maybe. First I’d have to know of a suitable replacement for the man now masquerading as mayor. What’s the point of throwing out one goof in order  to make room for the next joke-in-office?

Public officials tend to make enemies. Even good people have angry constituents who’d love to turf them out. Sometimes those constituents are wrong. For example the Sharon McDonald-Doug Knack thing in Norfolk prior to last Tuesday. Mr. Knack was furious at Mrs. McDonald over the rate at which his wife’s business is taxed. He ran against her hoping to get her out…and he didn’t succeed. Most voters know Mrs. McDonald to be an outstanding public servant and want her to stay in office. Mr. Knack would not have been an upgrade to Mrs. McDonald. He used our political process in pursuit of personal advantage. Essentially, his presence on the ballot said, "It's about me."

Which brings us back to Portsmouth. Who’s the proposed alternative to Mayor Holley? A recall isn’t just about getting out the bad guy. More importantly, it puts someone better in office.

The problem in Portsmouth isn’t only that their mayor mistreated his staff. It’s that the taxpayers are underserved. It’s one little seaport town where I wouldn’t want to live. Crime is out of control. City services don’t function at a reasonable level. Portsmouth needs leadership that will say, “I’m going to fix this gangs-and-crime thing or die trying…and I’ll get your streets and street lights fixed, too. Count on it.”

A guy like that would be worth what it will take to ditch Mr. Holley. But is there such a person?

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Dog Brains

Some group has come up with two lists…the ten smartest dog breeds and the ten dumbest. Chihuahuas don’t appear in either category so I suppose that with exceptions up and down, they’re average.

Last time I went to see Ringling Bros. Circus here in Norfolk, one of my favorite acts featured a half dozen rescued Chihuahuas. Clearly those little mutts were having a good time, loved to perform. They were incredibly smart. The trainer said that dog pound Chihuahuas were his idea of the perfect dog. I agreed in spite of the fact that I have yet to teach my dogs anything.

Porque Choppe’s outstanding trait has nothing to do with IQ. It’s her devotion to one job, “I must sit on Ahno every minute of the day and night.” When I walk around the house, she’s directly behind my right heel. The instant I sit, she jumps up onto my lap, curls into a little circle and goes to sleep. She has a sweet and trusting face.

T-Bone is one of the smartest dogs I’ve ever met. He’s capable of plotting and scheming, plans his moves toward a desired result. And he carries grudges, does paybacks. The look on his face says, “Oh, yeah?” Cesar Milan says that dogs live in the moment. Not T-Bone. He takes the long view.

One of his best maneuvers happens when I’m sitting in front of the TV with a sack of chips. T-Bone runs to the front door, raging and barking, rushing in circles, squeaking frantically. Very dramatic. I used to jump up to see what was the matter. Not any more. Now I know that the second I’m out of the room, T-Bone runs back in, hops up on the sofa, grabs the sack of chips and hides under the chair in the corner., growling and showing his teeth. Slick.

T-Bone got mad at Lydia for shutting him out of the upstairs at her house. After waiting patiently for a careless child to come along and let him sneak through the baby gate, T-Bone ran upstairs and planted a revenge poop in the center of the duvet on Lydia’s bed. Because the poop blended with the duvet’s colors, Lydia didn’t notice until she found herself sitting in doggie doo. She’d gone up in search of a quiet place to answer e-mails on her laptop. There sat T-Bone, watching, just out of reach, a smarmy, smirk on his evil little face, “Gotcha.”

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Prose On The Way

OK. This is the day I start my annual mad dash through November in service to Nanowrimo, National Novel-Writing Month.

Yes, I’m making a late start. Ordinarily I’d be ten thousand words into the job. This year I’m over-scheduled, up to my ears in commitments, every day something else I promised to do.

What sort of book will I produce in November of 2009? I’ve already done a paranormal horror story, a murder mystery, a story of suburban homeowner competition, a tale of alien abduction, a mean-spirited but comedic and mostly fictional tell-all about local big shots.

This year? I’m going to detail my process, how I went from hyper-employed worker to side-lined grandma, watching life from the audience. A bit of biography.

Once under the influence of Nanowrimo, it’s all about writing. When not writing, I lie on the sofa, mentally composing more paragraphs…until I can’t stand it, have to get up and type some more.

Will any of these books ever see publication? No. I do this because it’s fun. Also, I have to help Lydia by periodically e-mailing her, “Now I’m up to **,*** words,” infuriating her into further effort. She actually writes books that appear in book stores. However, while home schooling small children, she has very little time to write. Uses Nanowrimo to first-draft the skeleton of her next book. My word count reports annoy her forward.

So this morning I’m off to soup kitchen. Then…home to start the tale of how a fire-breathing people mover turned into an old person by the side of the road. I used to be able to fry bystanders with my excess electricity. Around me, things got done, people took their hands out of their pockets and got busy. Today?  I’m just the chubby old lady over there in a rocking chair.

You can tell this book will be fraught with suspense, right? ;-)

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Won Some. Lost Some.

Yesterday. Election Day. Porque Choppe and I spent two hours handing out literature at Stuart School in Colonial Place.

Thank you to those who took a few minutes to chit-chat. More thanks to all the folks who voted for Sharon McDonald. Doug Knack sent a guy who stuck signs directly in front of all the McDonald Signs. Haha, y’all, you got 25% of the vote, and Sharon won with 75%.

Interesting. No Republicans showed up. Zero. Not one. No literature. No smiling faces. Nothing. However four Democrats worked the Stuart School polling place…a gentleman who’s a personal friend of Sharon McDonald, Mrs. Nusbaum, and me…and Porque Choppe.

A man with ties to CNN did exit polling. I told him that our neighborhood was going to support Democrats. He ignored me. Maybe next election he’ll pick a more uncertain venue.

After a while I could spot Republican voters before they refused Democratic hand-outs. Republicans had short hair cuts, walked rapidly, didn’t want to stop and talk.

Statewide, Republicans won. But at least Norfolk kept Sharon McDonald on the job.

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Gloom And Doom?

Have you ever thought about killing yourself? Of course you have. Everyone does, at least briefly. However, a disproportionate number of senior citizens actually do it. They’re the most at-risk age group.

Is your mom living alone, doesn’t get out much, spends whole days without seeing a soul, not hearing the sound of a live human voice? “I call her,” you say. Probably not good enough. She needs to see you.

Grandma doesn’t want to leave her home? She has a better chance of living her natural life span if you cuff her and stuff her into a home with other people. Yes, she’ll cry, she’ll be mad at you and leave her money to a home for parrots. On the other hand, she won’t be likely to kill herself hoping to escape unbearable loneliness.

How can you tell if Grandpa’s reaching the limit of his endurance? Day after day in that house all by himself. What’s your clue that you’ve got to make him either check into a home or invite Cousin Bubba to share his house?

1) Watch out if a senior loved one stops taking an interest in things that normally would perk him up. “Dad, wanta come to the movies with us?” “No thanks.” Go roust him out of that house and make him accompany you even if he complains.

2) Is Mom really unwell, can’t get around like she used to, is too sick to go places with you, has an incontinence problem? Stuff like that can tip the balance for seniors. They give up, don’t want to live any more.

3) Has Grandma started giving away her things? “Yes,” you agree, “but that’s because she’s getting ready to move in with her sister.” Maybe, but it’s also something people do before eating a whole bottle of their meds.

An article in today’s paper detailed the warning signs, and I gave myself a mental once-over. I live by myself, spend days not seeing or hearing another soul. I’m sick all the time. I’ve pared my possessions down to a bare minimum.

Am I depressed, telling myself that life’s too much trouble? No. Quite the reverse. I’m, as always, curious, sure that interesting things will happen today like they do every other day.

We all have moments of boo-hooing over our pitifulness. But…what seems too much to bear today, will likely improve if you give yourself time. Meanwhile, read an interesting book. Call the people who have forgotten to call you. If you still drive, get in the car and go where someone needs help more than you do.

Once you’re dead, that’s how it’s going to be forever. While you’re still alive, you have the power to change things. Don’t give up.

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This And That

1) Five times in two days. That’s how often the Democratic Party called, nagging me to canvas, do phone calls, hand out literature at the polls. Pester, pester, pester.

The fifth caller got a blast he didn’t deserve. I was disgusted, “Whadaya want from me…blood? I canvassed already, in Park Place no less, and after dark when nobody with a lick of sense would go there. But that’s when people are home, so it’s the most productive time and I did it. Am I the last Democrat left standing? Nobody else you could call?”

Mr. Caller persevered and I caved. Tomorrow Porque Choppe and I will be at my local polling place, handing out literature.

Bottom line…the Democratic Party’s in a panic. Creigh Deeds, with no chance whatsoever, falls victim to a silly, negative, idea-free campaign.

The rest of the Democratic slate, good people, will certainly get my vote.

2) On Sunday afternoon I attended a Virginia Symphony performance. The concert started with Sadie and Benny who played in the lobby pre-performance.

Does your child/grandchild deserve a first-class music education? Call the Academy Of Music…gifted teachers who love their work.

3) Let me put in a good word for going the distance. Work, work, work, but it’s satisfying.

Yesterday, for after-church coffee hour, I started at 2:00 A.M. Corn-ham-onion-red pepper muffins/ cheese-pepperoni-stuffed green olive appetizers/ roast beef-cheese-black olive munchies/ biscuit-hotdog pigs in a blanket/ biscuit-tuna salad-onion canapés/ triscuit-cheese-crab salad-parsley appetizers/ apple-cheese toothpicks/ strawberries on a toothpick/ red pepper slices with blue cheese dip/ mini pizzas/ mini pecan tarts.

So… most of the congregation stayed for an hour of munching, talking, laughing, hugs, handshakes. Caught up with friends. Met new people. All good.

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Nothing But A Tool?

“You’re nothing but a tool,” he says. That’s how the host of TV’s “Tool Academy” kicks another guy under the bus. Tool. Like that’s a bad thing.

Well, I like tools. Some of my best friends are tools. Yesterday I bought a new one. Only a little citrus reamer but it makes a difference.

Where would I be without my little buddies in the kitchen? The most-used one is good old Kitchen-Aid, my mixer. That thing’s as old as dirt; I’ve run it several times/week for over forty years. Looks all beat up but it still works like a new one.

At 4:00 A.M. today it whipped up a batch of meringue which I then piped onto baking sheets. That explains the pile of edible bones ready to go to Lydia’s home recital later this morning.

Meringue bones complete, Kitchen-Aid started a batch of pizza dough. I have thirty little pizzas all set to bake. Kitchen-Aid does good work.

Now I have to gouge out the center of a red cabbage which will be a salsa holder in the middle of a platter of blue corn chips. That’s a job for one of my extra small paring knives. I use them every day.

After that’s ready, I’ll make vegan hot dog and biscuit dough mummies. For this I’ll need a spatula, something else that seldom gets a day off.

My home is full of well-loved tools. The work room holds four different sewing machines complete with an array of accessories. Then the little gadgets…like a bodkin, something I never think of until suddenly I desperately need it.

My office includes computers and a printer. Downstairs I keep my main computer and printer and scanner. All good, reliable tools. The other day Lydia said, “You deserve a new computer, something really fast. Why not get one?” Answer: Because this one and I…we have history. No, it isn't fast, but then...neither am I.

The garage? Full of lawn/garden tools. The laundry? Home to tools for cleaning floors, clothing. Good stuff.

You call your worthless boyfriend a “tool?” If he had any sense, he’d smile and say, “Thanks.”

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Deck The Porch

Is it just me or are there fewer decorated homes this Halloween? I’ve been taking the Chihuahuas for extra walks in an effort to scope out my neighborhood and I find relatively few decorations. In other years a number of homes shone with as much light-up décor as at Christmas. Not this time.

I understand reluctance to set out pumpkins because Colonial Place is haunted by pumpkin smashers. But where are the fake bats, ghosts, skeletons, witches, spider webs, spooks? Stuff like that doesn’t run up the electric bill and you can’t easily smash it. Mine roost in the garage from year to year. Did everyone else just toss theirs out last Nov. 1?

Anti-Halloween piety strikes me as hypocritical. In order to be a sincere Halloween avoider, a person would also have to skip the Harry Potter books and movies. No scary films of any kind, not even the old black and white Dracula and Frankenstein. No Lord of the Rings on film or in print. None of the C.S. Lewis kids’ classics. No Eregon dragon stories. No fantasy literature at all. None of the Disney standards like Fantasia, Cinderella, Snow White, Aladdin, Beauty and The Beast, etc. Nothing magical or imaginative. And who lives like that?

Yesterday an acquaintance of mine said, “I didn’t put up decorations because I don’t want strangers on my porch. I live in a bad neighborhood. As a matter of fact, I drive my kids to a better neighborhood for trick-or-treat.” I said, “So you don’t give out candy but you expect others to give candy to your children?”

Another acquaintance told me, “Now that I’m retired, I can’t afford trick-or-treats for kids. That might not seem like a lot of money to you, but it is to me.” She was smoking at the time and I know that she keeps beer in the fridge.

Then, yesterday at Harris Teeter I saw an old lady trying to hoist a great big pumpkin. When I offered to help, she said, “It’s for my three grandkids. We have a little tradition. By the time the kids arrive, I get the top off and clean out the seeds. Then they reach into a sock and draw for who does what. One child carves the eyes, one does the nose and one does the mouth. My jack-o-lantern’s a family project.”

A grandma after my own heart.

(Thank you to Archie Whitehill, neighborhood photographer extraordinaire, for the photo.)

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Let’s Not Underestimate Ourselves.

Yesterday I received a letter from Citigroup ordering me to buy FEMA insurance immediately. Why? Because I live in an area vulnerable to storm surge now and to polar melt by 2100.

I have to admit that this year repeatedly brought high water close to Casa Ahno.

Maybe slowed ocean current leaves extra water in Chesapeake Bay. Maybe change in the direction of ocean current drove warm water into the Arctic Circle. Maybe greenhouse gases burned off enough ozone to expose our  polar ice cap. Perhaps sun flares caused Santa’s Workshop to melt into a swamp up there at the north…forcing the elves to slog around in hip boots. Al “Noah” Gore shouts to the skies, “Yet forty days and forty nights and a flood will cover the earth.”

This website caught my attention. For Norfolk, their worst case scenario places most of town under water during a storm surge. Their best case brings ducks into my back yard along with muskrats and marsh reeds by mid century.

Since mid-century will find me part of the topsoil, why do I care? And about Citigroup, I’ll be rid of them in a few years at the rate of double mortgage payments each month. And all the FEMA insurance in the world won’t prevent floods.

Nevertheless, I will call FEMA. And  I'll live a greener life.

During a long-ago crisis over dirty, filthy Lake Erie, my uncle, the engineer, detailed damage and despaired of solutions. He said, “Too late. It’s dead. Give up.” But a few visionaries soldiered onward and now the Lake’s once more a nice place to swim. Fish thrive.

When I was a kid, the Allegheny Mountains were brutally, hideously  scarred by left-behind strip mines. Now, thanks to firm resolve on the part of a few loud-mouths, every one of them a Democrat, the mess disappeared.

Decisive action scleaned up Lake Erie, re-beautified the mountains.  Maybe we could also save Norfolk from rising ocean water. Let’s not underestimate ourselves.

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