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Drastic times
Call for
Drastic Measures...
It started two weeks ago with a harmless chirp. A
tiny tweet. I heard it, but deep down in my bat cave, I was not alarmed.
My eccentric sonar-like echolalia informed me that a smoke detector
must be beeping...somewhere...
Those of you who read my blog on a regular basis,
already know, and those of you that do not really should. I have a
rather quirky relationship with smoke detectors. Actually, more
precisely, just ONE smoke detector.
The one in the bedroom.
The one I talk to.
Well, the one I talked too, once, a long time ago,
in the middle of the night, when I was all alone in the house, and
couldn’t sleep. I even made a little party out of being alone and ate
chips and crackers in bed while curled up with a good book, and ended up
with crumbs everywhere, and then had to get out the vacuum cleaner, and
then looked under the bed and had to find the vacuum attachments for a
really thorough cleaning, and about two hours later found myself wide
awake and irritable and staring at the ceiling.
At the smoke detector staring at me. So I yelled at it.
And it blinked back at me. A little red light.
We had a conversation. The smoke detector and I.
One blink for yes and two for no. We talked about life and love and
parenting, our fears, and whether a Dyson was the best vacuum in the
world, and it was a lovely conversation, as it made me feel so much
better that I fell asleep.
I was thankful for being watched over, tended to,
cared for day in and day out, that I began to wait for the red light to
blink good night.
It made me smile.
I mean where else in the world does anything care
that much about your personal safety, that it is willing to watch over
you, for the simple meal of a 9 volt battery once a year! Talk about a
cheap date!
However, taking someone or something for granted,
being negligent, not returning a favor, forgetfulness, can result in a
loss of trust.
May lead to a lack of quality assurance. Poor performance. Distancing. Separation and oh dear, even abandonment.
A little forgetfulness can lead to a little chirping.
And herein lies the moral of the story about to unfold:
A little chirping, one solitary blip, one miss, and
then another and another, is a recipe for disaster. For like all things
in life, it doesn’t take much for a small oversight to create a ripple
effect that can spiral out of control.
Week One: 11 PM. One chirp.
Week Two: 12 AM. Two chirps. 3AM.
Two much longer and more insistent.
Week Three:
The beginning of the wild goose battery chase. No
more chirping, now it is 11PM and the smoke detector in the bedroom is
screaming at the top of its lungs, or is it? Maybe it’s the one in the
hall. But wait, oh no, now the one in the guest bedroom is....the scream
slowly winds down like a leaking helium ballon with a slow whining
shriek. Okay. Okay. Ladder out. Change the battery of the smoke detector
in bedroom #1 and Lights Out.
Whew.
One hour later. Full on screeching. Screaming
alarms. Full tilt. Heart pounding OMG where is it coming from? It will
not stop. It will not stop. Maybe there IS a fire. Check the porch.
Check the attic. Check the stove. Are the red lights blinking? Some are
red. Some are green. Which one? All of them? Together? Get the ladder.
Find the batteries. Hurry this sound is piercing my pajamas and my
skull...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...it stops. Just like that.
Tiptoe. Walk on tiptoes. Pull back the
covers and slide in, eyes averted. Make no eye/blink contact. The smoke
detectors are detecting. The smoke detectors are on steroids. Shhh.
Don’t wake them. Maybe the new battery upset their equilibrium and since
they are all connected, yes connected, now they need to reach
electrical homeostasis. Balance. Smoke Detector Nirvana. A Zen State.
We need a ZZZZ state. A state of ZZZZ’s. Ah.
Three thirty AM. This is not a drill. This is not
rocket science. I smell a rat and leaping out of bed begin what will be a
two hour wild goose chase involving ladders and batteries and swearing
and cursing and hoping neither of us fall down and break a hip, because
no one would ever hear us screaming over THIS LOUD MIND BLOWING ENDLESS
SHRIEKING SCREAMING TIRADE.
At 4AM a thought belatedly crosses my mind. We have
an alarm system. Our smoke detectors are connected to it. Why is no one
calling? THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO HEAR IT IN THEIR OFFICES TEN MILES
AWAY. Nope. I called them. Nothing showing up on their screens.
NOTHING.
Ah. Their three, they remind me, are not yelling. The ones that are
yelling are the EIGHT other naughty children we installed to meet city
code. That means we have ELEVEN smoke detectors and only EIGHT are
screaming.
What a relief.
Not.
4:30 AM. I don my swimming ear plugs, my husband is
digging through the drawer for more 9 volts, and I decide to turn to
the Internet. The Internet knows everything. Even at 4:30AM. So I type
in my ardent search....
Why are my smoke detectors going off...in the middle of the night...and will ...not...stop...WILL NOT STOP!!
Aha! A forum. A chat room on smoke detectors that scream in the night. Ceaselessly. Endlessly. Help is near.
No.
Page after page of desperate pleas across
cyberspace. Over and over mindless pleading. Why oh why oh why? And then
like all chat rooms, some smart aleck fake electrical wizard posts a
two page directive on how to rewire your fusebox, disconnect and restart
and reboot and upload or was it download, and then the site blossoms
into line after line after line of profanity.
Followed by the extremely helpful and considerate
fellow who plays his punch line by simply
typing....Beep...Beep...Beep...and the profanity shatters the screen.
Five AM. It is quiet. We needed the REALLY TALL
ladder for the last one and we are trying not to bang into the walls
moving it back into the garage. We are bleary eyed and wary and not sure
if the siege is truly over. We are not speaking. We are not angry. We
are frightened. They might hear us. Shhh.
Besides. Dawn is peering in through the windows and the little devils
never chirp during the daytime.
Only in the middle of the night. Just
like when our kids were little. Projectile vomiting at
midnight. Night terrors at 2AM.
midnight. Night terrors at 2AM.
When morning comes, we sigh. Safe.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. NO!
I decide to call the only other people I know who
have a command of the keeping people safe at all costs protocol.. The
Fire Department. My husband refuses to call. He is embarrassed. But not
TOO embarrassed to coach ME while I call. I do not use the emergency
number and the woman who answers is an angel An angel, I swear. She
tells me that they deal with this all the time and she can send a
fireman out to help us.
Imagine that. Help is on the way.
And so is the bright red fully loaded firetruck.
Right in front of our house. And three fully armed and prepared for
battle firemen striding up the driveway. And our neighbors hovering
across the street looking on. I laugh and wave, then think, no, this is
SERIOUS and these men are here to HELP. But the fire truck? I hope the
smoke detectors can’t see it through the venetian blinds. They might
play dead and make us look very very foolish.
The firemen are kind. They are brave. They walk
right up to each and every one and stare them down. No yowl, no growl,
no shriek or whoop, not a wail. Not even a twitch or a chirp. Because.
The news is not good. The detectors are past their sell date. Kaput. The
aging virus has contaminated them all and they must be replaced.
Thus the firemen take OUR vitals, smile and wave good bye as we begin
the long and arduous surgical removal of EIGHT detectors and replace
them with new ones. Up and down the ladder once again. Out with the old
and in with the new. It takes almost all day. But when the lights go
out, we crawl in bed, and hold our respective breaths...silence.
The red light blinks at me. My husband carefully
read to me the information on the side of the package before
installation....the red light beeps every 40 seconds as a test.
So there.
But I know in my heart that we are responsible for
this fiasco. We should have returned their attention. Should have
checked much sooner. A little TLC on a regular basis. Some recognition
of service rendered. Attention paid.
So when I hear his snore, I crawl out of bed and
find the box in the garage with the tossed out detectors, and lean down
and say...
Thank you for your years of service.
As I climb into bed, I have one final task. I look up...
Welcome Home, I say.
Then I count...1..2..3...4..and at 5...not 40...
The red light blinks.
Never discount the power of kindness.
Or the importance of keeping the conversation fresh.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Mother Nature
Showers the Sky
With
Light after light after light...
Memorial Day fireworks, our traditional display of honor, cannot compare to the spectacular display overhead.
Tiny pinpricks of light.
Flashes of brilliance here and then gone.
Our heroes.
Our soldiers.
Those brave hearts lost to us forever.
It is the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend,
and soon festivities will begin. Barbecues, festivals, trips to the
Farmer’s Market, late night gatherings, friends and family huddled
nearby. Perhaps there will be a parade. A fireworks display.
A long weekend, a race at Indy, the goose bumps on
my arms as Jim Nabors sings “Back Home Again In Indiana” for the very
last time. Overhead, jets will buzz the infield. Thousands will doff
their hats and headgear, place hand over heart as the National Anthem
soars over the loudspeakers.
Did you take a moment?
To remember?
To recall that Memorial Day is a day to honor the
fallen. The lost. Those who will not return to us again. The names on
the graves, the known, and those who lie in fields marked by small white
crosses dotting the country side across the sea and here at home in
Arlington, the nameless. The soldiers at their posts guarding the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier.
Unknown.
It is our job, the ones left behind, to bless those who mourn, who weep, to remember them. To make them...
Known.
Known for their bravery, their steady
determination. their strength of character and their dedication to
preserving the welfare of a free nation.
Remember them not for where they fell, but for where they stood.
They stood up for you. They stood up for me.
If nothing else, look up at the night sky as the tiny lights flash and
stream. Perhaps Mother Nature does know best. Perhaps, She, felt we all
needed a reminder that they are still with us. Tiny pinpricks of light,
each a soul flying through the universe, sending us a glimpse of eternal
light.
Reach up. Raise a hand. Wave a greeting and you
just might catch one in the palm of your hand. Hold it close and be sure
to simply say...
Thank you.
And if you are a clumsy oaf like me and not particularly lucky when stargazing, do the next best thing....
Say it with your heart.
I remember you.
Comet 209P/Linear is transmitting a Memorial Day message.
Godspeed soldier. Godspeed.
Like every poppy in the field...
Each shooting star in the night sky...
We salute you...
With hand over heart.
We remember You.
Mother Nature
Showers the Sky
With
Light after light after light...
Memorial Day fireworks, our traditional display of honor, cannot compare to the spectacular display overhead.
Tiny pinpricks of light.
Flashes of brilliance here and then gone.
Our heroes.
Our soldiers.
Those brave hearts lost to us forever.
It is the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend,
and soon festivities will begin. Barbecues, festivals, trips to the
Farmer’s Market, late night gatherings, friends and family huddled
nearby. Perhaps there will be a parade. A fireworks display.
A long weekend, a race at Indy, the goose bumps on
my arms as Jim Nabors sings “Back Home Again In Indiana” for the very
last time. Overhead, jets will buzz the infield. Thousands will doff
their hats and headgear, place hand over heart as the National Anthem
soars over the loudspeakers.
Did you take a moment?
To remember?
To recall that Memorial Day is a day to honor the
fallen. The lost. Those who will not return to us again. The names on
the graves, the known, and those who lie in fields marked by small white
crosses dotting the country side across the sea and here at home in
Arlington, the nameless. The soldiers at their posts guarding the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier.
Unknown.
It is our job, the ones left behind, to bless those who mourn, who weep, to remember them. To make them...
Known.
Known for their bravery, their steady
determination. their strength of character and their dedication to
preserving the welfare of a free nation.
Remember them not for where they fell, but for where they stood.
They stood up for you. They stood up for me.
If nothing else, look up at the night sky as the tiny lights flash and
stream. Perhaps Mother Nature does know best. Perhaps, She, felt we all
needed a reminder that they are still with us. Tiny pinpricks of light,
each a soul flying through the universe, sending us a glimpse of eternal
light.
Reach up. Raise a hand. Wave a greeting and you
just might catch one in the palm of your hand. Hold it close and be sure
to simply say...
Thank you.
And if you are a clumsy oaf like me and not particularly lucky when stargazing, do the next best thing....
Say it with your heart.
I remember you.
Comet 209P/Linear is transmitting a Memorial Day message.
Godspeed soldier. Godspeed.
Like every poppy in the field...
Each shooting star in the night sky...
We salute you...
With hand over heart.
We remember You.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
All
Rolled
Up
Into
One...
Equals a lot of hot air desperate for escape and reminds me of...
Junior High
Stay with me here a minute.
Say it to yourself over and over like a mantra.
Junior High. Junior High. Junior High.
Remember? No? Wanna forget? Yeah.
The windy years. When everything blows up in your face, including
your face. You have an attractive picture of yourself from Junior High.
Nope? Didn’t think so. Did you know that it is a scientific fact that
with the onset of adolescence, one’s nose grows disproportionately
faster than the rest of one’s face which causes your appearance to
appear less than symmetrical. Now add the sprouting of facial hair, boys
AND girls, acne, boys AND girls, the painfully aching desire to stand
out and fit in at the same time, which leads to wild and sundry
experimentation with hair styles and clothing choices as upsetting to
your parents as possible, and you have...pictures that should be buried
in a landfill and never unearthed, especially if you are a candidate
running for office.
Junior High.
When the wind, which was once the rough and tumble frollicking breeze
of childhood, suddenly changes direction and only blows one way, and
anyone who disagrees with you is just plain stupid. Dense. Dumb.
Ignorant. Out of touch. Old.
Just like your parents.
Once the object of your affection, the source of your personal
safety, the cheerleaders at your side from crawl to walk to run. Your
personal chauffeurs, your buddy in the tent at camp, the nurse holding
your head so you won’t fall into the toilet while you heave over and
over in the middle of flu season. Your 24 hour ATM machines. Your Get
Out Of Jail Free Card thank God it’s only a dent and no one was injured
ambulance chasers.
Those parents. The ones who held your hand while you crossed the
street, now you beg to crouch down behind the steering wheel when they
drop you off at school. The ones with the black socks and the weird hair. Them. The ones who used to know everything, now know
nothing. Well, they know something. But they are so old. So out of
touch. So out of date. So inferior in intellect. So slow to change. So
unaware. Sigh.
It starts with the hot air of a sigh. Then eye rolling. Then shoulder
shrugging. Then an air of dismissal. And soon, it goes from hot air to
really steamy. And the venting begins. You don’t understand. You don’t
get it. You’re stuck in the past. Jeez. Please.
Leave. Me. Alone.
If you can’t or won’t or don’t agree with me, then you are, you must be, you surely are WRONG.
And as there are few Junior High pictures that any of us would care
to post, the parents of Junior High Schoolers rarely have pictures taken
during that same era that they would like published. For this is about
the time hair starts to fall out, balding patterns develop, crow’s feet
and worry lines are etched, blood pressure soars, sleep deprivation
develops and bad nutrition from eating while standing at the counter
after screaming up the stairs one last time begins. We, the parents, do
not worry about the poor, care little about the earth’s resources, wear
shoes made of leather, gasp, or drink tap water unaware of the
parasites leeching into our pores. We are politically incorrect,
intolerant of change, incapable of mastering technology, listen to the
Carpenters on the radio for God’s sake, and emit carbon willy nilly
while mowing the lawn.
It is at this point that the hot air swirls ever higher, rushes ever
faster and is soon a developing storm on the horizon. So we bend like
the trees, but we do not break. Because parents have been to the dark
side, remember those doomed days, can hear our own voices railing
against the parental machine and collapsing the day we heard the words
slip out of our own mouths followed by a slap to the forehead and...oh I sound like my mother...
You see, in the grown up world, the art of conversation is a two way
street. Or it used to be. With two people, standing on the same street,
face to face. Once upon a time in a land very far away, people spoke and
others listened. Then a pause and others listened while people spoke.
And guess what? They didn’t have to AGREE. Oh sometimes they did, and
sometimes they didn’t or sometimes they agreed to disagree, or to simply
avoid the arguments because they just wanted to spend some time being
TOGETHER.
Young and foolish is one thing. Older and intolerant is quite another.
Junior High.
On the Internet. In the marketplace. At school. On the highway. In
Tweets and on Facebook. Commentary on blogs and in social media. In
politics and across the globe. Across the fence into our neighbor’s
yard.
A lot of of hot, grandstanding, bull-throwing, gossip mongering, vile
and hurtful rhetoric. Hot air rising off hot headed blowhards. You knew
these people in Junior High. You know you did. Maybe you were even one
of them once upon a time. We all were. We all thought we knew it all.
And if you didn’t agree with ME, there was something wrong with YOU.
Well, I think I know how to let some of that hot air out of the
balloon. Just a small tiny leak. To let in a pinprick of light. Take the
Anonymity out of the Avatars and require that anyone posting a comment
state their real name, not some clever screen name, and in place of
their Avatar photo...post their Junior High school picture.
Be brave enough to put their braces, rat tails, Goth piercings, bad hair, geeky, goofy, and underdeveloped selves on display.
OR...a picture of the real you...the face you want the world to see...to match the voice you want the world to hear...
Then truly, let the wind blow, just the way it was meant to, in every direction…
I promise I’ll do it too...if I could just find that picture...I’m
pretty sure I used a lot of hairspray on my helmet hair...and is that a
unibrow...ummm...that one is not from my good side...
The Yard Yetis A Gardeners Tale continues...
All
Rolled
Up
Into
One...
Equals a lot of hot air desperate for escape and reminds me of...
Junior High
Stay with me here a minute.
Say it to yourself over and over like a mantra.
Junior High. Junior High. Junior High.
Remember? No? Wanna forget? Yeah.
The windy years. When everything blows up in your face, including
your face. You have an attractive picture of yourself from Junior High.
Nope? Didn’t think so. Did you know that it is a scientific fact that
with the onset of adolescence, one’s nose grows disproportionately
faster than the rest of one’s face which causes your appearance to
appear less than symmetrical. Now add the sprouting of facial hair, boys
AND girls, acne, boys AND girls, the painfully aching desire to stand
out and fit in at the same time, which leads to wild and sundry
experimentation with hair styles and clothing choices as upsetting to
your parents as possible, and you have...pictures that should be buried
in a landfill and never unearthed, especially if you are a candidate
running for office.
Junior High.
When the wind, which was once the rough and tumble frollicking breeze
of childhood, suddenly changes direction and only blows one way, and
anyone who disagrees with you is just plain stupid. Dense. Dumb.
Ignorant. Out of touch. Old.
Just like your parents.
Once the object of your affection, the source of your personal
safety, the cheerleaders at your side from crawl to walk to run. Your
personal chauffeurs, your buddy in the tent at camp, the nurse holding
your head so you won’t fall into the toilet while you heave over and
over in the middle of flu season. Your 24 hour ATM machines. Your Get
Out Of Jail Free Card thank God it’s only a dent and no one was injured
ambulance chasers.
Those parents. The ones who held your hand while you crossed the
street, now you beg to crouch down behind the steering wheel when they
drop you off at school. The ones with the black socks and the weird hair. Them. The ones who used to know everything, now know
nothing. Well, they know something. But they are so old. So out of
touch. So out of date. So inferior in intellect. So slow to change. So
unaware. Sigh.
It starts with the hot air of a sigh. Then eye rolling. Then shoulder
shrugging. Then an air of dismissal. And soon, it goes from hot air to
really steamy. And the venting begins. You don’t understand. You don’t
get it. You’re stuck in the past. Jeez. Please.
Leave. Me. Alone.
If you can’t or won’t or don’t agree with me, then you are, you must be, you surely are WRONG.
And as there are few Junior High pictures that any of us would care
to post, the parents of Junior High Schoolers rarely have pictures taken
during that same era that they would like published. For this is about
the time hair starts to fall out, balding patterns develop, crow’s feet
and worry lines are etched, blood pressure soars, sleep deprivation
develops and bad nutrition from eating while standing at the counter
after screaming up the stairs one last time begins. We, the parents, do
not worry about the poor, care little about the earth’s resources, wear
shoes made of leather, gasp, or drink tap water unaware of the
parasites leeching into our pores. We are politically incorrect,
intolerant of change, incapable of mastering technology, listen to the
Carpenters on the radio for God’s sake, and emit carbon willy nilly
while mowing the lawn.
It is at this point that the hot air swirls ever higher, rushes ever
faster and is soon a developing storm on the horizon. So we bend like
the trees, but we do not break. Because parents have been to the dark
side, remember those doomed days, can hear our own voices railing
against the parental machine and collapsing the day we heard the words
slip out of our own mouths followed by a slap to the forehead and...oh I sound like my mother...
You see, in the grown up world, the art of conversation is a two way
street. Or it used to be. With two people, standing on the same street,
face to face. Once upon a time in a land very far away, people spoke and
others listened. Then a pause and others listened while people spoke.
And guess what? They didn’t have to AGREE. Oh sometimes they did, and
sometimes they didn’t or sometimes they agreed to disagree, or to simply
avoid the arguments because they just wanted to spend some time being
TOGETHER.
Young and foolish is one thing. Older and intolerant is quite another.
Junior High.
On the Internet. In the marketplace. At school. On the highway. In
Tweets and on Facebook. Commentary on blogs and in social media. In
politics and across the globe. Across the fence into our neighbor’s
yard.
A lot of of hot, grandstanding, bull-throwing, gossip mongering, vile
and hurtful rhetoric. Hot air rising off hot headed blowhards. You knew
these people in Junior High. You know you did. Maybe you were even one
of them once upon a time. We all were. We all thought we knew it all.
And if you didn’t agree with ME, there was something wrong with YOU.
Well, I think I know how to let some of that hot air out of the
balloon. Just a small tiny leak. To let in a pinprick of light. Take the
Anonymity out of the Avatars and require that anyone posting a comment
state their real name, not some clever screen name, and in place of
their Avatar photo...post their Junior High school picture.
Be brave enough to put their braces, rat tails, Goth piercings, bad hair, geeky, goofy, and underdeveloped selves on display.
OR...a picture of the real you...the face you want the world to see...to match the voice you want the world to hear...
Then truly, let the wind blow, just the way it was meant to, in every direction…
I promise I’ll do it too...if I could just find that picture...I’m
pretty sure I used a lot of hairspray on my helmet hair...and is that a
unibrow...ummm...that one is not from my good side...
The Yard Yetis A Gardeners Tale continues...
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