It's just like forty going north...

This year, I wanted to buck the trend on New Year's resolutions by keeping the ones I make.

According to one survey, among the Top 10 New Year's Resolutions are enjoying life more, learning something new and getting organized.

I admit, I really do want to enjoy my life more. I've been described as being way too serious. Guilty as charged. It's seems like all I do is work, work, work. I honestly want to have fun, kick back and relax the way other people do.

Maybe smiling more or laughing out loud would be a good place to start. I know that using humorous metaphors sometimes give me a chuckle.

So, my first New Year's Resolution is to insert a metaphor somewhere in conversation once a day. For example, when I'm particularly pleased, I'll blurt out, "Well butter my biscuit!" When I'm not feeling negative, I'll say, "You don't have a snowball's chance..." Well, you know the rest of that one.

And when I'm frustrated with a certain individual's stubborness [wink, wink], I'll whisper to myself, "He'd argue with a fencepost."

When my schedule is overloaded, I'll shout out, "I've bitten off more than I can chew!" If I'm surprised, I'll exclaim, "Well shut my mouth!"

And at those rare times when I'm being blamed for something I did not do, I'll reply, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Mister."

O.K., well, enough of that silliness, now, back to my old serious self.

I am fascinated with biology, especially cell structure and have always wanted to reread all the fascinating facts in my old college biology book about eukaryotes cells, prokaryotic cells, protozoa, DNA structures and chromosone links.

So my second 2011 resolution is to learn one new biological fact every day. Wow, if that doesn't tickle my fancy, I don't know what does.

I also want to organize the spare room, which has been a catch-all for years. But to do this, I'll need my husband's help. Yeah, right, getting him interested in this project is like getting cold tar to run on an uphill grade in the middle of winter. (Maybe enticing him with a mulberry pie or a foot rub would do it.)

Stop! Stop, enough of the metaphors. Oh, the heck with the resolutions, here's my bucket list for 2011:

paint the shed,

ride in RAGRAI,

run a marathon,

start a non-profit for the needy,

travel to Tanzania with STEMM,

vacation on the south coast of England,

visit my cousin in Holland,

my friend in Brussells,

my sister in Washington,

and my other sister in Utah,

conduct another reading in Vermillion,

compile my second book,

my third book,

and my fourth book.

Whew, this is making me dizzy! Maybe I ought to downsize my list to just one specific, measurable, attainable, realistic and timely goal, like smiling more. Well, pick my peas, I could smile just like a gator at an old-fashion baptism.

[Happy New Year to all my faithful readers. May peace, love and all good things come your way in 2011 and always.]


2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.

Christmastime - a little bit of this, a little bit of that

Years ago, most children would ask Santa to leave a sled or a board game under the tree. Today, kids expect cell phones, electronic games and a whole array of other nifty gadgets. My how times have changed.

Speaking of Santa, I saw him riding shotgun today in a four-door sedan heading east on River Drive. I think it was Mrs. Claus driving. They sure were in a hurry. Express delivery, I suppose.

I don't think parents should use Jolly Old Saint Nicholas as a threat, telling kids, "If you don't behave, Santa won't bring you any gifts." Count to 10, give them time out, but don't use Santa as a weapon.

Santa's helpers who don't look like the real Santa Claus really creep me out, especially the ones with drooping beards, who smell like cigarette smoke or booze. On the other hand, maybe I should cut Santa some slack.

When it's cold and dark outside, I long for warmer times and daylight past 6 p.m. To perk up my dull-drums, I had my hair styled at the salon and wondered how long it would take for my husband to notice. I am happy to report he commented on my new do in less than 30 minutes!

The other day, I bought a bag full of Christmas jewelry for twenty-five cents at the Disabled American Veterans (DAV) Thrift Store, where I volunteer. Speaking of volunteers, the DAV may have to close its doors because of the lack thereof.

People inspire me this time of year, like the person who still catalog shops at home, the woman who makes all of her own holiday cards and the entire family who handcrafts all of their Christmas gifts.

What makes me smile every time are truckers whose rigs are all lit up like Christmas trees. Streaming through the night, they are holiday rockets on wheels. I saw one the other day that even had a lighted Santa on the grill.

Have you noticed how much glitter is used during the holidays? Back in 1934, someone should have reined in Henry Ruschmann, the inventor of glitter. While I appreciate sparkly things, glitter is not one of them.

I read up on glitter and learned why it bugs me so - you can never get rid of the stuff. Glitter is heavier than water, stays stuck on everything and that includes your skin. And if you are successful in washing it off, it sinks to the bottom of waterways, which contributes to twinkling toxic sludges. That reminds me...why do they add glitter to makeup?

Last month, when I passed an elderly woman with a worried look on her face in the juice aisle at the grocery store, I felt God nudging me to give her five dollars. But, I ignored it and went on my merry way.

The next day, I randomly opened "The Message" Bible Translation to Proverbs 3:27-29, which reads, "Never walk away from someone who deserves help, your hand is God's hand for that person. Don't say 'Maybe some other time' or 'Try me tomorrow' when the money is right there in your pocket."

After reading this, I was humbly reminded that with God there are no coincidences. The word "random" does not exist in God-speak. God is intentional from the get-go, and I have asked God for a second-chance to be obedient.

Talk about obedience, in the days leading up to the first Christmas, I ponder Joseph and Mary's plight. I think about the holy disruption of their everyday lives and wonder how they did it with such obedience and grace.

On Saturday, when delivering food to a needy family, I was ever so grateful for the young girls who answered the door and so willingly helped me lift the heavy boxes up the stairs to their house. Now, I am wondering what else I can do for them.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.

Christmastime - a poem in prose

There's a chronic tension this time of year,
one that I've experienced my whole life long...
A sensibility,
a knowing,
that illumines my consciousness offering brief visions,
like the flashing of humming birds and the flitting of winter wrens.
Once here,
now gone.
I can barely behold it,
capturing only a glimpse of its gaiety,
before it disappears into an airy rubble of emptiness.

Cravenly,
I want to float on the season's cheery promises
found in singing of carols,
chiming of bells and flickering of candles.
Where is this holy tide of Christmas
that ushers in great comfort and joy?
What do glad tidings tell
of wisdom from on high?

I experience a chronic tension this time of year...
A longing for a perfect and complete love.
No disregard, disappointment or dissatisfaction.
Only a desire to love and to be loved.

I have a sense of blessed notions
nestled in Christmastime.
Searching for the perfect gift,
exchanging tangibles,
a symbolic substitute for unselfishly offering myself.
A chronic tension that hides my longing
for supple assurance,
a pliable notion of belonging,
filled with a satiny warmth of security.
My heart faintly assembles
the valiant idea of peace
prevailing among nations.
Enemies?
None.
Friends?
All.
This hope summons something deep down inside.
It's a holy season, this Christmastime,
locating my soul,
working ever so hard
to satisfy my spiritual hunger,
a craving.

There's a chronic tension this time of year,
one I've been wrestling with my whole life long...
A sensibility,
a knowing that briefly brightens my consciousness,
like the flashing of humming birds
and the flitting of winter wrens.
It was right here,
now gone.
I capture only a glimpse of its gaiety,
before it disappears into an airy rubble of emptiness.

A perfect peace? A perfect love? Where?
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon.

Mannequin decor creeps me out

Now that Thanksgiving is over and some festive souls have had their Christmas decorations out since Halloween, let me say two words about decorating: no mannequins.

No mannequins in the yard. No mannequins on the porch for that matter. No mannequins anywhere.

Let's face it, using mannequins for yard ornaments is just not normal. There's a house on a hill a few miles away that has a crowd of at least 15 mannequins out front every year.

There are several shepherds, Joseph, Mary, three Wise Men, carolers, an angel and, of course, the Baby Jesus. Honestly, it looks like someone raided the display window at J.C. Penny's.

Mannequins belong in the store, not in the stable. They're downright frightening with their austere stares. Sometimes they have no eyeballs, only fleshy indentations and Frankenstein postures. They give me the creeps.

There's not one thing festive or whimsical about mannequin decor and no amount of fixing and fussing will ever change that.

Think star lights wrapped around your porch rail or one of those giant inflated snowmen. Maybe a lighted wreath or an animated reindeer, but not hard plastic models adorned with thrift store clothing.

Hey, I'm not fussy, even a property overloaded with a free-standing multicolored incandescent Santa with sleigh and eight reindeer, giant flickering candles, gingerbread houses trimmed with so many motion lights it triggers vertigo, dozens of spinning snowflakes hanging from the eaves and all the other outdoor ornaments you've collected since 1972 are by far better than a yard full of mannequins.

Here's a little advice: if you have a nagging urge to re-purpose some mannequins you snagged at an auction or a going-out-of-business sale, spare your neighbors the angst. Talk yourself out of it. Get some help. I believe there's therapy for just such a problem.

Thankfully, no mannequins have popped up in our neighborhood, that is, not yet.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

　

　

　

From the Office of the Governor...

I admit, when I received a letter from Governor Sean Parnell of Alaska, which was personally addressed to me and not to "Current Resident," I wondered which organization sold a list with my name and address on it to the forty-ninth state.

Even though the envelope was stamped with the official state seal "OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR OF ALASKA," it screamed JUNK MAIL.

My curiosity got the best of me. I opened it to see the Governor had chosen the perennially impersonal salutation, "Dear Neighbor..."

Really? First of all, I'm not his neighbor. I can't see Alaska from my house. I wonder if he thinks he can see South Dakota from his.

Secondly, someone needs to take "the Gov" aside and fill him in on the nifty twenty-first century tool called "mail merge," which personalizes letters by automatically addressing recipients by their first names.

Although, I decided not to hold this against him and kept reading and quickly learned it was an invitation to visit Alaska. But, of course, why else would the Governor of Alaska write to me.

In it he raves about Alaskan wildlife, camping, fishing, hiking, breathtaking glaciers, rain forests, volcanic landscapes, rafting and dog sledding.

I suppose he did not mention that the 10 most popular recipes in Alaska have moose in them so as not to upset animal lovers like me. You betcha! Well, 11,623 Eskimos and everyone else who lives in Alaska can't be completely wrong. And, according to Sarah Palin's best seller Going Rogue, ''If God had not intended for us to eat animals, how come He made them out of meat?'' Huh?

The Governor's "Dear Neighbor" letter urged me to discover the state's native and Russian roots, explore the Arctic Circle and pan for gold. "Alaska is different from every other destination in the world," he continued.

I noticed that he didn't mention that the mosquitoes in Alaska are so big they have landing lights, that the state has three seasons winter, still winter and almost winter and Alaska's unofficial motto is "Don't retreat, reload." Hm-mm, I hope he knows that Africa is a continent and not a country.

What surprised me the most was that I didn't put the letter down. Now, don't get me wrong, I am no sucker for junk mail. Yet, I stood there dog tired from a long day at work, holding the epitome of junk mail in my hands.

Maybe it's because Alaska still represents one of the last frontiers. A place with strange laws, where it is legal to shoot a bear but illegal to wake a bear just to take its photo. And then there's the one where it's illegal to push a moose from a moving airplane. Go figure.

Let's face it; it's one thing to receive junk mail but it's a whole other experience receiving junk mail from the least densely populated state in the nation.

At any rate, I hung onto the letter from "Gov Sean," as you can see we're now on a first-name basis, and I'm considering completing and returning the enclosed postage-paid survey.

I'm not really that interested in driving nearly 4,000 miles from where I live in South Dakota to Alaska, nor flying there for that matter, but I'd kind of like to keep this thing going.

If I do visit the forty-ninth state, I hope my pen pal Sean completes his term and is still in office. Excuse me while I fill out the survey...

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.



　

Confessions of an everyday columnist

"I think everybody longs to be loved and longs to know that he or she is
lovable. And, the greatest thing that we can do is to help somebody know that he or she is loved and capable of loving." Fred Rogers

Let's face it. When I look in the mirror, I don't see the same person my
husband, Brian, sees.

When Brian looks at me, he pictures a woman who could put on a few pounds and still look fine. He sees someone who has lovely hair. He views a person who has to do very little to turn his head.

I confess, when I look at myself, I see a fat person with unruly hair and too many wrinkles. I have often said, tongue in cheek, I could use a body image therapist.

My menacing picture of how I look is rooted in my childhood when my self-image was being formed.

I guess the good news is that I'm not alone. Research conducted at Flinders University in South Australia reveals that "one-third of all girls in grades nine to 12 think they are overweight, and 60 percent are trying to lose weight."

One study indicates that 57 percent of girls have fasted, dieted, used food substitutes, or smoked more cigarettes to lose weight, according to "Weighing In Girl Scouts of the USA." The same study reports that messages girls receive from the media can damage their feelings of self-worth and negatively affect their behavior.

An AC Nielsen survey says that girls question their own beauty and a majority of girls of normal weight believe they are overweight. More than 90 percent of girls, ages 15 to 17, want to change at least one aspect of their physical appearance.

According to a Dove study, "nearly a quarter would consider undergoing plastic surgery, and 13 percent acknowledge having an eating disorder."

Lack of self-esteem in children contributes to school drop-out rates, juvenile homicides, violence in schools, incidence of births to unmarried teens, suicides, eating disorders and abuse of drugs.

Sometimes I think what we all need is a good old-fashioned dose of Mr. Fred Rogers.

In a 2003 TV documentary, Mr. Rogers states, "I give an expression of care every day to each child, to help him [or her] realize that he [she] is unique. I end each program by saying, 'You've made this day a special day by just being you. There's no person in the whole world like you. And I like you just the way you are."

In another commencement address, this time at Dartmouth College, Mr. Rogers notes, "When I say it's you I like, I'm talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war and justice that proves more powerful than greed."

If we all could love that deep part of us that allows us to stand up for things, just imagine where we'd be today. We would have found long sought-after cures, we would have stop wars, balanced budgets, eliminated crimes, and corrected so many wrongs.

Remember, it's you I like.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.

Braziers, bazaars and bake sales

Do you ever wonder what happened to good old-fashioned Christmas Bazaars? I do.

If you're young and have never heard the term, let me enlighten you.

Bazaars were kind of a quirky combination of a bake sale, craft show and rummage sale all rolled into one. Everything was a quarter, a dime and sometimes even a nickle.

Today's craft and bake sale is the new bazaar, but most of them cost money at the door. Whoever thought of paying to shop?

When I was a tyke, I could wander right into the neighborhood bazaar. Every year after most of the leaves had fallen and winter was nipping at my nose, I remember going to the Christmas bazaar at the church across the street from my childhood home. Inside, among all the baked goods were homemade trinkets and a clutter of second-hand items in a section called a "White Elephant Sale."

This peaked my interest, as I could not imagine how an elephant, let alone a white one, could be for sale in a church basement.

Of course, there was no real elephant, but I remember seeing a ceramic one that stood about a foot high in the middle of a long cafeteria table. Its trunk was creased and curled into a circle with ivory tusks protruding from either side of a wide-open mouth.

Although a little scraped and scuffed around the edges, that white elephant was surrounded by a half-dozen pairs of someones grandmother's clip earrings, used ladies' church gloves, a collection of gaudy lapel pins, including an over sized poinsettia, a star-studded American flag, a sequined turkey and a blinking Rudolph.

The Christmas bazaars of my childhood always had a homey feeling: the co-mingling aromas of coffee brewing and cinnamon rolls baking; the sight of fully decorated Christmas trees and wreaths, the musty smell of old books, the endearing appeal of simple wood crafts and decorations, knitted sweaters and crocheted doilies.

So, the truth be told, the biggest thing that separates craft and bake sales of today and bazaars of yesteryear - the word bazaar is missing. I remember the challenge of learning to pronounce it when I was a kid. I liked the exotic ring as I slowly and dramatically said BA-ZAAR. There's nothing interesting or surprising about "craft and bake sale."

I also miss seeing those large clunky hand-painted signs with the giant letters BAZAAR, which, I'm not afraid to admit always looked like the word "brazier."

I looked up bazaar and found that it can be traced to Persia, which is Iran today. A bazaar meant "the place of prices."

Bazaars of days gone by were magical where Christmas was neatly arranged and mother's kitchen was transported to the underbelly of the sanctuary.

I think all Christmas craft and bake sales should be called bazaars. In fact, could I ask you a little favor? The next time your church or organization plans a holiday sale, please stop calling it a "Christmas Craft and Bake Sale" when good old nostalgic "Christmas Bazaar" will do just fine. Thank you.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.

Music breathes life into those once lost

Ordinarily, the thought of corralling 13 children, ages eight to 11, might make most of us run in the opposite direction. But not this group.

Behold the African Children's Choir, representing a population of millions of the most vulnerable. They are bright, articulate, well-mannered, grateful for the least bit of kindness and full of promise.

The majority were born in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, others in Ghana. If you ask about their parents, more than half will say that one or both have died from disease or starvation.

Once lost and abandoned to slums, garbage heaps or the streets, these children are now found. Their chilling back-stories tell of having nothing.

While toddlers, barely surviving, they were rescued by humanitarian Ray Barnett, who founded Music for Life. This start-up non-profit set out 26 years ago to keep Africa's forgotten children from dying at such a rapid rate.

Today, Music for Life cares for some 8,000 children by housing, feeding, clothing, educating, guiding and nurturing them.

The choir's conductor and tour guide are graduates of the program and say Music for Life saved them.

Everything in Uganda is celebrated by dance and the culture communicates with drums, so the choir sings and dances to the pulsating beat of three Ngoma drums, and can those kids play!

Their traditional costumes of bright lime green linen smocks drape over harvest orange goucho pants, sport beads, bangles, bells and even bird feathers.

These survivors with eyes sparkling, faces grinning, arms waving, sway about the stage in perfect patterns of radiating joy.

Feet first, stepping sprightly - heel, toe, heel, toe - and then in a great crescendo they stomp, while shoulders slink low, rise up and then exude a synchronized flow of gladness.

During one of several program segments, the chorus members share personal stories, introduce themselves and tell what they want to be.

Speaking in English, the official language of Ghana, with thick Ghanese accents, some say....

"Hello, my name is Debra, I want to be a lawyer."

"Hello, my name is Jordan, I want to be a pilot."

"Hello, my name is Stella, I want to be a writer."

Further down the recited string of aspirations are dreams of some day becoming a doctor, a nurse, high school teacher, engineer, musician and so on.

The rest of their stories spill out without uttering a word or singing a note. Their measured movements, their twinkling glances, their fixated focus on the conductor tell plenty about the new life they live.

You can't watch the African Children's Choir without desiring to adopt one or more. However, they resist such an inclination because they want to go home, as they say, "to make it better there."

An hour and a half of praise and thanksgiving music, this Gospel choir symbolizes the hope, spirit and might of a continent seeking rebirth out of a mire of poverty and war.

Nominated for a Grammy in 1993, this chorus radiates sweetly choreographed numbers, transforming audiences, who they themselves are reborn.

When you first set eyes on such innocence and vulnerability and hear those heartbreaking voices ring out at the top of their lungs "This Little Light of Mine" and "You Are the Shepherd," you, too, will experience a rebirth of sorts.

If the African Children's Choir appears in a venue near you, don't pass it up. It's a performance you have to see.

For more information, visit africanchildrenschoir.com.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

　

Splish splash, I was taking a bath

The other day, I was multitasking. Filling a container with water, while starting dinner, I could tell, sight unseen, how full the container was just by the rising pitch the water produced as it inched its way to the top.

I pondered how the sounds of water telegraph what's happening, when it's happening and where it's happening.

When we hear an oscillating sprinkler with its varying methodical forward motion, chew-chew-chew, and then the rapid cycling backward, chi-ch-chi-chi-chi-chi, we discern its direction as it soaks the lawn.

Certain sounds reveal when other sprinklers are in full operation, like squealing children affectionately leaping through tickling sprays. And the happy splish-splash of their bare feet carried by tireless legs that swiftly perform awkward ballets through airborne water.

It can be difficult to tell the depth of puddles. Yet, we immediately know how deep these isolated pools of water are by the sound of our steps or missteps.

A little spittle of a puddle only makes a benignly wet utterance, while a larger one plops, as it soaks our soles and socks.

We can tell when squirt guns are full by the juicy sound of a loaded trigger and empty by the airy wheezing.

Roaring water pounding over expansive towering ridges or lightly trickling through narrow rock passages, reveals the greatness or smallness of a waterfall.

Springtime is nearing when the sound of thawing lakes and streams produces musical scores, like crystallized chimes as icy edges melt and release their hard grip on shorelines.

Further out, once frozen ice fields begin to melt, letting off reverberating rumbles, as warm air currents make thawing ice quiver and quake while overhead geese fly north.

Birds gaily splash in once quiet pedestal baths, flitting and fluttering in a exercise of renewal.

The scooping and pouring of baptismal waters, the newness of life cleansing misdeeds, renewing old souls - all hopeful sounds.

Although, some water sounds have a dark side.

A bathtub overflowing.

Drains backing up.

Water boiling over.

Hail knocking, and then pounding.

A commanding wind-driven rain that presents itself, not vertically in delicately descending droplets, but horizontally, as it angrily storms eastward, forcing us to hide, first under overhangs, and then move indoors, as it slows life to a halt.

The wildly lurid rush of flood waters, racing over banks and through dikes, destroying order and peace.

There is the frantic gurgling and thrashing of a drowning person, the sudden harshness of falling through an old ice fishing hole and the choking sound as fluid travels down the windpipe instead of the esophagus.

And finally, the lungs of a dying person strangely rattling, signaling end-of-life, a time when discerning sounds of water ceases.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
　

　

Aroma of sunburned leaf beds rise as incense

The old woman you saw skipping church this morning was I, darting pangs of
conflict over my sin of omission.

That was I wrestling with menacing guilt and then smiling quietly over feeling
justified by the grace of already being in the midst of a grand sanctuary.

Casting long glances first to the Epistle and then to the Gospel side, that was
I you saw settling into a pew carved by nature, as slivers of sunlight cut
through old pines whose tree-tops floated above in a backdrop of azure.

That was I on the Day of the Lord who became a silent witness to God's
tremendous grandeur and who exchanged church for the echo of any number of birds
as an angels' chorus melodically warbled in C Major.

That was I you caught a glimpse of trading traditional liturgy for the worship
of God-shaped canyons and finding contrition in delicately laced lichen.

The one you saw reflecting on life's path was I, who scattered deer while
lightly stepping deeper into the cathedral forest, where musty sage perfume and
sunburned leaf beds rose as incense.

That old woman you saw seeking wise counsel was I, listening to the wind winnow
in short intervals through thick stands of ash as it created a holy trickling,
like baptismal waters sprinkling over the soft new forehead of an infant.

That was I lingering while paying tribute to the place where rushes of wind
became a mighty spirit, a massive river ambling invisibly above and through me.

Yes, I confess that was I you found praying to the silent noise that this holy
house brings forth.

That was I petitioning it not to cease, imploring that it deafen the cry of my
otherwise morose mood.

The old woman you saw skipping church on Sunday was I welcoming the company of
finches swooping upward and then downward circling me, as a blessing of my
travels.

The one you saw kneeling before the ever rising sun - that was I.

Paula Damon 2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandand find her on Facebook.

20 minutes to slim. Are you kidding me?

When I saw a headline on the cover of a women's magazine that read "20 MINUTES TO SLIM" in bold letters, I wondered who do they think is reading this stuff.

No, it wasn't The National Inquirer; it was your mother's women's magazine and your mother's mother's women's magazine.

No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Get out of here.

I'll admit that in the past I've been a sucker for such sensationalism. I couldn't resist the urge to find this silver bullet, a fountain of youth, the cure-all, so I could either laugh at this ridiculousness or cry with joy.

I studiously turned to the Table of Contents, madly searching for "20 MINUTES TO SLIM."

After flipping back and forth between the "Live Well," "Style," "Solutions," "Eat Well" and "In Every Issue" sections, I finally found the article under "Health." Well, of course.

No wonder I had trouble seeing it, since they changed up the wording to "Get Fit...20 minutes to SLIM - the quick workout that burns up to 250 calories" on page 80. Workout? Who said anything about working out?

I was hoping that I had already worked them off my 250 calories by the time I reached page 80.

It seems that most of us, especially women, have dieted our entire lives. I probably burn several thousand calories a day and hardly shed a pound.

Though, I admit my serious doubt didn't keep me from reading the article. And then I uncovered the truth beneath the untruth: "20 MINUTES TO SLIM" doesn't exist.

What does exist is a fat-burning, butt busting routine requiring 10 moves of two minutes each.

And, that's not all. Can you believe it? You have to do this workout three days a week for three weeks, which means you may "feel" slimmer, but you're actually not.

Every since I was 13 and that darn TV commercial promised that Noxema would miraculously erase zits, I've had a love-hate relationship with the media.

Why can't I be slim in 20 minutes, like the headline says, only with my feet propped up, staring at the tube with a jumbo box of my favorite truffles and an 84 ounce Mountain Dew to top it off. Yeah, I think I could do that.

No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Are you kidding me?

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.　

　

　

　

　

　

　

When thongs were flip-flops and other mysteries.…

Rarely before has a cultural divide been so wide, separating generations, as in our time.

Consider this - most students who entered college for the first time this fall were born in 1992.

According to the Beloit College Mindset List, they have never seen a carousel of Kodachrome slides. They know Clint Eastwood as a movie producer, not as Dirty Harry.

They think email is too slow and hardly ever use the U.S. Postal Service. They know Beethoven as a dog and Michelangelo as a computer virus.

Young people today don’t worry about a Russian missile striking the U.S. They don’t really understand why we had air raid shelters.

On the other hand, those of us who are 50-something contribute to this cultural divide without even realizing it. For example, you reveal your age if…

…You have the urge to lick postage stamps.

…You don’t text and you don’t want to learn how to text.

…You forward junk mail to all of your email contacts.

…You don’t own a computer.

…You don’t own more than one computer.

…You know what a rotary phone is and how to use it.

…You have a rotary phone and plan to keep it.

…You don’t know what skype is and really don’t care.

…You think blue ray is a tropical fish.

…You cannot figure out why so many people are tweeting.

…You don’t believe in cell phones, even though there is evidence they exist all around you.

…You own a cell phone but don’t know how to make calls or retrieve messages.

…You think marriage should last a lifetime

…You have the urge to hang laundry on a line.

…You bake from scratch.

…You have a checking account.

…You go to the bank, not on line, to do your banking.

…You still go to the cinema, not the Internet, to watch movies.

…You do not have a Facebook account.

…You do have a Facebook account but don’t know how to post photos on it.

…You don’t have a blog and don’t plan to have a blog.

…Your husband still pumps your gas and washes your windshield.

…You remember when gas station attendants pumped your gas and washed your windshield.

…You remember when gasoline was 20 cents a gallon or less.

…You still use the expression “save it for a rainy day.”

…You get excited when you find loose change on the ground.

...You pick up loose change when you find it on the ground.

…You are more comfortable putting your hand out to greet people than giving them a high five.

…You carry cash.

…You cook most of your meals at home and rarely eat out.

…When you do eat out, you get a doggy bag for what you cannot finish.

…You put leftovers in a stew for tomorrow, instead of pitching them.

…You reuse plastic containers.

…You understand the expression “to put up vegetables or fruits.”

…You know how to can tomatoes and cucumbers and relish the thought of putting up dozens of jars every fall.

…When you were a kid, thongs were flip-flops you wore on your feet, not underwear.

…You read the newspaper by holding it in your hands, not by clicking a mouse.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

Being a non-elkaholic in an elkaholic world

When I saw a bumper sticker that said, "Elkaholic – bow hunting elk will be the hardest thing you'll ever love to do," I started to twitch.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against hunting all together.

For whatever reason, I have difficulty killing anything. I struggle taking down spider webs because I know that without them spiders would starve to death.

I cup my hands around a wayward moth and carefully escort it out the door.

I cringe whenever I swat a fly. So you can see why the notion of hunting really does get to me.

It’s bad enough knowing that there are actually “seasons” for hunting established by the DNR, let alone actually hearing and seeing hunters in action, such as the distant sound of buckshot and hunters wandering corn fields or crouched in their deer blinds.

I’ve heard both sides of the argument as to what to do with the overpopulation of deer. As you may have figured, I side with those who want to put out hay and corn.

Seeing that “elkaholic” bumper sticker put me on edge. I just can’t stand the thought of sharp carbon arrows or cast lead bullets striking through the heart or piercing the guts of unsuspecting animals as rare elk are.

Behold the elk, cervus elaphus, or wapiti, as native tribes call them. These majestic and husky members of the deer family once populated most of North America.

Now, a resurgence of small herds live in remote mountainous regions in the Western U.S., primarily Wyoming, Colorado and South Dakota.

Some years ago, when my husband and I were visiting Banff, Alberta, Canada, elk roamed freely throughout the town.

Co-mingling with residents and tourists alike, they wondered about at will. Traffic halted while entire families trotted in single file across side streets, highways and byways.

The elk controversy in Banff – to love them or to kill them – was all over the news as the town wrestled with this divisive issue.

Wanting to understand why bow hunting elk is the “hardest thing you’ll ever love,” I mustered up enough courage to actually watch an elk hunting video on the web.

In the video, a brawny bull elk peacefully grazes with his herd in a wide-open pasture. Singled out by the hunter-narrator because of his mighty rack and with no cover to hide the hunter scopes and kills him.

As I watched the herd scatter and the tall brawny wapiti go down, I wondered how the hunter was going to sleep that night. Probably very well.

I know we won’t always see eye-to-eye on this subject. After all, this is the land of the free where opinions are not legislated.

This also gives me the freedom to create my own bumper sticker that reads, “non-elkaholic – killing elk is the hardest thing you’ll never want to do.”


2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

The acorn: act of faith, gift of fall

"Faith sees a beautiful blossom in a bulb, a lovely garden in a seed and a giant oak in an acorn." Willam Ward Arthur

Everywhere this time of year where cathedrals of mighty oaks tower high above, acorns tumble down, as they carry out this most ancient of natural rituals.

As summer fades to fall, my allegiance quickly turns from helicopter seedlings to acorns, autumn's gift from heaven.

Valued for their fun-factor, acorns were one of my many organic toys as a child. Whiling away the days until the first freeze, I'd skip rocks across a placid lake, flatten colorful maple leaves between layers of wax paper, poke knots from weathered fence posts and collect acorns.

On the way to and from school, I'd genuflect under massive oak canopies, scoop them from the ground and fill my pockets to overflowing.

Jostling handfuls, clutching one after the other, round and round in a click-clack sound frenzy, I imagined them as quaint little people - miniature men, women and children. And later, executing my mission, I would modestly etch faces: eyes, noses and cheeky smiles.

Like a blue jay or a squirrel, I scatter-hoarded my acorns in little caches and substantial piles, here and there, reserving them as treasures for a rainy day.

This time of year when I happen upon an oak, I continue my autumn tradition and stoop low to gather a handful or two.

I ponder how much of nature is so terribly fragile, brittle and singular in dimension and consistency, but not acorns. Quite substantial in their makeup, their tough little shells and baret-like caps distinguish them with a bold sophistication

Above all, I believe it is perhaps the power and promise represented in one virile little acorn that endears me so, as in this quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

"The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn."

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

　



　

　

　

A little bit of this, a little bit of that - 3rd in a Series

Just when I thought it was safe to say I had never seen two shoes lost by the side of the road [as in last week's column], I saw a pair.

I was on a walk with my husband when he looked up and said, there they are. I said where, and he said up there.

Looking up, I saw two tennis shoes laced together, hanging from a power line. Hm-mm, the sight of those shoes struck me as a sardonically cute and nasty prank. Or, maybe they were a territorial gang sign used to mark boundaries as they do in big cities.

Further along on our walk that evening and nearing sunset, I spotted a rainbow of bed sheets with ends delicately lifting like sails in an autumn breeze. What an oddity in an apartment complex with coin-powered machines to wash and dry clothes.

I marveled at those sheets juxtaposed to our wi-fi world, where invisible networks, like the wind, download movies, television programs and other forms of entertainment directly to our living rooms with the click of a button.

To me, laundry hanging on the line is a picturesque display of both hope and economy. I love this so much that I took dozens of photos of laundry hanging from postage stamp verandas on countless high-rises in London, when I was there in May.

It was quite a paradoxical scene. London is the most global city in the world, where 300 languages are spoken. It's a place where some of the most sophisticated and complex business transaction take place every day, a city where Mideast oil titans spend not billions but "squillions" on the most luxurious homes in the world.

Yet, London is a place where people still hang out their laundry, counting on good old-fashioned fresh air to dry clothes, linens, blankets, towels and even pillows.

Speaking of old-fashioned ways of doing things, I still write in cursive. I print only when making a sign, such as "FREE" if I have something to give away at the end of my driveway.

Now, I'll bet you didn't know writing in cursive was outdated. Neither did I until this past week, when a 30-something person enlightened me. She told me that young people these days don't use cursive.

Aren't they teaching cursive in school? I asked. Yes, she replied, but we never use it. So why is that, I wondered out loud. Because printing is easier than cursive, she explained. This revelation caused me to have yet another "hm-mm" moment.

I beg to disagree, I countered. You see with printing, you lift your pen with every letter. But with marvelously supple ever-flowing cursive, one letter glides right into the next, creating a beautiful string of consonants and vowels.

My, how times have changed. More than 35 years ago, when we moved into our home, the highway noise was non-existent. But as the years have passed and economies have flourished, there is a constant throb of car and truck traffic in the backdrop of our otherwise serene setting on the edge of the South Dakota prairie. I used to abhor the traffic as unwanted noise.

However, I've gotten so used to it that it has become more of a purr to me, a scintillating crooning that tells me I am home. The traffic noise is now a pulsating almost rhythmic character that moves briskly, reminding me I am not alone and that life goes on around me.

2010©Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist.Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.　

　

　

Hey, Joe, have you lost your boxers?

Have you ever noticed that when people go outside they seem to undress. How else would you explain the pair of men's boxers hanging on that guard rail?

And what about those socks draped over the fire hydrant?

How in the world does someone lose their britches on a highway overpass? I mean, what's that all about?

Someones running shoe is hanging upside down on a fencepost along I-29, a busy highway near my house. I wonder if the owner will ever recognize it as he drives by at 75 miles per hour.

I've been looking for someone walking around with just one shoe on, but so far I haven't seen anyone who matches that description. I'll keep looking.

This makes me wonder how someone can lose just one shoe. Why is it that you never see a pair of shoes alongside the road. I haven't lost one shoe outside anywhere in my entire life.

T-shirts, jackets, backpacks, cowboy boots, bedroom slippers, umbrellas, mittens, scarves, purses, flip-flops - I've seen them all at one time or another abandoned along streets and sidewalks, in ditches and parking lots.

Now losing your hat, I get that. Hats have been blowing away since indigenous people in ancient times wore things on their heads, like banana leaves, to keep from getting wet.

Hats easily blow away, especially if you don't tie them down.

You see red ones, blue ones, yellow ones and green ones lying on the ground. Ball caps and bonnets, stocking hats and shower caps, safety helmets and cowboy hats all lost to the wind.

It's those other articles of clothing that baffle me.

As far as the boxer shorts, I can only think of two reasonable explanations for them. One: they could have flown out the window on the way to the laundry mat. And as far as the second, well, we won't go there.

The sight of discarded clothing is oddly funny and a tad bit sad to me. At least that's how I felt when I noticed a pile of shoes and socks the neighborhood kids left behind on the lot across the street after a game of touch football.

I wonder if parents are so busy today that they don't even notice their kids shoes and socks are missing?

When I was a kid, I had only one pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, and they had to last all year. Most adults I know share the same story.

There are some folks who have had perfectly good reasons for discarding their clothing, like the people in a 2007 Fox news story I read from Niagara, N.Y. It stated, "Canadian shoppers taking advantage of the parity between the U.S. and Canadian dollars are leaving behind more than cash when the head home. They're leaving behind their old clothes."

According to the article, the shoppers wore their new clothes home so they wouldn't have to pay a duty when crossing the border into Canada. Smart, eh? The old clothes were left behind in parking lots, dressing rooms and restrooms at malls and shopping plazas in the Buffalo-Niagara Falls area.

Leave it to New Yorkers to come up with a solution to a strange problem. At one of the malls, managers put collection bins near the exits where Canadian customers could deposit their unwanted items. The clothing was then given to the needy.



Now that's what I call a happy ending to all those clothes left behind.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
　

　

Three-way love affair gets mileage

It wasn't easy, but I told my husband that I am in love with a female for the first time in my life.
I mean it, this gal is awesome.

She never let's me down and when I'm headed in the wrong direction, she simply turns me around and sends me off on the right path.

Even on the worst days we've had together, she stays calm, her voice is clear and her advice is level-headed.

No temper tantrums in this relationship.

She is mild-mannered from start to finish. Her tone is silky smooth, pleasant to the ear.

I just can't get her out of my mind. And when I think about how fantastic she is, I can't believe that up until a few short weeks ago I didn't really know her.

As I journey through life, she's right there, never leaving my side, always knowing the right thing to say.

This female handles my most difficult conundrums with sound guidance, never becomes excited or upset and never raises her voice.

At times when I feel totally lost, all I have to do is remember her guarantee to stand by me through life's highways and byways.

In my heart of hearts, I choose to believe she will never let me down.

I am so in love that I tell everyone about my new-found beau. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like shouting her name from the rooftop.

Although her unflinching sensibilities have irked others, earning her the "B" word, with a capital "B," I don't buy it. I rather like her directness, not to mention her firm unwavering manner.

Now, you may think this is simply a case of infatuation, a classic example of mid-life crisis, a far flung fling that will pass, but it's not. I am head-over-heels in love with this my soul mate, my new true blue friend.

And when I learned that my husband is crazy about her, too, I wasn't surprised. It goes to show you just how wide her appeal is.

I know it may sound a bit kinky, but the three of us are now traveling through life together and we have never been happier.

She calls herself "TomTom." We assume that's her real name, but we call her "Tommi."

Born in Canada, Tommi is our one and only global positioning system.

Oh, how we love her! Let us count the ways....

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.

Whistle or sing a happy tune

Every once in awhile, I wonder what our jobs would be like if we just whistled while we worked.

Or better yet, what if we sang. You never hear workers whistling or let alone singing on the job. I think the trouble is we're just way too serious.

People often complain of being in silos or walled off at work, where they feel distant because of a lack of contact. Instead of talking face-to-face, we email each other or phone co-workers in the very next cubicle. How impersonal is that?

"Just whistle while you work
And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place..."

Historically, work songs were sung while workers shared a common task. They often were timed to the swinging of a sledge hammer or pumping levers and the like.

How come we don't use work songs as an antidote for isolation on the job or even a cure for workplace violence.

Work songs used to help people complete the most difficult tasks before automation took the place of good old-fashioned elbow grease. Just think of how they might help our down economy and relieve pressures to work smarter.

"So hum a merry tune
It won't take long when there's a song to help you set the pace..."

Some offices tune into their favorite country radio stations. I suppose that could be a substitute for singing on the job. But I don't think it's the same as belting out your favorite lyrics at the top of your lungs while delivering a report down the hall or drafting a spreadsheet.

What is there to feel good about when you play a country song anyway? You lose your wife, your dog, your job, your hair, your house, your health, maybe even your dreams. Are you feeling the love, yet?

"And as you sweep the room
Imagine that the broom is someone that you love
And soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune.

When hearts are high the time will fly so whistle while you work..."

I like the idea of singing together. I think the world would be a much happier place if everyone, including the top dogs, would get together for a rousing songfest once a week.

Imagine your CEO leading rounds of "Roll Out the Barrel" every Friday afternoon. His sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, his hands moving to the beat of the music and everyone joining in. Next to him is the COO and the CFO. We all buds having a good time, lifting everyones' spirits. As ridiculous as this may sound, it would put a big spike in my happy-o-meter.

"Just whistle while you work
Put on that grin and start right in to whistle loud and long
Just hum a merry tune
Just do your best and take a rest and sing yourself a song..."

Every once in awhile, I wonder if reestablishing the old practice of singing while we work would create harmony and maybe even help us grow the top line and shrink the bottom line. I'm thinking a workforce chorus with a dunk tank for floor managers. It could happen during all those coffee breaks we never take because there is too much work to do.

"When there's too much to do
Don't let it bother you, forget your troubles,
Try to be just like a cheerful chick-a-dee..."

Who knows? Maybe they need to sing or tweet, like the bird variety, on Wall Street. Heaven knows they need help.

And just one last comment: I'd like to see a national day of worksongs. I don't care if you can sing or not. Sing anyway.

"And whistle while you work
Come on get smart, tune up and start
To whistle while you work..."

Source: "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs"


2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.　

　

Equality when it comes to owees

Have we become too complacent about Band-Aids? When I have to wear one, I think it should match my outfit.

After all, my shoes coordinate with my purse. My earrings are the same color as my necklace. My blouse matches my skirt. Why not Band-Aids, too?

I'd like an entire set of bright pink, red, yellow, orange and chartruse Band-Aids to go with my summer apparel and earthtones to coordinate with my fall wardrobe.

There's just something so dull and clinical about wearing a plain old skin-colored Band-Aid. And, I think the people at Band-Aid headquarters have been slow to respond to the latest trends.

Just look at i-pods, cell phones and BlackBerries. They have color and patterns. Even food packaging these days is hip. Why not Band-Aids.

What about paisley, plaid and polka-dot ones to spruce up the look of our paper cuts?

I did some checking into this and found out that kids have it made when it comes to the Band-Aid cool factor.

When children get an "owee," they have their choices of Hello Kitty, Toy Story, Disney Princess, Disney Cars, Star Wars, Hot Wheels and Ben 10 Tattoo bandages. How come adults don't have choices?

I can't tell you how tempted I am to purchase a box of Strawberry Shortcake Band-Aids just for myself. The only problem is I don't know how I'd explain these to my husband and coworkers.

Up until now, I hadn't thought much about the movie stars adults would enjoy in their boxes of 60 ultra-thin, breathable bandages. And, what about sports stars or historical figures?

Come to think of it,I wouldn't mind having Brad Pitt wrapped around my little finger. That sure would make any bruises seem a whole lot better.

How about George Clooney or Leonardo DiCaprio? Now, we're talking serious Band-Aids!

For men with razor cuts, they could stick on Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie or Marilyn Monroe, instead of those ugly patches of toilet tissue.

The fact of the matter is Band-Aid big wigs need to spend a whole lot more time in the Board Room on bandage strategies for adults. After all, we get hurt, too. I hope they're listening.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Excuse me, do you have the time?

When I learned the other day that less than 25 percent of us wear watches anymore, I realized that I'm a member of yet another minority.

I can understand why the majority are watch-less, and when you think of it, who really needs one anyway?

Most people, young and old, carry cell phones, BlackBerries and i-pods with built-in clocks, so they constantly know the time of day.

According to a CBS News story by Amy S. Clark titled "Wear a Watch? What for?" the way we track time is not what it used to be.

In her report, Clark reveals that most teens have never worn a watch and more and more adults are adopting this trend.

She quotes behavioral scientist Max Kilger, who says a cell phone is one step up from a watch. "It begins to help you manage your time. And a BlackBerry is one level up from that."

In other words, people no longer check the time, the time checks them. Instead of looking at wrist watches, like I do a gazillion times a day, people have electronic devices that check them by beeping or vibrating.

Clark's article notes that people's lives have become automated by ring tones and chimes, telling them when to pick up the kids, when to go to the doctor or when to meet a client.

This all sounds quite backwards and makes me wonder who's in charge, anyway?

Remember, you used to know the time of day when your mother hollered for you to come home for dinner?

Back then, you knew it was time to get out of bed when the milkman left cold fresh jugs of milk on the side porch bright and early. Or you could see light coming through closed blinds at the break of day.

You knew it was one o'clock in the afternoon when the mailman came by and six in the evening from the sound of the ice cream truck ringing its way down the street.

You could tell it was noon by the way daylight lit up the dining room, and you knew what time it was when the kitchen was illuminated by the setting sun.

Years ago and still today, you know exactly what time it is by where the sun is in proximity to Earth. When the sun is predominantly in the East, it's still morning. Overhead? It's the afternoon. And when it's setting in the West, you can pretty much call it a day.

When I was a kid, I knew what time of night it was when I could hear my dad coming home way past my bedtime. I should have been asleep long before, but something kept me awake.

On Sundays, I knew how much time I had before church just by looking out the window. You see, the church my family attended was right across the street from my childhood home.

By surveying the number of cars parked outside, I could calculate how much time I had before the service started.

Back then, I didn't wear a watch. Didn't need to.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Is that a stick I see walking?

I like insects, just as long as they don't take up residence inside my house.

Take for instance the giant beetle that was snarling up a storm the other day on my front porch.

Buggy eyed and hard shelled, that little guy was not a happy camper. By the hissing sound he was making, I wasn't sure if he was ill or just having a bad day.

When I looked up what type of beetle he was, my hopes were quickly dashed to learn that beetles are the largest order of insects in the world. Trying to find his exact image in a mug shot would take forever and I just don't have the time.

When I called for my husband, Brian, to come and see, he said, "Oh, that's a June Bug."

"Ah, a June Bug!" I said, still fascinated while examining the intricate pattern on his reddish brown bulky physique.

That reminded me of an awareness I had the other day when a cicada landed on the screen of my office window during a downpour.

The sight of him distracted me from my work, which is unusual for my intensely focused self.

When I stepped over to the window to get a closer look, I was amazed at the design of his variegated underbelly and intricately veined wings.

Hanging on for dear life, he remained affixed to my screen, waiting out the storm while lightning and thunder provided a background of high drama.

I mentioned the cicada to a co-worker, thinking she'd want to come and see. It was obvious by her non-response that my interest in the bug was boring and that I needed to get a life. Oh well, I thought, her loss, my gain. 　

When I start thinking about insects, sometimes I can't stop. Some of the bugs I find most interesting disguise themselves in nature as a form of self-defense.

Like the Dead-leaf Moth, which can easily be taken for what else but a dead leaf.

I'm mesmerized by how the young caterpillars of Dead-leaf Moths hide in nature disguised as seed-filled bird droppings. How brilliant is that, pretending to be animal do-do. Older ones appear to be chubby green worms with large spots that pose as fake eyes. Wow, that's so cool!

Another impostor is the American Walking Stick. Brownish in color, this insect often is mistaken for a twig. It's been awhile since I saw one, but I'll never forget my first encounter. Lanky and somewhat clumsy in its movements, that wingless bug lumbered along a tree branch. Not believing my eyes, I blurted, "That's a walking stick!"

Don't get me started on the lime-green Katydid that camouflages itself by blending into corn rows and bean stalks. Come to think of it, I should have a bumper sticker on my bike that reads, "I brake for bugs." It's not unusual for me to stop and examine all sorts of strange-looking creepy crawlers.

Once while I was on a walk in Central Pennsylvania, I found the most beautiful giant yellow butterfly lying dead on the side of the road. I have this lovely creature preserved under a glass frame in my office. More than once, I've gotten blank stares from people when I explain why there's a dead butterfly on my desk.

The more I think of it, the more I realize that my interest in bugs makes me an oddball of sorts.

A lot of the women I know instantly would jump onto chairs while screaming bloody murder at the site of my little insect friends. And just about everybody, except for maybe two-year olds, squish bugs at first sight.

But that's just not me. I hover, intently study their complicated patterns, movements, and then run and tell anyone who will listen, "Come and see!"
　

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.


　

　

　

　

Gritty bugs in her teeth

If you live outside of Iowa, have been in a cave for the last 38 years, just landed your spaceship from planet Xerox or have come in from the Out Back, you may not know about RAGBRAI. RAGBRAI is The Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, as in The Des Moines Register.

The oldest, largest (an estimated 20,000 bicyclists) and longest (nearly 500-miles) tour event in the world, RAGBRAI attracts bicyclists from around the globe who gather every July in Western Iowa and spend a week riding across the state. This year's race starts at the Missouri River in Sioux City and ends at the Mississippi in Dubuque.

Cities and towns along the way reap the benefits of suddenly having their populations explode as bikers break for restrooms, refreshments, meals and overnight stays in parks, parking lots, churches, schools and even private homes.

I try to imagine what it would be like going on RAGBRAI but struggle with getting past the port-o-potties.

You see, I've always loved riding my bike, but if I went I'd have to have my wide cushy granny seat. Add to that a bicycle basket to carry Kleenex, tweezers for facial hair, teeth whitener, anti-wrinkle cream, a set of 32 hot-rollers, down comforter, feather pillow, nightlight, lots of fruits and veggies and my trusty bicycle bell to keep the coyotes away.

When I envision going on RAGBRAI, my picture is pretty sad. I see myself pedaling into Dubuque one month after the race ends, finishing dead last.

I'm all blistered and beat down from the wind and sun, not to mention a severely chapped behind. I roll into town and groan inaudibly, "I made it, I made it..," with no fanfare or anyone who gives a care.

Overrun by dark thoughts, I picture extreme discomfort: hurricane winds, driving rain, deadly lightning, drenched tent, wet clothes, flat tires, stripped gears, aching muscles, grapefruit-sized mosquitoes and gritty bugs in my teeth.

Maybe that's my problem: my visualization is right there in the old dumpster. I think a little dose of Robert Schuller's Power of Positive Thinking might get me in the right frame of mind.

Or perhaps I could draw inspiration from the Wilson family of Ames, Iowa. Greg and Shelli Wilson and their three children, ages one to eight, are riding in RAGBRAI this year.

According to the official RAGBRAI website, the entire family will travel on one bike, a three-person tandem with a tag-along for the two littlest ones.

The bike with the Wilson's on it weighs 600 pounds and is longer than the family van. As Shelli Wilson explains, "Greg is the captain. No matter what, he has to keep pedaling."

So what happens if everyone in the family but Greg decides to take the day off? Well, if the Wilson's can do it, maybe I can, too. (Nah, probably not.)

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

For Jane...a Tribute

You may not have noticed her obituary in the paper, but our friend Jane died July 7. She was 87.

A likable kind of gal, Jane never married, didn't drive a car, walked and rode public transit to get groceries, see the doctor, go to work and pay bills.

If Jane had known you, she would have made you her friend. And on your birthday, your anniversary, for Christmas, at Easter time, on Valentine's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day and maybe even Independence Day, you would have received a cheery card personalized from her.

Whatever excuses that usually keep me from attending funerals - can't get away from work, too sad, I'll honor her in another way or any number of reasons to avoid feeling grief - didn't stop me from attending Jane's funeral.

As I drove to the church through rain on Monday, I dwelt on the 26 years I knew her. I thought about how hard she tried to fit into conversations, friendships, choir, ladies circle, and other groups.

Traveling down West Seventh Street and up Pearl, I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my flower garden. It was a potted plant she had purchased for the altar in memory of her father and "Mother Dear," and later gave to me.

When I turned onto Fifth and over to Sixth, I recalled her playful expressions: "Are you being mischievous?" or "Was I naughty."

As I parked the car, I thought of the many canvas and plastic bags she lugged wherever she went. Her purse, rarely zipped, hung wide open, stuffed with papers, envelopes and whatnot, like an overflowing filing cabinet.

As I walked up the stairs to the church door, I remembered that for many years, I only knew Jane from greeting her on her way to and from the choir loft. Although, I'll never forget the first time I encountered her on a more personal level.

It was Thanksgiving Eve and we had just finished a traditional worship service. "So, do you have your turkey and all the trimmings ready for Thanksgiving?" I asked her, fully expecting a hardy, affirmative, "Yes!"

With a blank stare, she quietly said, "No, I'm all alone and no one has invited me."

"Well, consider yourself invited," I said, without hesitation, stunned by the hedge of loneliness and isolation that shaped her expression. That was the beginning of many years of Jane joining our family for all the major holidays.

After I settled into the last pew closest to the narthex, I counted the number of people at her funeral: 20, not counting about 15 family members and two pastors. I did this in the spirit of Jane, since she routinely reported a tally of how many people were in church each Sunday.

While leaving her funeral, I felt a twinge of guilt over how hard it was to visit her after she went to the nursing home.

Driving away from church, I reflected once again on Jane's efforts to fit in, and I knew all of her struggles were finally over. I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my garden and felt Jane close by.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Gimme some younger looking skin

Last week, I saw two different signs advertising products and services that captured my attention. This is not my usual reaction; normally, I’m very leery of anyone selling anything, but these signs raised my curiosity.

The first one was on a marquee that read: "Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale."

Now, naturally, being in my late 50’s, younger looking anything is appealing. So, I called the number to find out about this so called "sale."

"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"

"Hello, I saw your sign advertising 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and was curious as to what that entails?" I inquired.

"Uh-h-h, can I put you on hold?"

"O.K." I replied, thinking this really is not O.K. because I really do not like being on hold. I waited for about a minute before someone else with a much deeper voice got on the line.

"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"

Repeating myself, "I saw your sign that said 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and I was just curious as to what that entails."

"Well, we have a really big deal going on now that includes a computerized facial skin analysis," the salesperson mumbled.

"A what?" I asked.

"A computerized facial skin analysis, a micro-derm." A micro-derm? Sounds like a made-up word to me.

She continued, "…a facial, and a chemical peel, all for only $167."

"Ah, I see," I said, reminded that the word "discount" doesn’t necessarily carry the same meaning it did in the 1970’s. Back then, you could buy a brand new Datsun 240Z for $2,400 and discount meant you could actually make purchases for under a dollar.

Another sign that grabbed my attention was handwritten and stuck in someone’s front yard. It read: "Rent-A-Friend. Mow lawns. Trim bushes. Haul stuff. Fix things."

"Rent-A-Friend." There’s something wonderfully shallow about the notion of renting a friend. Although, it kind of bothered me that I liked the ring of it so much.

The idea of renting a friend fits my approach to fix-it projects, which usually boils down to getting out the Duct Tape.

I like the convenience of calling a "Rent-A-Friend" guy or gal and asking them to fix the roof, unclog the drain, trim the hedge, walk the dogs, lift the dock, repair the fence, reach for things that are too high and maybe even run errands.

When I shared this idea with my husband, he said, "Why do you need to rent a friend when you already have "Rent-A-Husband?"

I replied, "But I don’t rent you. How do you explain that?"

"I can’t, it just goes along with your theme," he noted.

"Yeah, but you get so tired of fixing things on my 'Honey Do' list and 'Rent-A-Friend' would give you a break," I resolved.

"Yeah, I may get tired, but I still fix things anyway," he said back at me.

"But a rent-a-friend would fix things with a smile and wouldn’t whine about it," I remarked, not giving in.

"How do you know that? Besides, how much will that cost you?" he intoned with a it-will-cost-too-much ring to his voice.

He had me. Suspending the idea of a "Rent-A-Friend" for as long as possible and certain that the hourly rate would spoil it, I decided not to call.

"You're probably right," I conceded, while applying my Nivea age defying moisturizer with age diminishing creatine technology. I then put on my tool belt and got out my trusty Duct Tape.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Summer Is: A poem in prose

The beginning of summer is…

...licking ice cream cones and forgetting about school,

…going to the park and staying up late,

…listening to meadowlarks and hearing morning doves,

…planning family picnics, hitting home-runs.

…Splitting twin-pops and stopping for Kool Aid,

…eating plums and tasting rain,

...filling the pool and painting the barn,

…putting up wind chimes, hanging out laundry.

...Catching rays and pulling weeds.

...exploring new places and leaving the rest behind.

Those dog days of summer are for…

...watching kids chase fireflies and seeing corn grow,

...finding shade and losing weight,

…riding waves and floating boats,

…taking off shorts, putting on swimsuits.

…Wading to your waist and wanting to go farther,

…building tree houses and taking down tents,

…putting on sunscreen and putting off tomorrow,

…roasting marshmallows, buttering corn.

…Going to street dances and returning from vacations,

…losing your grip and finding your soul.

Oh, yes, these sweet hot months mean…

…diving deeper and coming up for air,

…watching flowers bloom and waiting for fruit to ripen,

…picking mulberries and pitting cherries,

...wearing madras, donning seersucker.

…Carrying straw purses and sporting summer hats,

…riding with the top down and turning the radio up,

…striking up the band and putting off the blues,

… jumping at thunderclaps, awing at lightning strikes.

…Hearing cicadas and listening to frogs,

…living your dreams and letting go of your sorrows.

End of summer is…

…needing more and realizing there's a limit,

…knowing seasons change and feeling a chill,

…seeing birds fly south and noticing turning leaves,

…bidding summer goodbye, wishing it wouldn't go.　

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Fur-children, flashlights and fuzzy memories...

The wind's deep massive roar caused me to shoot out of bed at 3:15 a.m. on June 10.

Instinctively, I scooped up our three Dachshunds and hollered at my husband, Brian, to get downstairs. Hurrying with two flashlights and three dogs in my arms, I stopped just long enough to drag Brian out of bed, and then sleepily fumbled my way to the basement.

Sounding more like a freight train than a strong wind, the storm already had the upper hand. Looking from the basement window, I could tell by the heavy yellowish sheets of rain and the low bending trees that it would be only a matter of time until the power went out.

Still groggy from a deep sleep, Brian eventually came down to the basement, where I sat on the couch with our three fur-children and flashlights.

The place suddenly went dark and from that point on, the storm had full control over our lives.

Waiting out the worst of it in the family room, we thought we'd try to get some sleep. With flashlights in hand, we half-stepped our way to the basement bedroom and settled in. Or at least that's how I remember the summer storm of 2010.

However, my husband's memory of it is quite different. Brian's side of the storm story goes like this...

"I, on the other hand, recovering from Vertigo, asked Paula, who was positioned on the couch with one Dachshund, to help me carry our other two Dachshunds down the spiral staircase.

"However, not budging from her spot in the basement, she didn't respond to my request. So, with trepidation and a slight case of dizziness, I took one step at a time down the stairs in complete darkness, carrying the dogs with me.

"I then asked Paula to get the flashlights, which were on the first level, but she opted to stay put. So, with great effort to balance myself, I made another trip upstairs to get the flashlights, while the storm continued to rage outside.

"We eventually settled in the basement bedroom. However, unable to get comfortable, we went back upstairs 15 minutes later, after the bulk of the storm had passed."

After Brian recounted his side of the story, I challenged him. "Are you sure about all that?" I asked. "I could have sworn it was the other way around."

Oh, well, at least we can agree on what we saw when we awoke a few hours later...

The power was still off and I found myself praying to the hot tap water to brew a nice hot cup of tea. Instead, I was clutching a mug of lukewarm Earl Gray, while peeking out the front window to see what Mother Nature had left behind.

I saw downed limbs everywhere, but it was not until I ventured outside that I realized the extent of the damage.

Huge sections of a decades-old silver maple landed on the house across the street, smashing the chain-link fence and above-ground pool and tearing into the master bedroom.

The neighbor's screen porch folded like a deck of cards with some sections contorted into unrecognizable chunks of metal, while other parts were lying in the yard across the way.

Looking long down the street, I could see a number trees leaning on garages and power lines. The road was covered with branches, weathered deadwood, ripped siding, distressed children's toys and a clutter of other debris.

The 95-mile-per-hour wind picked up a trampoline from the backyard of one house, wrung it out like wet laundry and left it twisted and gnarled in the front yard of another house.

Vinyl boat covers were strewn about. Garden sheds collapsed like cardboard boxes. Large pieces of sheet rock and Styrofoam littered otherwise well-kept yards. Shingles were stripped from roofs and lawn chairs found new homes down the block.

For the first time in the 35 years, there was a path of destruction from one end of our road to the other.

It was the summer storm of 2010. A storm which my husband and I remember differently, but one we won't soon forget.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

　

A little bit of this an a little bit of that

Why is it that umbrellas don't last for more than a summer? I'd like to blame it on the wind, since it never seems to rain vertically in South Dakota but always with a horizontal slant.

Almost every time I dash through a rainstorm, my umbrella inverts, creating a perfectly good for nothing thing with a curled handle. Just think about it...we have sent astronauts to the moon, we have developed hybrid seeds that grow vegetables in the desert, but we haven't engineered a durable umbrella.

I have never thought of July 4 as the end of summer, but retailers do. As soon as July 5th hits, they are stocking their shelves with back-to-school supplies and clothes. And by August, they have aisles of Halloween, Thanksgiving and even Christmas merchandise. Now I know why people move to the mountains or to remote islands. It's so they can live the remainder of their lives without commercialism dictating their thoughts and actions.

Have you ever wondered why so many people get cancer? A doctor once told me it's not if we will get cancer, it's when we will get cancer. How morbid is that? I wonder if it's because of all the plastic we use or possibly the quantity of prepackaged- already-prepared-just-pop-it-in-the-microwave food we eat.

The next time you're in the grocery store, notice how much space is allotted to fresh foods compared to space dedicated to foods in boxes, cans, plastic bags and jars. If we returned to shopping only in fresh food markets, would our cancer rate decrease?

People ask me what makes my pasta sauce so delicious. I tell them it's all about how I feel when I'm cooking it. My advice? If you're having a bad day, don't cook. Plus, I have some secret pasta sauce ingredients and cooking methods, which I am more than willing to share for the asking.

When I was in the London in May, I was pleasantly shocked to see palm trees. I learned that the soil is so fertile there that you can grow anything. Who would have thought?

Why is it that so many people eat their meals in their cars? Have we become so busy that we don't have time to sit down at a table and slowly savor every bite. Or is it that we have became a fast food nation and grabbing breakfast, lunch and dinner on the run is the norm?

From listening to Science Friday on National Public Radio, I learned that if you can hear thunder there is a danger of a lightning strike. I always thought I was safe as long as the thunder sounded far away. I also learned that plumbing pipes are conductors of lightning. That's the real reason you don't want to be doing dishes or taking a shower when it's storming.

When I see the oil continuing to gush from a broken pipe at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, I am sickened by our mindless oversights and our inability to protect nature and ourselves from disasters like this one. I am saddened by our greed. I say "our" because we all play a role in this with our unquenchable desire for bigness: big vehicles, big machinery, big boats, big house and our big lives that are addicted to fossil fuels.

I will be 58 in November and for the most part I don't feel old, until I count the number of pills I take everyday: one multivitamin, two calcium pills, one vitamin C, one baby aspirin, one blood pressure pill, a capsule for acid reflex, and one for allergies. That's eight pills daily, not counting my sleep medicine at night. And then I look down at my bent arm while I'm typing this and see the wrinkled skin of an old woman.


A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took a total of five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net , follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.

Looking through and seeing it all...

For most people, going through airport security can be downright unnerving. I wonder why this is true when 99.999 percent of us should have nothing to fear.

The way I see it, I am an honest person, earning an honest living, going on an honest to goodness vacation. At the security check, I dutifully take off my shoes, remove my belt, empty my wallet and displace my computer from its case.

And then I hear the security officer say, O.K., Miss, please step over here while we check your bags, and I realize she is talking to me. The reality suddenly sets in that airport security is not only going to go through my carry-on bags, they are going to check my body.

After the whole body imaging technology took an X-Ray right through my clothing, the female security officer asks me to lift my arms and stand with my legs apart as she proceeds to pat me down. She actually touches me! Holding my breath, I feel like a criminal in an everyday lineup.

Staying calm and employing a healthy dose of self-talk, I remind myself that I must have been the umpteenth traveler to meet her hourly quota. She must be using me as an example to prove to other travelers that she really means business. When packing, I followed all the rules on the TSA and airline websites. I squeezed all of my liquid containers into one tiny quart-sized bag. I didn't pack nail clippers or anything sharp.

I begin to worry about being wrongly accused and fear being left behind all because of some error I may have made in reading the fine print on a gazillion Do's and Don'ts for international travel. No water bottles, no fresh fruit, no liquids in containers larger than three ounces, must have all prescriptions with pharmacy receipts, pack everything in see-through zip-lock baggies. Funny thing is I haven't left Chicago yet.

Next, I have to answer to the Customs agent upon arrival in Dublin. After Chicago, what would in the world are they going to do to me there?

Why do you want to come to Ireland? the agent asks with an Irish brogue, barely looking up.

I want to tell him the real reasons: You see, Officer, this is a dream come true. My whole life I have wanted to visit Ireland. Now, I am here. My feet are firmly planted on Irish soil. I am ready to kiss the blarney stone. I am living my dream!

I decide not to go there. Containing my exuberance, I plainly explain, I am on a study tour with the university where I am employed.

Welcome to Ireland. Have a good time, was his response. That's it? Is that all there is? One question and I'm through to ancient castles, storied villages and historical lands?

Even though I was relieved, I had spent so much time worrying about going through Customs, I felt let down and wished it had been a little harder to make all my fussing worthwhile.

I had heard that Customs would be really, really bad when returning to the U.S., so I braced myself for the worst. Carrying images of Night Line and 20-20 horror stories of innocent travelers, I imagined a 3-D body scan, strip search, three-hour interrogation and detainment, never to see my home and family again.

Instead, the U.S. customs agent, who told me his job would be a lot easier if he only could spell, asked...what reasons did you travel to the U.K., what do you do for a living, what does your job entail?

"That must be a very hard job," he stated. "Welcome home."

Jiminee! It was that easy...

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

More Emails from the U.K...

This is the second in a series of two columns featuring my emails to my husband in South Dakota while I was traveling overseas in May...


Sent: Saturday, May 22, 2010

Subject: Greetings from London City

Hi Brian!

I am on an Internet timer here at the hotel, so I'll have to make this quick. Pardon any typos - this keyboard is weird. We arrived in London early Friday evening and have spent the last 24 hours touring the city. The first part of today, Saturday, was a motor tour. London is a very big city with very crowded sidewalks and streets. However, it is strangely peaceful here. I have not heard any yelling, seen any fights or tussles, like I experienced in big cities in the U.S.

Saw Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, the British Museum, the Charles Dickens Museum, Piccadilly Circus, the Thames River and many beautiful parks. At Buckingham Palace we saw the changing of the guards marching in procession with a band. I have video and photos of it.

On Sunday, we will tour the Tower of London and see Shakespeare's play Macbeth at the Globe Theater. Monday we will tour Oxford University in Oxford, England. Tuesday is a free day and we may catch another play that evening.Wednesday we leave London for Chicago and then back to Omaha.

While in London, we have traveled on the light rail system and then on foot to get to Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, the British Museum, Charles Dicken's Museum, Picadilly Circus, Harrod's and so many other sites.

Our tour guide is excellent. We have learned so much about the history, government, culture and topography of our travels from him. The people here are very friendly and polite.

Every day, I have to pinch myself. I just can't believe that I have visited Ireland, Wales and now England!

My love to you!

Paula


Subject: Hello from London City

Sent: Monday, May 24, 2010

My dear Brian....

We toured Oxford University today. It's both vast and sprawling. Classes were in session. We could tell which students were taking their final exams because they were dressed in regalia, which is a required custom at Oxford.

Most students here use bicycles with large baskets to get around campus and town. You should see the bikes parked outside of buildings on campus! Too many to count. It's like going back in time a bit.

The accommodations and food are good. The bakeries are unbelievable and there are so many! Getting in a lot of walking.

Traveling internationally, at least to the U.K. and Ireland, is very easy and much like traveling to any point in the states, except you need to show your passport and you hear very little English with so many tourists here from around the world.

I love you and miss you. Can't wait to see you tomorrow...

Love, hugs and kisses...

"Pauli"


2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.