Sometimes, I am completely overwhelmed by how our lives have changed so drastically. I hardly know where to begin.
The other day I overheard someone comment, “That was way back when we used to wait in line.” Used to wait in line? Did I miss something?
I suppose most people don’t have to wait in line these days, buying just about everything from flight tickets to dinner on the web. Not phone stores, of course, where ironically there always seems to be a line.
We don’t ask for the restroom key anymore or the time of day.
We don’t buy clothespins, ant buttons or rotary phones either. I suppose most young people don’t even know what these things are.
Baby toys are no longer stationary or static. Everything nowadays is electronic with movable parts, sounds, microchips and a variety of flashing lights.
Take for example the Fisher Price Rain Forest Swing. One button makes jungle noises, one plays songs, another turns hanging plants and animals into a merry-go-around and still another flashes lights choreographed to music.
And then there’s the Fish Under-the-Sea Gym Mat, comprised of soft colorful sea creatures, dangling rattles with moveable parts, a giant squeezable blue whale and a loveable octopus. Push this button and the thing lights up. Push that one and it plays Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major, push another and it becomes a rotating mobile.
Speaking of kids’ toys, do parents today go to the grocery store to pick up several large cardboard boxes for their toddlers to play in?
With constant distractions of i-phones, i-pads and i-pods at our fingertips every waking hour, I don’t think we sit and listen attentively anymore.
Tags on shirt disappeared right along with sitting around the dinner table for meals. Nowadays, tags are stamped inside or outside shirts. People either eat out, in front of the TV or on the run, downing dinners in their cars.
When was the last time you sharpened a pencil, had new soles put on your leather shoes, hemmed skirts or trousers or brought your 20-year-old Craftsman drill into the shop for repair?
We don’t darn socks, sew on buttons or fix three-corner tears.
Remember when we patched holes in our jeans? Now, we buy brand new jeans with readymade tears and wear them as some type of fashion statement.
Why watch dough rise, knead bread or bake cakes, when we can just run to the store and buy whatever we want.
Doctors don’t make house calls and milk is no longer delivered to our doors in glass jugs or any other container, for that matter.
Where have all the circus tents gone? Whatever happened to drive-in theaters? Are there any filling stations left?
Where has time gone?
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Trespassing on Trails of Time Gone By
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. Tools for woodworking, kitchen gadgets ordered from a catalog store and tangled tinsel.
Among office and household items, there’s a set of Homer Lauglin dishes, treasured by someone, somewhere, at some place in time, way back when.
A setting for eight “As Is” for two dollars with one dinner plate missing, a cracked creamer and only two salad bowls left to speak of.
A lonely exhausted rocking horse sits on the edge of the driveway next to a broken paper shredder and a crusty humidifier.
A greasy mower and bent weed eater stand side-by-side as sentinel soldiers with dried out clumps of grass clippings stuck proudly, as medals of valor pinned to a soldiers’ uniform.
Over there on an old wobbly card table, a dainty bouquet of roses and baby’s breath delicately rises from a sparkling crystal vase.
In sharp contrast, a tired old terrycloth bathrobe is neatly folded next to pair of once fluffy bedroom sleepers now worn flat.
The value here among scratched vinyl records from 1965 and a like-new ironing board circa 1970 is not monetary; no, not at all.
Where is the value in the one-dollar price tags? Is it in the need for a good used what-cha-ma-call-it? Possibly.
Or does the value here solely reside in relationships – connections between seller and former owner, between wife and deceased husband, son and ailing father, between mother and daughter, grandfather and grandson.
All this stuff – some would call junk – represents the treasures of a life lived with trial and toil.
Amid the many miscellaneous items is a well-trodden path of hope and heartache, a journey of pain and promise.
Here are the tattered kitchen towels, singed oven mitts and a men’s1950 Gillette hand razor. It’s still in the original case with “Made in the U.S.A.” stamped on the faded purple velvet lining inside the cover.
The now dulled stainless steel blade once smoothed a gentleman’s bristly five-o’clock shadow to a noticeably smooth freshness.
I imagine this old razor was used countless times to clean up before and after a day of work, maybe at the shop or in the fields, making him presentable over and over and over again.
Nervously gliding among these makeshift aisles, I distinctly feel as though I am trespassing in a private place where men's suits and women's dresses once embraced high and low points as they passed through thresholds of joy and misery.
I step lightly amid an array of used household items and sewing notions, relating ever so closely to the woman whose heart was intrinsically intertwined with this life. And, I imagine the many ways she so skillfully kept this family intact with quiet ingenuity and instinct.
If her husband were here, he might say she was the glue of this unheralded marriage for upwards of 60 years. Today, the remnants of this union, which she made seem so perfect, line the perimeter of the garage and spill out to the curb.
Nestled in fishing gear, old books and lots of interesting knick-knacks are memories of a life lived to the fullest – frugal and sometimes frenetic, but always very familiar.
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. It is a worn, subtly pensive place with a heroic and cautiously hopeful glossary.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A Sioux City-area resident, 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Among office and household items, there’s a set of Homer Lauglin dishes, treasured by someone, somewhere, at some place in time, way back when.
A setting for eight “As Is” for two dollars with one dinner plate missing, a cracked creamer and only two salad bowls left to speak of.
A lonely exhausted rocking horse sits on the edge of the driveway next to a broken paper shredder and a crusty humidifier.
A greasy mower and bent weed eater stand side-by-side as sentinel soldiers with dried out clumps of grass clippings stuck proudly, as medals of valor pinned to a soldiers’ uniform.
Over there on an old wobbly card table, a dainty bouquet of roses and baby’s breath delicately rises from a sparkling crystal vase.
In sharp contrast, a tired old terrycloth bathrobe is neatly folded next to pair of once fluffy bedroom sleepers now worn flat.
The value here among scratched vinyl records from 1965 and a like-new ironing board circa 1970 is not monetary; no, not at all.
Where is the value in the one-dollar price tags? Is it in the need for a good used what-cha-ma-call-it? Possibly.
Or does the value here solely reside in relationships – connections between seller and former owner, between wife and deceased husband, son and ailing father, between mother and daughter, grandfather and grandson.
All this stuff – some would call junk – represents the treasures of a life lived with trial and toil.
Amid the many miscellaneous items is a well-trodden path of hope and heartache, a journey of pain and promise.
Here are the tattered kitchen towels, singed oven mitts and a men’s1950 Gillette hand razor. It’s still in the original case with “Made in the U.S.A.” stamped on the faded purple velvet lining inside the cover.
The now dulled stainless steel blade once smoothed a gentleman’s bristly five-o’clock shadow to a noticeably smooth freshness.
I imagine this old razor was used countless times to clean up before and after a day of work, maybe at the shop or in the fields, making him presentable over and over and over again.
Nervously gliding among these makeshift aisles, I distinctly feel as though I am trespassing in a private place where men's suits and women's dresses once embraced high and low points as they passed through thresholds of joy and misery.
I step lightly amid an array of used household items and sewing notions, relating ever so closely to the woman whose heart was intrinsically intertwined with this life. And, I imagine the many ways she so skillfully kept this family intact with quiet ingenuity and instinct.
If her husband were here, he might say she was the glue of this unheralded marriage for upwards of 60 years. Today, the remnants of this union, which she made seem so perfect, line the perimeter of the garage and spill out to the curb.
Nestled in fishing gear, old books and lots of interesting knick-knacks are memories of a life lived to the fullest – frugal and sometimes frenetic, but always very familiar.
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. It is a worn, subtly pensive place with a heroic and cautiously hopeful glossary.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A Sioux City-area resident, 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Mercy killing: a swift and calculating account
Most stories start at the beginning. This one begins at the end.
My husband and I cut down an apple tree this morning.
Not just any old fruit tree lost somewhere in the middle of a massive orchard. It was once a Harvest Apple seedling, the second of three varieties of apple trees Brian set in the ground on our small patch of land more than 30 years ago.
I remember when Brian planted it right off the corner of the sundeck. As he scooped the last shovel of soil, he gently tapped his feet around its young, scrawny trunk and said, “Someday, I’ll be able to pick apples from the deck.” And, he did.
It grew hardily, weathering the seasons, standing against any number of summer storms and bearing much fruit, without conveying any hint of tiredness.
That was until last Sunday evening, when a strong suspended wind shear passed through, wiping out its main stalwart shoot. The storm left only two thick branches, one facing north, and the other south, to fend for themselves.
You could call it a mercy killing of sorts. The old tree did not bear fruit this season and would not have survived a storm headed our way. We decided to take it down gently and with whatever dignity we could provide.
Don’t be fooled by this swift and calculating account. Even though in the early morning hours before work, I appeared to be uncommonly detached. Taking turns hand-sawing with Brian, I experienced a nagging loss. It was a deep down sense I couldn’t penetrate amid the cutting and hauling of branches.
It only took us a half-hour and, now, all but the lower part of the trunk is gone.
Resting my hand on the scrappy edges of what’s left, I am grievously apologetic for my bad attitude toward it.
In early summer, I griped over having to compete with squirrels for the first fruits. In mid-summer, I complained about all the fallen apples attracting hornets. When autumn came around, I surely did my share of whining over having to rake all of those darn leaves.
Now that the tree is gone, my memories have turned satiny and supple.
As our family grew, the tree grew with us. The kids climbed it and so did our Dachshund, Poe.
It shaded our flowers, provided a safe home for a variety of birds and protected us from hail and hard-driving south winds. It was an abundant food source for squirrels, an irresistible attraction for bees and an enchanted landing for snowflakes.
For years, it supplied us with enough fruit to make delicious apple pies, mouthwatering apple crisps, tantalizing apple bread and smooth apple sauce.
This tree stood by as we went to the hospital for the births of our two sons and looked upon us as we returned with newborns bundled in our arms.
It greeted newly adopted puppies, foreign guests and long-lost friends. It watched us rescue baby bunnies, birds and ducklings. It heard my silent restless dreaming as I sat out late into the evening gazing at a starry sky.
Its absence has left a big gap in the yard and a huge lump in my throat.
My nervous chatter, “It’s a good thing we took care of it now,” is really a disguise for my grief. My edgy command for Brian, “Do not plant another tree there, and I mean it,” is just a cover for my sorrow. My dismissive comment, “Well, now there’s more sun in the yard,” is only an excuse for my regret.
I realize now how insolubly linked my life was to the old tree. I regret not having shown it my deep-seated appreciation for all it quietly and unselfishly offered.
When it died, a part of me went, too.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
My husband and I cut down an apple tree this morning.
Not just any old fruit tree lost somewhere in the middle of a massive orchard. It was once a Harvest Apple seedling, the second of three varieties of apple trees Brian set in the ground on our small patch of land more than 30 years ago.
I remember when Brian planted it right off the corner of the sundeck. As he scooped the last shovel of soil, he gently tapped his feet around its young, scrawny trunk and said, “Someday, I’ll be able to pick apples from the deck.” And, he did.
It grew hardily, weathering the seasons, standing against any number of summer storms and bearing much fruit, without conveying any hint of tiredness.
That was until last Sunday evening, when a strong suspended wind shear passed through, wiping out its main stalwart shoot. The storm left only two thick branches, one facing north, and the other south, to fend for themselves.
You could call it a mercy killing of sorts. The old tree did not bear fruit this season and would not have survived a storm headed our way. We decided to take it down gently and with whatever dignity we could provide.
Don’t be fooled by this swift and calculating account. Even though in the early morning hours before work, I appeared to be uncommonly detached. Taking turns hand-sawing with Brian, I experienced a nagging loss. It was a deep down sense I couldn’t penetrate amid the cutting and hauling of branches.
It only took us a half-hour and, now, all but the lower part of the trunk is gone.
Resting my hand on the scrappy edges of what’s left, I am grievously apologetic for my bad attitude toward it.
In early summer, I griped over having to compete with squirrels for the first fruits. In mid-summer, I complained about all the fallen apples attracting hornets. When autumn came around, I surely did my share of whining over having to rake all of those darn leaves.
Now that the tree is gone, my memories have turned satiny and supple.
As our family grew, the tree grew with us. The kids climbed it and so did our Dachshund, Poe.
It shaded our flowers, provided a safe home for a variety of birds and protected us from hail and hard-driving south winds. It was an abundant food source for squirrels, an irresistible attraction for bees and an enchanted landing for snowflakes.
For years, it supplied us with enough fruit to make delicious apple pies, mouthwatering apple crisps, tantalizing apple bread and smooth apple sauce.
This tree stood by as we went to the hospital for the births of our two sons and looked upon us as we returned with newborns bundled in our arms.
It greeted newly adopted puppies, foreign guests and long-lost friends. It watched us rescue baby bunnies, birds and ducklings. It heard my silent restless dreaming as I sat out late into the evening gazing at a starry sky.
Its absence has left a big gap in the yard and a huge lump in my throat.
My nervous chatter, “It’s a good thing we took care of it now,” is really a disguise for my grief. My edgy command for Brian, “Do not plant another tree there, and I mean it,” is just a cover for my sorrow. My dismissive comment, “Well, now there’s more sun in the yard,” is only an excuse for my regret.
I realize now how insolubly linked my life was to the old tree. I regret not having shown it my deep-seated appreciation for all it quietly and unselfishly offered.
When it died, a part of me went, too.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
This is between father and daughter
The young girl standing next to me in the card aisle couldn’t be more than eight, maybe nine years old. Her strawberry blonde hair is braided in pigtails and swept back from her forehead, probably a tidy look her mother prefers.
She’s all alone, and I'm wondering how she got here. Did she walk to the store by herself? No, not likely. Did her mother drop her off? Maybe.
Our paths collide in this ocean of cards and envelopes for the sole purpose of picking out just the right one for Father’s Day.
I’m paddling through the “To My Loving Husband” section, while she’s wading in the “Hey, Dad” area.
It seems strange to have someone shorter than I am with whom to sojourn where usually adults, mainly women, flip through cards alongside of me.
For a time in a somewhat synchronous fashion, she and I navigate the greetings with precision, as though swimming laps, raising our hands, selecting cards, one after another, carefully reading and then placing them back into the endless pool of “No, not that one.”
Our arms tire, but we don’t stop in our pursuit of the perfect card.
I’m trying not to gawk at what appears to be a special moment in the young girl’s life. In fact, I’d really like to sit back and simply observe this blessed process, maybe even take some notes.
She appears intensely focused on choosing just the right Father’s Day card. How do I know? Because she keeps searching.
Besides, when was the last time I saw an eight-year-old behaving so selflessly in a greeting card aisle? Never, and I am impressed.
After all, it’s a beautiful blue summer day, and she could be out riding her bike, playing with friends or swimming at the pool.
Instead, she continues sorting through “Dad, Today Is All About You” and “You’re the Best Dad in the World.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and the mother in me wants to help her along.
“Isn’t this one cute?” I suggest, holding up a sweet card with a papa dog standing behind a puppy that reads, “Behind every great kid there’s a great dad!” Shaking her slightly tilted head in reserved affirmation, she smiles politely and replies quite unconvincingly, “Yeah.”
I stop trying – this is between father and daughter. Besides, everyone knows total strangers can’t help each other pick out cards.
As I walk away, albeit empty handed, I ponder her connections to her father.
Do they play board games and go on bike rides together? Does he attend her concerts and cheer her on?
Does he listen attentively when she is speaking to him, praise good efforts and encourage her when she fails?
Do they have meaningful conversations? Are they even silly at times? Does she share fears and dreams with him? Does she possess all that I did not have with my father?
Maybe so. Otherwise, why is she standing there 30 minutes later, looking, still looking?
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
She’s all alone, and I'm wondering how she got here. Did she walk to the store by herself? No, not likely. Did her mother drop her off? Maybe.
Our paths collide in this ocean of cards and envelopes for the sole purpose of picking out just the right one for Father’s Day.
I’m paddling through the “To My Loving Husband” section, while she’s wading in the “Hey, Dad” area.
It seems strange to have someone shorter than I am with whom to sojourn where usually adults, mainly women, flip through cards alongside of me.
For a time in a somewhat synchronous fashion, she and I navigate the greetings with precision, as though swimming laps, raising our hands, selecting cards, one after another, carefully reading and then placing them back into the endless pool of “No, not that one.”
Our arms tire, but we don’t stop in our pursuit of the perfect card.
I’m trying not to gawk at what appears to be a special moment in the young girl’s life. In fact, I’d really like to sit back and simply observe this blessed process, maybe even take some notes.
She appears intensely focused on choosing just the right Father’s Day card. How do I know? Because she keeps searching.
Besides, when was the last time I saw an eight-year-old behaving so selflessly in a greeting card aisle? Never, and I am impressed.
After all, it’s a beautiful blue summer day, and she could be out riding her bike, playing with friends or swimming at the pool.
Instead, she continues sorting through “Dad, Today Is All About You” and “You’re the Best Dad in the World.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and the mother in me wants to help her along.
“Isn’t this one cute?” I suggest, holding up a sweet card with a papa dog standing behind a puppy that reads, “Behind every great kid there’s a great dad!” Shaking her slightly tilted head in reserved affirmation, she smiles politely and replies quite unconvincingly, “Yeah.”
I stop trying – this is between father and daughter. Besides, everyone knows total strangers can’t help each other pick out cards.
As I walk away, albeit empty handed, I ponder her connections to her father.
Do they play board games and go on bike rides together? Does he attend her concerts and cheer her on?
Does he listen attentively when she is speaking to him, praise good efforts and encourage her when she fails?
Do they have meaningful conversations? Are they even silly at times? Does she share fears and dreams with him? Does she possess all that I did not have with my father?
Maybe so. Otherwise, why is she standing there 30 minutes later, looking, still looking?
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Our sunny streets have lost their luster…
Exhausted emotionally and physically, we are at the wait-and-see end of preparing for an unprecedented man made flood.
A force to be reckoned with, the Missouri River came by its nickname “the mighty Mo” for good reason, as it now forces individuals living and working along or near its shores to flee – all the way from South Dakota to Iowa, Nebraska to Missouri and downstream to Kansas City.
I’ve come to realize that flooding rivers don’t discriminate the way tornadoes selectively touch down, wildly carve out a limited path of destruction and then 5 or 10 minutes later, leave, lift or disappear all-together.
Equal opportunity disasters, flooding rivers send roaring waters for miles and miles, overreaching their boundaries three-, four-, five-times or more.
While most floods typically last two days and then recede, draining down semi-clogged storm sewers, running off and soaking the ground, this flood will last one to two months, maybe longer.
Giving us the cold shoulder, it is creeping over highways and embankments; crawling through underpasses and across farm fields; filling basements and upper floors; turning parking lots into lakes, lakes into rivers and rivers into oceans.
We no longer crunch our way through stands of trees but wade on glittering floors.
When eyeing sandbag levees, this flood does not blink. It snake around homes, businesses, sub-stations, water treatment plants, water towers, wells, streets, schools, completely hemming in entire communities.
Our sunny streets have lost their luster, littered with depleted sand piles, tired shovels laid to rest and reserves of sentry sandbags stand by for the next call of duty.
The playful sounds of summer are quieted as we wait and watch rising waters inch closer to our once content and carefree existence.
This epic flood has changed our plans: vacations cancelled, weddings moved, summer camps closed, fundraisers postponed, parties on hold – our entire lives detoured.
The clock is ticking as more and more water is released from Gavin’s Point Dam some 50 miles upstream in Yankton, S.D.
We listen to dismal news reports chirping river stages that are now as common as air temperatures.
Our backs stiffen, our necks harden and our knees buckle with the pain of losing summer even before it began.
Feverishly, we are tempted to point fingers, hoping that casting blame will somehow relieve this grief and calm our anger.
Shaking our tired heads, we talk ourselves and others down off the ledge of despair. Lowering our clenched fists, we pick up our shovels. Stuffing the raspy calls for justice that well in our chests, we fill more sandbags. Holding back deep sadness, we help strangers. Fighting denial, we work day and night to hold back the waters.
While this flood moves in and takes up residence in our once tranquil lives, we do first-things-first – brace for the worst, hope for the best and get to the bottom of this later.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
A force to be reckoned with, the Missouri River came by its nickname “the mighty Mo” for good reason, as it now forces individuals living and working along or near its shores to flee – all the way from South Dakota to Iowa, Nebraska to Missouri and downstream to Kansas City.
I’ve come to realize that flooding rivers don’t discriminate the way tornadoes selectively touch down, wildly carve out a limited path of destruction and then 5 or 10 minutes later, leave, lift or disappear all-together.
Equal opportunity disasters, flooding rivers send roaring waters for miles and miles, overreaching their boundaries three-, four-, five-times or more.
While most floods typically last two days and then recede, draining down semi-clogged storm sewers, running off and soaking the ground, this flood will last one to two months, maybe longer.
Giving us the cold shoulder, it is creeping over highways and embankments; crawling through underpasses and across farm fields; filling basements and upper floors; turning parking lots into lakes, lakes into rivers and rivers into oceans.
We no longer crunch our way through stands of trees but wade on glittering floors.
When eyeing sandbag levees, this flood does not blink. It snake around homes, businesses, sub-stations, water treatment plants, water towers, wells, streets, schools, completely hemming in entire communities.
Our sunny streets have lost their luster, littered with depleted sand piles, tired shovels laid to rest and reserves of sentry sandbags stand by for the next call of duty.
The playful sounds of summer are quieted as we wait and watch rising waters inch closer to our once content and carefree existence.
This epic flood has changed our plans: vacations cancelled, weddings moved, summer camps closed, fundraisers postponed, parties on hold – our entire lives detoured.
The clock is ticking as more and more water is released from Gavin’s Point Dam some 50 miles upstream in Yankton, S.D.
We listen to dismal news reports chirping river stages that are now as common as air temperatures.
Our backs stiffen, our necks harden and our knees buckle with the pain of losing summer even before it began.
Feverishly, we are tempted to point fingers, hoping that casting blame will somehow relieve this grief and calm our anger.
Shaking our tired heads, we talk ourselves and others down off the ledge of despair. Lowering our clenched fists, we pick up our shovels. Stuffing the raspy calls for justice that well in our chests, we fill more sandbags. Holding back deep sadness, we help strangers. Fighting denial, we work day and night to hold back the waters.
While this flood moves in and takes up residence in our once tranquil lives, we do first-things-first – brace for the worst, hope for the best and get to the bottom of this later.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
You know you’re in for a flood when…
It doesn’t take much to realize that an unprecedented “flood event,” a euphemism government officials like to use, is headed your way.
For instance, you know you’re in for a flood when suddenly an unexplained public information meeting has been called for the first time in 36 years.
You know you’re in for a flood when…
… the Red Cross greets you at the door.
…the mayor opens the meeting by saying, “Now, folks, no matter what happens, we are all in this together.”
... all of the websites referred to at the meeting begin with www.disasterrecovery or www.bReady.
…you can correctly pronounce and spell the word “levee.”
…for the first time ever, you know exactly where your town’s levees are located and what conditions they are in.
…the sights and sounds of Blackhawk heli
copters hovering over your area, while dangling 1,000-pound bags of sand, are everyday occurrences.
… four out of every five vehicles on the highway are dump trucks, transporting fill dirt to build new levees.
…your entire life revolves around if the levee breaks.
…you can report the current Missouri River stage at any given time.
…you are on a first-name basis with your county’s Incident Command officials.
…you know the exact elevation of your property (11,003 feet), the school elevation (11,009 feet), the sewer system (11,002 feet) and just about every part of town.
…you actually try to calculate the flood threat by adding the sum of your elevation and the river stage to your location relative to the river gauge but ultimately give up.
…your community looks like a war zone with Army National Guard troops controlling every entrance and exit to town.
Similarly, you know you’ve been sandbagging way too long when…
…you begin reciting statistics, such as: Two people can fill, tie and load 25 sandbags in 30 minutes. It takes three hours for a team of 15 to 20 people to build a 20-foot long, four-foot high sandbag levee.
…you know that 300 sandbags really don’t go very far.
…you set the alarm for 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, your only day to sleep in, to fill more sandbags.
…you think you need to fill 100 more sandbag even after you’ve already filled more than 700.
…you talk to the Weather Channel meteorologist on your TV screen by saying, “Good weather for sandbagging.”
…your back is breaking, your shoulders are aching, your knees won’t bend and every muscle in your body is in pain from filling and hauling all those sandbags, which weigh anywhere from 50 to 70 pounds each.
…you become weirdly territorial as you experience a sudden and unexplained obsession to protect your stake of the sand pile and stack of filled bags behind you.
…you actually start thinking which color of sandbags you prefer – army green, sunburst yellow, plain white or bright orange – and for a brief moment you seriously wonder if you should color coordinate them on the levee around your house.
…you really wish there were a Duct Tape or an App to protect you, your family and your property from flooding.
... you think high school and college students are God’s gift to the world as flash mobs of them show up to help you fill sandbags and to build your levee.
…you are equally as grateful for your family, your church and your employer who all played critically important roles in helping you prepare for this epic flood.
…at the end of the day, you are humming “What a wonderful world” because you know that if it weren’t for all of these volunteers, you, your town and your entire area would be sunk – literally.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
For instance, you know you’re in for a flood when suddenly an unexplained public information meeting has been called for the first time in 36 years.
You know you’re in for a flood when…
… the Red Cross greets you at the door.
…the mayor opens the meeting by saying, “Now, folks, no matter what happens, we are all in this together.”
... all of the websites referred to at the meeting begin with www.disasterrecovery or www.bReady.
…you can correctly pronounce and spell the word “levee.”
…for the first time ever, you know exactly where your town’s levees are located and what conditions they are in.
…the sights and sounds of Blackhawk heli
copters hovering over your area, while dangling 1,000-pound bags of sand, are everyday occurrences.
… four out of every five vehicles on the highway are dump trucks, transporting fill dirt to build new levees.
…your entire life revolves around if the levee breaks.
…you can report the current Missouri River stage at any given time.
…you are on a first-name basis with your county’s Incident Command officials.
…you know the exact elevation of your property (11,003 feet), the school elevation (11,009 feet), the sewer system (11,002 feet) and just about every part of town.
…you actually try to calculate the flood threat by adding the sum of your elevation and the river stage to your location relative to the river gauge but ultimately give up.
…your community looks like a war zone with Army National Guard troops controlling every entrance and exit to town.
Similarly, you know you’ve been sandbagging way too long when…
…you begin reciting statistics, such as: Two people can fill, tie and load 25 sandbags in 30 minutes. It takes three hours for a team of 15 to 20 people to build a 20-foot long, four-foot high sandbag levee.
…you know that 300 sandbags really don’t go very far.
…you set the alarm for 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, your only day to sleep in, to fill more sandbags.
…you think you need to fill 100 more sandbag even after you’ve already filled more than 700.
…you talk to the Weather Channel meteorologist on your TV screen by saying, “Good weather for sandbagging.”
…your back is breaking, your shoulders are aching, your knees won’t bend and every muscle in your body is in pain from filling and hauling all those sandbags, which weigh anywhere from 50 to 70 pounds each.
…you become weirdly territorial as you experience a sudden and unexplained obsession to protect your stake of the sand pile and stack of filled bags behind you.
…you actually start thinking which color of sandbags you prefer – army green, sunburst yellow, plain white or bright orange – and for a brief moment you seriously wonder if you should color coordinate them on the levee around your house.
…you really wish there were a Duct Tape or an App to protect you, your family and your property from flooding.
... you think high school and college students are God’s gift to the world as flash mobs of them show up to help you fill sandbags and to build your levee.
…you are equally as grateful for your family, your church and your employer who all played critically important roles in helping you prepare for this epic flood.
…at the end of the day, you are humming “What a wonderful world” because you know that if it weren’t for all of these volunteers, you, your town and your entire area would be sunk – literally.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Monday, May 30, 2011
“Romance is the glamour which turns the dust…” Amanda Cross
Springtime makes you feel weightless…
Mesmerized by seductively warming temperatures, you scamper about in a pair of Bermuda shorts and tank top, yet the thermometer only reads 60.
Open wide the garage door and sweep winter’s dirt from cluttered floors. Drag out lawn chairs, which have hung sullenly from rafters for more than a season. Dust them off and sit a spell, watching cars, strollers and bicycles go by.
Crank open windows, inviting breezes to flow through, welcoming sudden gentle rushes of soft, warm fresh air.
Old familiar voices fill the sky with an electrifying intensity, as robins, red-winged blackbirds and sparrows telegraph a new day.
Rows of black-capped chickadees form long lines on utility wires high above – males vocalize thin repetitive whistles, while females reply with musical songs.
The kitchen sounds off, too. Echoing through screened windows, sashes raised, dishes clap, pots and pans clang, cupboards pop open and slam shut, chairs scoot.
Springtime loosens you…
Liberated now, you push away lingering memories of a hard winter past, while every part of you merrily calls out.
From the front porch, you greet neighbors; from your vehicle, you happily honk, recognizing old friends.
Outdoors, it is no longer silent with hammering of rooftops, dribbling of basketballs, barking of dogs and creaking of swing sets. There’s giddy chatter over fences and chuckles from patios, too.
Springtime makes you feel young again…
Inhaling intoxicating fragrances of lilacs, irises, apple and cherry blossoms, you petition summer to make her entrance quickly.
Budding shelterbelts, hedges and tree stands progressively turn from muddy brown to vibrant green.
Rain pattering above amply teases nostalgia for a good storm. Yet, claps of thunder and flashes of lightning pose as strangers in your midst.
Springtime makes you feel playful…
Running barefoot through tall grass. Falling to your knees, triumphant over winter’s slumber, embracing its passage with a joyful heart, you render it non-existent for the time being.
Gratefully, you vow not to complain. Not one word, dare you utter, of what this turning season foreshadows – mosquitoes, crickets, spiders, humidity, flooding, mildew, heat and more heat. Shush now.
You hail this time of the year with new wonder, marveling over how frozenness thawed into lush emeralds, vibrant reds and splendorous purples. Once solid, waves push over shorelines, while sunlight stretches long into evening.
Instilling a refreshed spirit, a sense of newness sends you gliding beyond yesterday and into tomorrow. You love springtime; it loves you back.
Springtime gives you permission…
You plan and hope again; because of springtime, you have promise.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns received eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Mesmerized by seductively warming temperatures, you scamper about in a pair of Bermuda shorts and tank top, yet the thermometer only reads 60.
Open wide the garage door and sweep winter’s dirt from cluttered floors. Drag out lawn chairs, which have hung sullenly from rafters for more than a season. Dust them off and sit a spell, watching cars, strollers and bicycles go by.
Crank open windows, inviting breezes to flow through, welcoming sudden gentle rushes of soft, warm fresh air.
Old familiar voices fill the sky with an electrifying intensity, as robins, red-winged blackbirds and sparrows telegraph a new day.
Rows of black-capped chickadees form long lines on utility wires high above – males vocalize thin repetitive whistles, while females reply with musical songs.
The kitchen sounds off, too. Echoing through screened windows, sashes raised, dishes clap, pots and pans clang, cupboards pop open and slam shut, chairs scoot.
Springtime loosens you…
Liberated now, you push away lingering memories of a hard winter past, while every part of you merrily calls out.
From the front porch, you greet neighbors; from your vehicle, you happily honk, recognizing old friends.
Outdoors, it is no longer silent with hammering of rooftops, dribbling of basketballs, barking of dogs and creaking of swing sets. There’s giddy chatter over fences and chuckles from patios, too.
Springtime makes you feel young again…
Inhaling intoxicating fragrances of lilacs, irises, apple and cherry blossoms, you petition summer to make her entrance quickly.
Budding shelterbelts, hedges and tree stands progressively turn from muddy brown to vibrant green.
Rain pattering above amply teases nostalgia for a good storm. Yet, claps of thunder and flashes of lightning pose as strangers in your midst.
Springtime makes you feel playful…
Running barefoot through tall grass. Falling to your knees, triumphant over winter’s slumber, embracing its passage with a joyful heart, you render it non-existent for the time being.
Gratefully, you vow not to complain. Not one word, dare you utter, of what this turning season foreshadows – mosquitoes, crickets, spiders, humidity, flooding, mildew, heat and more heat. Shush now.
You hail this time of the year with new wonder, marveling over how frozenness thawed into lush emeralds, vibrant reds and splendorous purples. Once solid, waves push over shorelines, while sunlight stretches long into evening.
Instilling a refreshed spirit, a sense of newness sends you gliding beyond yesterday and into tomorrow. You love springtime; it loves you back.
Springtime gives you permission…
You plan and hope again; because of springtime, you have promise.
2011 © 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, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns received eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Gritty menacing source of pleasure
There’s a lot not to like about sand. It makes your teeth feel gritty and your eyes smart. It settles in your sneakers and grinds away at your heels and toes.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mother's Day Tribute...
Dear Mom...
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A Review: Came empty...left full to overflowing
Sioux City, Iowa – Thousands descended upon the Tyson Event Center here on Saturday, March 19, 2011.
Our hearts and souls supple from lives of longing and lonesomeness. Our minds pliable, searching for sovereignty, seeking sureness, sojourning sorrows.
All the lonely people cryin’
It could change if we just get started
While waiting for the opening act, the sold-out crowd bears down behind me, in front of me, surrounding me as a massive congregation.
Elated conversant screams sprinkle their chit-chatter. A Christmas morning thrill intersperses a heightened murmur penetrating thick air.
Light the darkness, light a fire
For the silent and the brokenhearted
This unholy assembly, I included, is banking on the arrival of greatness, soon, very soon. We count down the minutes, our eyes pace back and forth over the stage, trying to detect movement of any kind that would herald the arrival.
When the walls fall all around you
When your hope has turned to dust
We are a communion of saints and sinners, desiring to be bathed in a river of hope, knowing we came in broken, anticipating we will leave whole.
The show eventually began at 7:30, but it’s going on 9 and the main act is nowhere to be seen.
There’s a comfort
There’s healing
Although that doesn’t seem to matter much. A sacred anticipation carries us from opening acts Casey James to Little Big Town.
And then it is done. With a bounding force of music and elated cheers, Sugarland’s Jennifer Owens and Kristian Nettles appear on stage, front and center.
High above the pain and sorrow
Won’t you stand up
Jennifer’s satiny, bounding vocal performance, as a blessing, impeccably and lovingly preaches reconciliation and salvation.
Any tiredness we hulled into the arena flew away on her very first note. Kristian’s rough, ready chorus solidly backs up her anthems.
With so much exuberance, we can’t sit still and will gladly stand for the next hour and a half of the show.
Stand up, stand up?
Won’t you stand up you girls and boys?
I will remember this night forever for …
…the penetrating perfume of the young woman sitting next to me.
…the praise music of this country band.
…the worship tones, raised hands and swaying bodies of this crowd.
I will remember this night forever because I never expected a concert venue to feel so much like a worship hall…because I went to the well empty and left full to overflowing.
(Lyrics: “Tonight” and “Stand Up” by Sugarland)
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Our hearts and souls supple from lives of longing and lonesomeness. Our minds pliable, searching for sovereignty, seeking sureness, sojourning sorrows.
All the lonely people cryin’
It could change if we just get started
While waiting for the opening act, the sold-out crowd bears down behind me, in front of me, surrounding me as a massive congregation.
Elated conversant screams sprinkle their chit-chatter. A Christmas morning thrill intersperses a heightened murmur penetrating thick air.
Light the darkness, light a fire
For the silent and the brokenhearted
This unholy assembly, I included, is banking on the arrival of greatness, soon, very soon. We count down the minutes, our eyes pace back and forth over the stage, trying to detect movement of any kind that would herald the arrival.
When the walls fall all around you
When your hope has turned to dust
We are a communion of saints and sinners, desiring to be bathed in a river of hope, knowing we came in broken, anticipating we will leave whole.
The show eventually began at 7:30, but it’s going on 9 and the main act is nowhere to be seen.
There’s a comfort
There’s healing
Although that doesn’t seem to matter much. A sacred anticipation carries us from opening acts Casey James to Little Big Town.
And then it is done. With a bounding force of music and elated cheers, Sugarland’s Jennifer Owens and Kristian Nettles appear on stage, front and center.
High above the pain and sorrow
Won’t you stand up
Jennifer’s satiny, bounding vocal performance, as a blessing, impeccably and lovingly preaches reconciliation and salvation.
Any tiredness we hulled into the arena flew away on her very first note. Kristian’s rough, ready chorus solidly backs up her anthems.
With so much exuberance, we can’t sit still and will gladly stand for the next hour and a half of the show.
Stand up, stand up?
Won’t you stand up you girls and boys?
I will remember this night forever for …
…the penetrating perfume of the young woman sitting next to me.
…the praise music of this country band.
…the worship tones, raised hands and swaying bodies of this crowd.
I will remember this night forever because I never expected a concert venue to feel so much like a worship hall…because I went to the well empty and left full to overflowing.
(Lyrics: “Tonight” and “Stand Up” by Sugarland)
2011 © 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, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
All the lonely people…
Many years ago during my career as a newspaper reporter, I was assigned to the night police beat in Sioux City, Iowa. During that 3 to 11 p.m. shift, I’d go down to the police station and comb through police logs for any kind of mischief people intentionally or unintentionally got themselves into.
There were the usual incidences of assault, theft, disturbance of the peace and other felonies you might expect. Occasionally among the more serious offences were humorous ones that made me chuckle and wonder.
To this day, police logs fascinate me. Like a diary of untold lives, each entry is a biography of the life and times and the Joe Shmoes and Suzy Ques caught in the act or being good neighbors by reporting their suspicions.
The most benign entries were similar to these found in a small town police log...
4:18 a.m. – RP advised his neighbors are “revving up their vehicles.”
8:05 a.m. – Reporting party (RP) advised of criminal mischief done to a planter near the playground.
Then there are the police calls that really make you wonder what people were thinking…
2:49 p.m. RP advised she was away from home and thinks she left on her car’s headlights parked by her garage. RP requesting an officer run by and check.
4:28 p.m. – RP advised there is a man that has been standing by her back gate for at least an hour. RP stated he will hop and jump around and act like he is conducting a choir. RP stated she’s not sure if he’s high on something or intoxicated. He’s wearing a green jacket, a bright yellow shirt and blue jeans and has black curly hair. RP requesting an officer.
5:46 p.m. – RP advised he wanted to give the officers a copy of an email that he received today asking him for money.
9:10 p.m. – RP advised she left her electric blanket on and she’s out of town and is requesting assistance to turn it off.
Some calls for law enforcement intervention are strictly family matters…
9:00 p.m. – RP advised she hasn’t seen or spoken to her sister all day and would like for an officer to try and find her.
11:20 p.m. – RP advised his wife was being a fool. She was intoxicated, yelling at him and telling him that he’s no good. RP requesting some assistance.
Still there are many others that come from a dark lonely place that only seeks to be seen and heard. A place that’s tired of being invisible…
9:48 a.m. – RP advised she received a letter in the mail and she would like for an officer to look at it to see if it’s a scam.
7:38 p.m. – RP advised she had observed three juveniles on skateboards go down the middle of the street. She advised one of them was on his stomach.
There were so many calls like these to the Sioux City Police that the department looked into what was driving them. Their goal was to reduce the waste of costly resources for situations that did not necessarily require police action.
What the department found was basically people are lonely and their calls for police are a coping mechanism to chase away the blues.
It’s an underwritten story of the lost and forgotten down the street or next door. If only we would reach out more often, acting as the host in our own neighborhoods. Checking in. Bringing well-wishes. Ringing the doorbell until someone emerges. Letting the phone ring until someone answers. What a difference that would make.
“All the lonely people…where do they all come from?” “Eleanor Rigby” The Beatles
2011 © 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.
There were the usual incidences of assault, theft, disturbance of the peace and other felonies you might expect. Occasionally among the more serious offences were humorous ones that made me chuckle and wonder.
To this day, police logs fascinate me. Like a diary of untold lives, each entry is a biography of the life and times and the Joe Shmoes and Suzy Ques caught in the act or being good neighbors by reporting their suspicions.
The most benign entries were similar to these found in a small town police log...
4:18 a.m. – RP advised his neighbors are “revving up their vehicles.”
8:05 a.m. – Reporting party (RP) advised of criminal mischief done to a planter near the playground.
Then there are the police calls that really make you wonder what people were thinking…
2:49 p.m. RP advised she was away from home and thinks she left on her car’s headlights parked by her garage. RP requesting an officer run by and check.
4:28 p.m. – RP advised there is a man that has been standing by her back gate for at least an hour. RP stated he will hop and jump around and act like he is conducting a choir. RP stated she’s not sure if he’s high on something or intoxicated. He’s wearing a green jacket, a bright yellow shirt and blue jeans and has black curly hair. RP requesting an officer.
5:46 p.m. – RP advised he wanted to give the officers a copy of an email that he received today asking him for money.
9:10 p.m. – RP advised she left her electric blanket on and she’s out of town and is requesting assistance to turn it off.
Some calls for law enforcement intervention are strictly family matters…
9:00 p.m. – RP advised she hasn’t seen or spoken to her sister all day and would like for an officer to try and find her.
11:20 p.m. – RP advised his wife was being a fool. She was intoxicated, yelling at him and telling him that he’s no good. RP requesting some assistance.
Still there are many others that come from a dark lonely place that only seeks to be seen and heard. A place that’s tired of being invisible…
9:48 a.m. – RP advised she received a letter in the mail and she would like for an officer to look at it to see if it’s a scam.
7:38 p.m. – RP advised she had observed three juveniles on skateboards go down the middle of the street. She advised one of them was on his stomach.
There were so many calls like these to the Sioux City Police that the department looked into what was driving them. Their goal was to reduce the waste of costly resources for situations that did not necessarily require police action.
What the department found was basically people are lonely and their calls for police are a coping mechanism to chase away the blues.
It’s an underwritten story of the lost and forgotten down the street or next door. If only we would reach out more often, acting as the host in our own neighborhoods. Checking in. Bringing well-wishes. Ringing the doorbell until someone emerges. Letting the phone ring until someone answers. What a difference that would make.
“All the lonely people…where do they all come from?” “Eleanor Rigby” The Beatles
2011 © 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.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Behold the birds and birds’ nests
“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much better than they?” Mathew 6:26 KJV
A March windstorm has displaced a good-sized birds’ nest from its lofty, once secure place in the sprawling elm on my front yard. A very strong gust must have toppled it.
Scooping this sturdy abode into my hands and examining it, I concluded that probably a family of robins or cardinals had been the occupants.
Delicately constructed with mostly organic ingredients, this circular one-room home was made with massive blades of dried buffalo grass, a conglomeration of twigs, sticks strands of alfalfa, dried out corn husks, cottonwood leaves and mud.
There’s bird spit sown in everywhere, applied as an adhesive, although, now invisible.
Along with all the natural elements is a mix-match of man-made stuff - litter woven in. Studying the materials of the nest builder, to whom I am by now feeling akin, I marvel at how resourceful and forgiving nature sometimes can be.
There are three dirty swatches of yellow and blue fiberglass insulation - most likely from a construction site…
…a shred of plastic from someone’s grocery sack,
…a tangled mass of human hair, maybe from a women’s hair brush,
…some purple and pink dryer lint,
…and part of a plastic ring from somebody’s six-pack.
There’s a tiredness about the nest – a sublime fatigue that I can’t quite get past. I try to imagine the subtext buried deep within – the goings on from last season…
… enduring endless early March days after a long flight north from southern latitudes…
…building a place to stay in temperatures just above freezing,
…singing breeding songs with the winter flock,
…filling the air with joyous sounds that, as a lubricant, releases winter’s frigid hold and invite spring’s return.
My narrow focus leads me to the porch where I lovingly place the fallen nest, as a war-torn soldier, on an empty plant stand. I don’t think the wind will blow it away here, but I provisionally place a heavy rock in its empty shell – just in case. I’m saving the discarded nest for a time, as I always seem to do.
There’s something deep down inside of me that ponders this pitiful artifact: the forces that built it, the way it withstood nature, the mournful litter strung through it, the life it once bore and at last its fatal fall.
I like to think this nest was a good home for a bird family – a place where one cohesive unit ate together, slept together, rose together, sang together, celebrated together, grew together cried together, loved together, weathered storms together – stayed together. I want to believe it was place of honor and respect.
We can only hope for as much.
2011 © 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.
A March windstorm has displaced a good-sized birds’ nest from its lofty, once secure place in the sprawling elm on my front yard. A very strong gust must have toppled it.
Scooping this sturdy abode into my hands and examining it, I concluded that probably a family of robins or cardinals had been the occupants.
Delicately constructed with mostly organic ingredients, this circular one-room home was made with massive blades of dried buffalo grass, a conglomeration of twigs, sticks strands of alfalfa, dried out corn husks, cottonwood leaves and mud.
There’s bird spit sown in everywhere, applied as an adhesive, although, now invisible.
Along with all the natural elements is a mix-match of man-made stuff - litter woven in. Studying the materials of the nest builder, to whom I am by now feeling akin, I marvel at how resourceful and forgiving nature sometimes can be.
There are three dirty swatches of yellow and blue fiberglass insulation - most likely from a construction site…
…a shred of plastic from someone’s grocery sack,
…a tangled mass of human hair, maybe from a women’s hair brush,
…some purple and pink dryer lint,
…and part of a plastic ring from somebody’s six-pack.
There’s a tiredness about the nest – a sublime fatigue that I can’t quite get past. I try to imagine the subtext buried deep within – the goings on from last season…
… enduring endless early March days after a long flight north from southern latitudes…
…building a place to stay in temperatures just above freezing,
…singing breeding songs with the winter flock,
…filling the air with joyous sounds that, as a lubricant, releases winter’s frigid hold and invite spring’s return.
My narrow focus leads me to the porch where I lovingly place the fallen nest, as a war-torn soldier, on an empty plant stand. I don’t think the wind will blow it away here, but I provisionally place a heavy rock in its empty shell – just in case. I’m saving the discarded nest for a time, as I always seem to do.
There’s something deep down inside of me that ponders this pitiful artifact: the forces that built it, the way it withstood nature, the mournful litter strung through it, the life it once bore and at last its fatal fall.
I like to think this nest was a good home for a bird family – a place where one cohesive unit ate together, slept together, rose together, sang together, celebrated together, grew together cried together, loved together, weathered storms together – stayed together. I want to believe it was place of honor and respect.
We can only hope for as much.
2011 © 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.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Nestle, power and work
Nestle [vb] - to settle snugly or comfortably as if in a nest, to press closely or affectionately
The other day, while watching my three Dachshunds wrap themselves around each other, winding into one large ball of fur with three heads, six eyes and twelve legs, I pondered how reassuring it must be to nestle like that.
Do people nestle anymore in this digital age? With most of us living online, our addresses are punctuated with dots and forward slashes, our virtual street names all start with htpp:\ and everyone is connected, yet terribly alone, how could we nestle?
I believe we are living in a weird anthropological time in the history of humanity. Encounters of the flesh have been replaced by apps and applets, bytes and browsers, clicks and chats, firewalls and frames.
Instead of visiting Grandma’s, where dotted Swiss curtains hang helplessly in the south window of her musty nineteenth-century home, we revel over the latest text messages and Skype videos.
Remember what it was like to nestle - curling into a fetal position, resting under the protective presence of another’s reach, leaning into another’s providential shield.
I believe in nestling. In fact, I think if we all nestled more, we would feel more self-assured, more loved, more empowered.
Power [noun] - position of control, authority, influence over others
Speaking of power, there should be a universal law against using the vocabulary of freedom to gain power in both political and personal relationships.
When it comes to power, my work ethic appears to control my life. I’ve often wondered why, until recently, when it dawned on me that my parents often expressed their love for me through work.
Work [noun] - activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something
My parents worked to provide good food and plenty of it.
They worked to have a big house, to buy nice clothes, to drive me around in a new car and to pay the utilities bills. Most of all they worked to protect me.
Considering that my parents expressed their love in this way, I now realize why I experience difficulty turning off my compulsivity to work.
Like a perpetual switch, I find pleasure and satisfaction in work - scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, washing dishes, raking leaves, sweeping sidewalks, folding clothes, organizing files, writing stories, writing more stories, and on and on.
Funny thing about work...as much as we love our jobs, we work our entire adult lives so that we can stop working and retire.
Some of us are counting the years to retirement.
Some of us are counting the months.
Someone I knew at work had been counting the days until his retirement. On December 14, he had only 160 or so to go.
When I heard that he recently was diagnosed with inoperable cancer, I slumped with sadness for him and for all of us. He died on March 6.
No matter how we measure life, we know two facts: life is way too short and goes by far too fast.
This is why we need to nestle more, love more and work less.
2011 © 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.
The other day, while watching my three Dachshunds wrap themselves around each other, winding into one large ball of fur with three heads, six eyes and twelve legs, I pondered how reassuring it must be to nestle like that.
Do people nestle anymore in this digital age? With most of us living online, our addresses are punctuated with dots and forward slashes, our virtual street names all start with htpp:\ and everyone is connected, yet terribly alone, how could we nestle?
I believe we are living in a weird anthropological time in the history of humanity. Encounters of the flesh have been replaced by apps and applets, bytes and browsers, clicks and chats, firewalls and frames.
Instead of visiting Grandma’s, where dotted Swiss curtains hang helplessly in the south window of her musty nineteenth-century home, we revel over the latest text messages and Skype videos.
Remember what it was like to nestle - curling into a fetal position, resting under the protective presence of another’s reach, leaning into another’s providential shield.
I believe in nestling. In fact, I think if we all nestled more, we would feel more self-assured, more loved, more empowered.
Power [noun] - position of control, authority, influence over others
Speaking of power, there should be a universal law against using the vocabulary of freedom to gain power in both political and personal relationships.
When it comes to power, my work ethic appears to control my life. I’ve often wondered why, until recently, when it dawned on me that my parents often expressed their love for me through work.
Work [noun] - activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something
My parents worked to provide good food and plenty of it.
They worked to have a big house, to buy nice clothes, to drive me around in a new car and to pay the utilities bills. Most of all they worked to protect me.
Considering that my parents expressed their love in this way, I now realize why I experience difficulty turning off my compulsivity to work.
Like a perpetual switch, I find pleasure and satisfaction in work - scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, washing dishes, raking leaves, sweeping sidewalks, folding clothes, organizing files, writing stories, writing more stories, and on and on.
Funny thing about work...as much as we love our jobs, we work our entire adult lives so that we can stop working and retire.
Some of us are counting the years to retirement.
Some of us are counting the months.
Someone I knew at work had been counting the days until his retirement. On December 14, he had only 160 or so to go.
When I heard that he recently was diagnosed with inoperable cancer, I slumped with sadness for him and for all of us. He died on March 6.
No matter how we measure life, we know two facts: life is way too short and goes by far too fast.
This is why we need to nestle more, love more and work less.
2011 © 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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
You know you're getting old if...
...you take a nap after lunch.
...the point size on your computer monitor is 16 or larger.
...the books you read have enlarged print.
...residents in nursing homes look young to you.
...you walk around with your purse wide open.
...when asking for scratch paper, you get blank stares.
...you know what chicken scratch is and you cook from scratch.
...someone says, "I'll dial the number," you know what they mean.
...your 1970 sewing machine doesn't look like an antique.
...you still say, "Roll down the car window."
...at one time, you had a gas station attendant who hand-washed your windshield, checked the oil and pumped your gas for 20 cents a gallon.
...buying five-cent Hershey's Reeses's Peanut Butter Cups seems like yesterday.
...you know why people used to dropped their watches.
...your first washing machine had a ringer.
...the way you prefer to dry laundry is by hanging it out on the line, even in winter.
...you have clothespins and still use them.
...you sift your flour and grate your cheese.
...you know how to poach eggs.
...a catalog store is something you can define.
...shopping in the Montgomery Catalog Store on Main Street once was routine for you.
...the thrill of going to the Five and Dime on a Saturday afternoon is fresh in your mind.
...there is a crank pencil sharpener in your house and you still use it.
...you know what a blackboard is.
...the first lesson you had in cursive was on a blackboard.
...you know what cursive is and still use it.
...letter writing on stationary is one way you communicate
..."text" was not a verb when you were a teenager.
...you still have a set of Encyclopedia Britannica on your bookshelves.
...the encyclopedia salesman and you were on a first-name basis.
...you know what a bomb shelter is.
...air raid drills in school are vivid in your memory
...your doctor is younger than you are.
...the mayor's name is Katrina.
...your senator's name is Sean.
...the governor's name is Chris.
...you're the oldest person on the block.
...you're all alone with no one to share family news.
...you don't mind growing old because you're tired.
...you finally realize that having grandchildren is the one good thing about growing old.
2011 © 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.
...the point size on your computer monitor is 16 or larger.
...the books you read have enlarged print.
...residents in nursing homes look young to you.
...you walk around with your purse wide open.
...when asking for scratch paper, you get blank stares.
...you know what chicken scratch is and you cook from scratch.
...someone says, "I'll dial the number," you know what they mean.
...your 1970 sewing machine doesn't look like an antique.
...you still say, "Roll down the car window."
...at one time, you had a gas station attendant who hand-washed your windshield, checked the oil and pumped your gas for 20 cents a gallon.
...buying five-cent Hershey's Reeses's Peanut Butter Cups seems like yesterday.
...you know why people used to dropped their watches.
...your first washing machine had a ringer.
...the way you prefer to dry laundry is by hanging it out on the line, even in winter.
...you have clothespins and still use them.
...you sift your flour and grate your cheese.
...you know how to poach eggs.
...a catalog store is something you can define.
...shopping in the Montgomery Catalog Store on Main Street once was routine for you.
...the thrill of going to the Five and Dime on a Saturday afternoon is fresh in your mind.
...there is a crank pencil sharpener in your house and you still use it.
...you know what a blackboard is.
...the first lesson you had in cursive was on a blackboard.
...you know what cursive is and still use it.
...letter writing on stationary is one way you communicate
..."text" was not a verb when you were a teenager.
...you still have a set of Encyclopedia Britannica on your bookshelves.
...the encyclopedia salesman and you were on a first-name basis.
...you know what a bomb shelter is.
...air raid drills in school are vivid in your memory
...your doctor is younger than you are.
...the mayor's name is Katrina.
...your senator's name is Sean.
...the governor's name is Chris.
...you're the oldest person on the block.
...you're all alone with no one to share family news.
...you don't mind growing old because you're tired.
...you finally realize that having grandchildren is the one good thing about growing old.
2011 © 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.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Encountering Oliver...
"I was there to hear your borning cry, I'll be there when you are old...I'll be there to make your verses rhyme from dusk 'till rising sun." Lyrics from "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry" by John Ylvisaker
A letter to my grandson...
Dear Oliver,
Early Saturday morning, Feb. 19, 2011, you were getting restless to make a grand entrance.
Although you really didn't know me, you probably had heard my voice many times as your mommy, daddy and I marveled over the thought of you.
Driving to Sioux Falls, the formations of birds, floating effortlessly north, decorated the overcast sky with the sign of new life. Watching them, I pondered how this day has changed.
It started as any old Saturday - sleeping in, rousing to let the dogs out,
brewing tea and eating breakfast at the kitchen table.
After receiving the phone call from your daddy, the day quickly transformed to a magical holiday, a crimson Christmas, an illuminating Easter, a spectacular birthday.
Entering the hospital and ascending to the third floor, I quickly became Visitor 3545.
Here is what I wrote in my journal before your arrival.
Today is the day you will be born and every step I take, I inch closer to you.
Every action leading to your birth seems like slow motion: packing my bags, calling the dog sitter, leaving the house, loading the car, driving 75 miles north across wintry rolling fields.
Everything carries me in a glad cadence to your new life.
As a drum beat, the pace of your heart on the monitor is a rhythmic melody
leading to the sweet sound of your borning cry.
Yes, the day quickly transformed to a magical holiday, a crimson Christmas, an illuminating Easter, a spectacular birthday - your birthday, Oliver.
A heart full of joy and love,
Grandma
2011 © 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.
A letter to my grandson...
Dear Oliver,
Early Saturday morning, Feb. 19, 2011, you were getting restless to make a grand entrance.
Although you really didn't know me, you probably had heard my voice many times as your mommy, daddy and I marveled over the thought of you.
Driving to Sioux Falls, the formations of birds, floating effortlessly north, decorated the overcast sky with the sign of new life. Watching them, I pondered how this day has changed.
It started as any old Saturday - sleeping in, rousing to let the dogs out,
brewing tea and eating breakfast at the kitchen table.
After receiving the phone call from your daddy, the day quickly transformed to a magical holiday, a crimson Christmas, an illuminating Easter, a spectacular birthday.
Entering the hospital and ascending to the third floor, I quickly became Visitor 3545.
Here is what I wrote in my journal before your arrival.
Today is the day you will be born and every step I take, I inch closer to you.
Every action leading to your birth seems like slow motion: packing my bags, calling the dog sitter, leaving the house, loading the car, driving 75 miles north across wintry rolling fields.
Everything carries me in a glad cadence to your new life.
As a drum beat, the pace of your heart on the monitor is a rhythmic melody
leading to the sweet sound of your borning cry.
Yes, the day quickly transformed to a magical holiday, a crimson Christmas, an illuminating Easter, a spectacular birthday - your birthday, Oliver.
A heart full of joy and love,
Grandma
2011 © 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.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Cooking canon cans convenience
Have you ever noticed how many food commercials there are on prime time TV? One right after another, they just don't let up: images of sumptuously steaming hot meals for insatiable ever-ready appetites.
I suppose advertisers count on the assumption that all of us are hungry. If not, they are bound and determined to make our mouths water while we sit perched in our Lazy Boys, cravenly glued to our giant flat-screened TVs.
My problem is that when I actually do order a meal at a fast food restaurant, which is seldom, the food never looks as plump and deliciously juicy as the larger-than-life images portrayed on the tube.
Most fast food I’ve consumed is either slimy, dried out, wilted, served at room temperature or all of the above.
Besides, I'm really not much of a hurry up and eat person. The bottom line is that preconfigured food, ready to cook in minutes is plainly not natural to me. Whatever innate goodness it may have possessed originally has been processed right out of it.
As you may have guessed, there's really nothing speedy in my canon of cooking. I don’t serve Minute Rice or dinners from cans or boxes. I believe meals need to be slowly loved on and nurtured into a heavenly soup, a heartwarming stew or a sleep-on-it pie.
In my cookbook of life, any recipe short of spending several hours poring over a hot stove, mixing, measuring and fussing with fixings is not the kind of meal I really want.
Besides, home-cooking makes the house smell so – how would you say – homey. What could be better than cohabiting with aromas of pot roast or pasta sauce pleasantly invading olfactory glands and seeping throughout every room in the house?
You see, I believe that nothing is ever lost on down-home cooking. Inconvenient at times, it has the potential to transform a bad day into, perhaps, the one and only good thing that happens. It’s a powerful saving grace worth defending.
When was the last time you had French fries or a Whopper at a funeral lunch? Probably never. Even after funerals, when we wish we could run back to our on-the-go lifestyle, we meticulously prepare and gracefully serve a nice sit-down meal. Slowly and thoughtfully made, it’s not just any meal; it’s a calculating device to soothe forlorn hearts, mingling with hushed and sometimes uncomfortable conversations over ham salad sandwiches, pickled cucumbers and lemon meringue pie.
My father used to say, "If you want it all, you have to give up something."
I say, if you want a quick meal, you have to give up all kinds of good stuff through which kindness and love are indissoluble.
2011 © 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.
I suppose advertisers count on the assumption that all of us are hungry. If not, they are bound and determined to make our mouths water while we sit perched in our Lazy Boys, cravenly glued to our giant flat-screened TVs.
My problem is that when I actually do order a meal at a fast food restaurant, which is seldom, the food never looks as plump and deliciously juicy as the larger-than-life images portrayed on the tube.
Most fast food I’ve consumed is either slimy, dried out, wilted, served at room temperature or all of the above.
Besides, I'm really not much of a hurry up and eat person. The bottom line is that preconfigured food, ready to cook in minutes is plainly not natural to me. Whatever innate goodness it may have possessed originally has been processed right out of it.
As you may have guessed, there's really nothing speedy in my canon of cooking. I don’t serve Minute Rice or dinners from cans or boxes. I believe meals need to be slowly loved on and nurtured into a heavenly soup, a heartwarming stew or a sleep-on-it pie.
In my cookbook of life, any recipe short of spending several hours poring over a hot stove, mixing, measuring and fussing with fixings is not the kind of meal I really want.
Besides, home-cooking makes the house smell so – how would you say – homey. What could be better than cohabiting with aromas of pot roast or pasta sauce pleasantly invading olfactory glands and seeping throughout every room in the house?
You see, I believe that nothing is ever lost on down-home cooking. Inconvenient at times, it has the potential to transform a bad day into, perhaps, the one and only good thing that happens. It’s a powerful saving grace worth defending.
When was the last time you had French fries or a Whopper at a funeral lunch? Probably never. Even after funerals, when we wish we could run back to our on-the-go lifestyle, we meticulously prepare and gracefully serve a nice sit-down meal. Slowly and thoughtfully made, it’s not just any meal; it’s a calculating device to soothe forlorn hearts, mingling with hushed and sometimes uncomfortable conversations over ham salad sandwiches, pickled cucumbers and lemon meringue pie.
My father used to say, "If you want it all, you have to give up something."
I say, if you want a quick meal, you have to give up all kinds of good stuff through which kindness and love are indissoluble.
2011 © 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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig
On Friday, January 21, we arrived home from work to find a basement full of water, and it wasn't from melting snow.
The washing machine's water sensor valve had malfunctioned, turning our washer into a ever-flowing Maytag fountain, spilling over its sides from morning til evening.
As you can imagine, TGIF quickly turned into OMG. We spent Friday night and the entire weekend wet-vacuuming the basement and clearing furniture. My aching back!
When moving the washer and dryer for the first time in 10 years, I discovered it had a life of its own underneath.
I will admit I do shove couches and chairs around now and then to clean under them, but never the washer and dryer, and it shows.
Down below the many years of swishing and tumbling, under spin and rinse, resided a dusty field of lint and stuff from pockets.
Among the lost was a plastic what-cha-ma-call-it that neither my husband or I could identify. It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig from a...whatever.
A balled up foil wrapper from a Hershey's kiss, bobby pins and buttons, twist-ties and toy parts. Hand-written notes whited out from a good washing. Shiny silver coins. Junk jewelry. Even jelly beans.
As I swept the collection into a sizable pile, I surveyed what had become a shriveled ecosystem of the forgotten, lost in the throes of laundering. Items that once thrived somewhere, spent years in absentia, now found.
It's been said that home is where our stories begin, and as I swept the pile into the dustpan, I felt as though I was sending any number of stories to their sure and certain deaths, closing their files forever.
This is one of the many challenges writers face. While navigating from day-to-day, making our way from here to there, we never stop writing. We do it on I-pads and scratch pad, on envelopes and napkins, on our palms and on our hearts.
Like a lovingly nagging mother, whose pursuant reminders to wash our hands, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables never end, the stories never cease.
Even as we lie down, we are pestered by thoughts and ideas for stories and then more stories.
We face the daunting responsibility of determining if they have teeth, are substantial, capable of being told? Some are, some not.
It's a circular process always leading us to the place where our memories and dreams dwell. The sight of a stranger on the corner, the smell of her perfume, his silly laugh, muffled voices in the hallway. All begging to be told, leading us to the blank page.
It's a peculiar predicament we face. Pestered by what to write, we arm-wrestle topics paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word, until a neatly constructed narrative rises sweaty and triumphant.
Albeit short-lived until a new story taps us on the shoulder and the next deadline looms.
2011 © 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.
The washing machine's water sensor valve had malfunctioned, turning our washer into a ever-flowing Maytag fountain, spilling over its sides from morning til evening.
As you can imagine, TGIF quickly turned into OMG. We spent Friday night and the entire weekend wet-vacuuming the basement and clearing furniture. My aching back!
When moving the washer and dryer for the first time in 10 years, I discovered it had a life of its own underneath.
I will admit I do shove couches and chairs around now and then to clean under them, but never the washer and dryer, and it shows.
Down below the many years of swishing and tumbling, under spin and rinse, resided a dusty field of lint and stuff from pockets.
Among the lost was a plastic what-cha-ma-call-it that neither my husband or I could identify. It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig from a...whatever.
A balled up foil wrapper from a Hershey's kiss, bobby pins and buttons, twist-ties and toy parts. Hand-written notes whited out from a good washing. Shiny silver coins. Junk jewelry. Even jelly beans.
As I swept the collection into a sizable pile, I surveyed what had become a shriveled ecosystem of the forgotten, lost in the throes of laundering. Items that once thrived somewhere, spent years in absentia, now found.
It's been said that home is where our stories begin, and as I swept the pile into the dustpan, I felt as though I was sending any number of stories to their sure and certain deaths, closing their files forever.
This is one of the many challenges writers face. While navigating from day-to-day, making our way from here to there, we never stop writing. We do it on I-pads and scratch pad, on envelopes and napkins, on our palms and on our hearts.
Like a lovingly nagging mother, whose pursuant reminders to wash our hands, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables never end, the stories never cease.
Even as we lie down, we are pestered by thoughts and ideas for stories and then more stories.
We face the daunting responsibility of determining if they have teeth, are substantial, capable of being told? Some are, some not.
It's a circular process always leading us to the place where our memories and dreams dwell. The sight of a stranger on the corner, the smell of her perfume, his silly laugh, muffled voices in the hallway. All begging to be told, leading us to the blank page.
It's a peculiar predicament we face. Pestered by what to write, we arm-wrestle topics paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word, until a neatly constructed narrative rises sweaty and triumphant.
Albeit short-lived until a new story taps us on the shoulder and the next deadline looms.
2011 © 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.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig
On Friday, January 21, we arrived home from work to find a basement full of water, and it wasn't from melting snow.
The washing machine's water sensor valve had malfunctioned, turning our washer into a ever-flowing Maytag fountain, spilling over its sides from morning til evening.
As you can imagine, TGIF quickly turned into OMG. We spent Friday night and the entire weekend wet-vacuuming the basement and clearing furniture. My aching back!
When moving the washer and dryer for the first time in 10 years, I discovered it had a life of its own underneath.
I will admit I do shove couches and chairs around now and then to clean under them, but never the washer and dryer, and it shows.
Down below the many years of swishing and tumbling, under spin and rinse, resided a dusty field of lint and stuff from pockets.
Among the lost was a plastic what-cha-ma-call-it that neither my husband or I could identify. It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig from a...whatever.
A balled up foil wrapper from a Hershey's kiss, bobby pins and buttons, twist-ties and toy parts. Hand-written notes whited out from a good washing. Shiny silver coins. Junk jewelry. Even jelly beans.
As I swept the collection into a sizable pile, I surveyed what had become a shriveled ecosystem of the forgotten, lost in the throes of laundering. Items that once thrived somewhere, spent years in absentia, now found.
It's been said that home is where our stories begin, and as I swept the pile into the dustpan, I felt as though I was sending any number of stories to their sure and certain deaths, closing their files forever.
This is one of the many challenges writers face. While navigating from day-to-day, making our way from here to there, we never stop writing. We do it on I-pads and scratch pad, on envelopes and napkins, on our palms and on our hearts.
Like a lovingly nagging mother, whose pursuant reminders to wash our hands, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables never end, the stories never cease.
Even as we lie down, we are pestered by thoughts and ideas for stories and then more stories.
We face the daunting responsibility of determining if they have teeth, are substantial, capable of being told? Some are, some not.
It's a circular process always leading us to the place where our memories and dreams dwell. The sight of a stranger on the corner, the smell of her perfume, his silly laugh, muffled voices in the hallway. All begging to be told, leading us to the blank page.
It's a peculiar predicament we face. Pestered by what to write, we arm-wrestle topics paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word, until a neatly constructed narrative rises sweaty and triumphant.
Albeit short-lived until a new story taps us on the shoulder and the next deadline looms.
2011 © 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.
The washing machine's water sensor valve had malfunctioned, turning our washer into a ever-flowing Maytag fountain, spilling over its sides from morning til evening.
As you can imagine, TGIF quickly turned into OMG. We spent Friday night and the entire weekend wet-vacuuming the basement and clearing furniture. My aching back!
When moving the washer and dryer for the first time in 10 years, I discovered it had a life of its own underneath.
I will admit I do shove couches and chairs around now and then to clean under them, but never the washer and dryer, and it shows.
Down below the many years of swishing and tumbling, under spin and rinse, resided a dusty field of lint and stuff from pockets.
Among the lost was a plastic what-cha-ma-call-it that neither my husband or I could identify. It looked like a thing-a-ma-jig from a...whatever.
A balled up foil wrapper from a Hershey's kiss, bobby pins and buttons, twist-ties and toy parts. Hand-written notes whited out from a good washing. Shiny silver coins. Junk jewelry. Even jelly beans.
As I swept the collection into a sizable pile, I surveyed what had become a shriveled ecosystem of the forgotten, lost in the throes of laundering. Items that once thrived somewhere, spent years in absentia, now found.
It's been said that home is where our stories begin, and as I swept the pile into the dustpan, I felt as though I was sending any number of stories to their sure and certain deaths, closing their files forever.
This is one of the many challenges writers face. While navigating from day-to-day, making our way from here to there, we never stop writing. We do it on I-pads and scratch pad, on envelopes and napkins, on our palms and on our hearts.
Like a lovingly nagging mother, whose pursuant reminders to wash our hands, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables never end, the stories never cease.
Even as we lie down, we are pestered by thoughts and ideas for stories and then more stories.
We face the daunting responsibility of determining if they have teeth, are substantial, capable of being told? Some are, some not.
It's a circular process always leading us to the place where our memories and dreams dwell. The sight of a stranger on the corner, the smell of her perfume, his silly laugh, muffled voices in the hallway. All begging to be told, leading us to the blank page.
It's a peculiar predicament we face. Pestered by what to write, we arm-wrestle topics paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word, until a neatly constructed narrative rises sweaty and triumphant.
Albeit short-lived until a new story taps us on the shoulder and the next deadline looms.
2011 © 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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Did you get the memo?
Rounding the bend as I drove to work the other day, I noticed a twin mattress frozen in its tracks at the bottom of a steep hill.
This hill is off-limits to sledding, or so the large red letters on the sign state. That doesn't seem to ward off daredevils, who frequent this spot after a thick blanketing of new fallen snow.
At first, it didn't register. A mattress? Then, I quickly realized the mattress was used as a sled, and I smiled broadly with a deep sigh of contentment.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately descending from the sky, as a confetti memo, I imagine each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
This inexplicable bliss speaks in a dialect that is understood by all who know the lighter side of winter's temperamental disposition.
Seeing that mattress conjured up memories of sledding times, spanning my childhood in one fast moving rerun of some of the happiest moments in my life.
I am grateful for my ever-so-brief sideways glance at that crusty blue and white mattress, helplessly lying there, its guilty trail leading directly to the top where this story began.
As children, we would ride toboggans teeming with three, four, sometimes five.
Within moments of push-off, we were flying down the icy slope, polished by hundreds of other runs before us. Moving so fast, we were airborne on flatbed speedsters. No controls, except for turning shoulders, pulling ropes and shifting weight, right, then left.
Time and time again, at the mercy of glorious gravity, we boarded flying saucers, wooden fliers with iron runners, cafeteria trays and even flattened cardboard boxes.
Relinquishing our power, what little we had of it, to an invisible force that pulled us ever faster down the steep incline. A hill that in summer tickled our toes with lush blades of grass as we frolicked in June's warmth.
Now, wearing a scratchy winter overcoat, the sledding hill sent us sailing on our bottoms all the way to a sudden end.
In our landing, our previously loud guttural cries of freedom and bliss, part of a grand chorus of sledders, subsided into deep sighs of relief, interrupted by exhaustive laughter.
As we gathered our wet snowy selves, with rosy windburned cheeks, frozen toes and numb fingers, we rushed to the top again and again.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately float from the sky, I see a heavenly memo, each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
Not just any memo, it is a love note.
2011 © 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 her, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
This hill is off-limits to sledding, or so the large red letters on the sign state. That doesn't seem to ward off daredevils, who frequent this spot after a thick blanketing of new fallen snow.
At first, it didn't register. A mattress? Then, I quickly realized the mattress was used as a sled, and I smiled broadly with a deep sigh of contentment.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately descending from the sky, as a confetti memo, I imagine each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
This inexplicable bliss speaks in a dialect that is understood by all who know the lighter side of winter's temperamental disposition.
Seeing that mattress conjured up memories of sledding times, spanning my childhood in one fast moving rerun of some of the happiest moments in my life.
I am grateful for my ever-so-brief sideways glance at that crusty blue and white mattress, helplessly lying there, its guilty trail leading directly to the top where this story began.
As children, we would ride toboggans teeming with three, four, sometimes five.
Within moments of push-off, we were flying down the icy slope, polished by hundreds of other runs before us. Moving so fast, we were airborne on flatbed speedsters. No controls, except for turning shoulders, pulling ropes and shifting weight, right, then left.
Time and time again, at the mercy of glorious gravity, we boarded flying saucers, wooden fliers with iron runners, cafeteria trays and even flattened cardboard boxes.
Relinquishing our power, what little we had of it, to an invisible force that pulled us ever faster down the steep incline. A hill that in summer tickled our toes with lush blades of grass as we frolicked in June's warmth.
Now, wearing a scratchy winter overcoat, the sledding hill sent us sailing on our bottoms all the way to a sudden end.
In our landing, our previously loud guttural cries of freedom and bliss, part of a grand chorus of sledders, subsided into deep sighs of relief, interrupted by exhaustive laughter.
As we gathered our wet snowy selves, with rosy windburned cheeks, frozen toes and numb fingers, we rushed to the top again and again.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately float from the sky, I see a heavenly memo, each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
Not just any memo, it is a love note.
2011 © 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 her, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Did you get the memo?
Rounding the bend as I drove to work the other day, I noticed a twin mattress frozen in its tracks at the bottom of a steep hill.
This hill is off-limits to sledding, or so the large red letters on the sign state. That doesn't seem to ward off daredevils, who frequent this spot after a thick blanketing of new fallen snow.
At first, it didn't register. A mattress? Then, I quickly realized the mattress was used as a sled, and I smiled broadly with a deep sigh of contentment.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately descending from the sky, as a confetti memo, I imagine each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
This inexplicable bliss speaks in a dialect that is understood by all who know the lighter side of winter's temperamental disposition.
Seeing that mattress conjured up memories of sledding times, spanning my childhood in one fast moving rerun of some of the happiest moments in my life.
I am grateful for my ever-so-brief sideways glance at that crusty blue and white mattress, helplessly lying there, its guilty trail leading directly to the top where this story began.
As children, we would ride toboggans teeming with three, four, sometimes five.
Within moments of push-off, we were flying down the icy slope, polished by hundreds of other runs before us. Moving so fast, we were airborne on flatbed speedsters. No controls, except for turning shoulders, pulling ropes and shifting weight, right, then left.
Time and time again, at the mercy of glorious gravity, we boarded flying saucers, wooden fliers with iron runners, cafeteria trays and even flattened cardboard boxes.
Relinquishing our power, what little we had of it, to an invisible force that pulled us ever faster down the steep incline. A hill that in summer tickled our toes with lush blades of grass as we frolicked in June's warmth.
Now, wearing a scratchy winter overcoat, the sledding hill sent us sailing on our bottoms all the way to a sudden end.
In our landing, our previously loud guttural cries of freedom and bliss, part of a grand chorus of sledders, subsided into deep sighs of relief, interrupted by exhaustive laughter.
As we gathered our wet snowy selves, with rosy windburned cheeks, frozen toes and numb fingers, we rushed to the top again and again.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately float from the sky, I see a heavenly memo, each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
Not just any memo, it is a love note.
2011 © 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 her, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
This hill is off-limits to sledding, or so the large red letters on the sign state. That doesn't seem to ward off daredevils, who frequent this spot after a thick blanketing of new fallen snow.
At first, it didn't register. A mattress? Then, I quickly realized the mattress was used as a sled, and I smiled broadly with a deep sigh of contentment.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately descending from the sky, as a confetti memo, I imagine each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
This inexplicable bliss speaks in a dialect that is understood by all who know the lighter side of winter's temperamental disposition.
Seeing that mattress conjured up memories of sledding times, spanning my childhood in one fast moving rerun of some of the happiest moments in my life.
I am grateful for my ever-so-brief sideways glance at that crusty blue and white mattress, helplessly lying there, its guilty trail leading directly to the top where this story began.
As children, we would ride toboggans teeming with three, four, sometimes five.
Within moments of push-off, we were flying down the icy slope, polished by hundreds of other runs before us. Moving so fast, we were airborne on flatbed speedsters. No controls, except for turning shoulders, pulling ropes and shifting weight, right, then left.
Time and time again, at the mercy of glorious gravity, we boarded flying saucers, wooden fliers with iron runners, cafeteria trays and even flattened cardboard boxes.
Relinquishing our power, what little we had of it, to an invisible force that pulled us ever faster down the steep incline. A hill that in summer tickled our toes with lush blades of grass as we frolicked in June's warmth.
Now, wearing a scratchy winter overcoat, the sledding hill sent us sailing on our bottoms all the way to a sudden end.
In our landing, our previously loud guttural cries of freedom and bliss, part of a grand chorus of sledders, subsided into deep sighs of relief, interrupted by exhaustive laughter.
As we gathered our wet snowy selves, with rosy windburned cheeks, frozen toes and numb fingers, we rushed to the top again and again.
This morning, as I watch snow delicately float from the sky, I see a heavenly memo, each flake bearing the same timeless message, "Let's go sledding."
Not just any memo, it is a love note.
2011 © 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 her, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
Take it off. Take it all off.
Have you ever wondered why lining kitchen shelves with new contact paper is such a rush for some women?
In defense of those who aspire to line their shelves with flowered or checkered ticky-tac paper, I say, you go, girls!
I did some research and found that shelf liner is so popular that a web search produces nearly 3,900,000 results. Not only that, there are nearly 1.5 million shelf liner blogs. Who would have thought?
Now, don't get me wrong; I am not patronizing what appears to be a simple task. I speak from experience. In December, I began relining my cupboards and I'm still not finished.
It had been so long since I last installed shelf liner I had forgotten all that's involved.
First, take photos of where everything is in your cupboards and drawers. I'll explain why later.
Then, remove all the pots, pans, plates, glassware, bake-ware, bowls, appliances, cutting boards, cooling racks, Tupperware, Tupperware, more Tupperware, and all those gadgets you haven't used in the last 15 years. It's a noisy, tedious job, but somebody has to do it.
Take out all your silverware, spatulas, spices, towels and dry goods.
When your drawers and cupboards are empty, take off all those old tattered sheets of shelf liner and scrub what you can of any caked-on food.
If you come across some dried up baby food from when your 16-year-old was a toddler, try not to get overly sentimental. Just scrub it and move on.
Vacuum all the crumbs you find. Or, sweep them into a dust pan and put them out for the birds. But, resist the temptation to stretch your next meatloaf with them.
The technical term for this extensive in-depth process is "deep cleaning." When you deep clean, you may find out some pretty scary things about your house that you really don't want to know. It's similar to watching a movie with three-D glasses; sometimes, it's much more than you can take.
Deep cleaning makes you realize that certain stains are there for good and no amount of elbow grease or "Spic & Span" will remove them. So just get over it, because those stains are going nowhere fast.
Next, carefully measure the new shelf liner with a retractable tape measure, mark it using an erasable pencil and cut it with sharp shears.
Caution: If you experience post-traumatic stress, punctuated by a primal scream from your previous experiences with contact paper, never fear, Duck [as in Duck Tape!] Vinyl Liner is here.
This is not your mother's shelf liner, not even close. Today's contact paper is a sleek new product that smooths out like a dream when you accidentally crinkle it and easily removes if you place it wrong.
And, there's no need to settle for plain old yellow or brick-red. Nowadays, there's vintage scented songbird liner, cork liner, wire liner with locking tabs, ribbed liner, lace window film design liner, clear liner, black and white checked liner and the list of liners goes on and on.
Ladies, as you apply your new liner, please contain your excitement, as your work is not complete. A few "woohoos" and high-fives will do.
Finally (deep sigh), return all contents to their proper places.
Warning: Put everything back in your cupboards and drawers exactly where you found them. Not doing so could be dangerous to your health. Unless, of course, you enjoy answering the proverbial question, "Where'd you put that...?" for months or maybe even years to come.
I salute shelf-lining women everywhere. Let's elevate lining our kitchen shelves to the same level as claiming a monthly spa day, learning to say "No!" and, of course, not wearing a bra. "You go, girls!"
2011 © 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.
In defense of those who aspire to line their shelves with flowered or checkered ticky-tac paper, I say, you go, girls!
I did some research and found that shelf liner is so popular that a web search produces nearly 3,900,000 results. Not only that, there are nearly 1.5 million shelf liner blogs. Who would have thought?
Now, don't get me wrong; I am not patronizing what appears to be a simple task. I speak from experience. In December, I began relining my cupboards and I'm still not finished.
It had been so long since I last installed shelf liner I had forgotten all that's involved.
First, take photos of where everything is in your cupboards and drawers. I'll explain why later.
Then, remove all the pots, pans, plates, glassware, bake-ware, bowls, appliances, cutting boards, cooling racks, Tupperware, Tupperware, more Tupperware, and all those gadgets you haven't used in the last 15 years. It's a noisy, tedious job, but somebody has to do it.
Take out all your silverware, spatulas, spices, towels and dry goods.
When your drawers and cupboards are empty, take off all those old tattered sheets of shelf liner and scrub what you can of any caked-on food.
If you come across some dried up baby food from when your 16-year-old was a toddler, try not to get overly sentimental. Just scrub it and move on.
Vacuum all the crumbs you find. Or, sweep them into a dust pan and put them out for the birds. But, resist the temptation to stretch your next meatloaf with them.
The technical term for this extensive in-depth process is "deep cleaning." When you deep clean, you may find out some pretty scary things about your house that you really don't want to know. It's similar to watching a movie with three-D glasses; sometimes, it's much more than you can take.
Deep cleaning makes you realize that certain stains are there for good and no amount of elbow grease or "Spic & Span" will remove them. So just get over it, because those stains are going nowhere fast.
Next, carefully measure the new shelf liner with a retractable tape measure, mark it using an erasable pencil and cut it with sharp shears.
Caution: If you experience post-traumatic stress, punctuated by a primal scream from your previous experiences with contact paper, never fear, Duck [as in Duck Tape!] Vinyl Liner is here.
This is not your mother's shelf liner, not even close. Today's contact paper is a sleek new product that smooths out like a dream when you accidentally crinkle it and easily removes if you place it wrong.
And, there's no need to settle for plain old yellow or brick-red. Nowadays, there's vintage scented songbird liner, cork liner, wire liner with locking tabs, ribbed liner, lace window film design liner, clear liner, black and white checked liner and the list of liners goes on and on.
Ladies, as you apply your new liner, please contain your excitement, as your work is not complete. A few "woohoos" and high-fives will do.
Finally (deep sigh), return all contents to their proper places.
Warning: Put everything back in your cupboards and drawers exactly where you found them. Not doing so could be dangerous to your health. Unless, of course, you enjoy answering the proverbial question, "Where'd you put that...?" for months or maybe even years to come.
I salute shelf-lining women everywhere. Let's elevate lining our kitchen shelves to the same level as claiming a monthly spa day, learning to say "No!" and, of course, not wearing a bra. "You go, girls!"
2011 © 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.
Out with the old, in with the new...
That old refrigerator had to go. Lost its luster and couldn’t keep food cold to save its life.
Looking back over the years, it stood by us, serving as a family bulletin board and album.
Ribbons of pride and promise dangled from top to bottom and side-to-side, like medals hanging from a soldier’s uniform. Decorated with magnets of all shapes and sizes, it displayed A+ spelling tests, report cards, photos, coupons, phone numbers, children’s artwork, love notes.
It indiscriminately fed our family of five, friends, neighbors and strangers alike. That old refrigerator nourished more than hungry souls. It consoled broken hearts, filled great loneliness and celebrated even greater happiness. It comforted us at all hours - both day and night.
It welcomed home three babies and several puppies. Provided for the kids' high school graduations and saw us through five college commencements.
Now an antique of sorts, it once had processed perfect pie dough, pasta sauce and potato pancakes. Yet, recently it took a turn for the worse and helplessly watched unused food spoil.
Considering how many years we've been together, I realized the day its replacement arrived how attached I was to that old refrigerator.
Solemnly waiting at attention during that lonely passage out the front door, I felt a part of me march right along with it. Weighted down as a pallbearer carrying a lifelong friend, I fought back tears as I watched it go.
As I passionately bade farewell in the mid-afternoon sun, sorrowfully seeing it teeter and wobble on the dolly lift, I noticed how the years had taken their toll on my old faithful fridge, now weathered to only a shell of its once virile self.
After the servicemen hoisted it onto the back of their truck, I hesitantly welcomed the new one – a sleek French-door beauty with pullout deep-freeze drawers, no less.
Not willing to look straight on at this bold, lustrous type, so as not to betray its predecessor, whose tracks were still fresh, I stole sideways glances while quickly filling it with food.
Quietly, the new model commanded attention, adorning our kitchen with a clean contemporary sheen. If it were not for that shiny stainless steel finish, I’d hardly know it was there, unlike the last one, whose worn out motor sputtered about.
Trying to contain my enthusiasm, I couldn't get over all the sexy new features: amazing temperature controls, an alarm when doors are left open, not to mention instant cold water, chopped ice and cutely shaped ice cubes at the push of a button in a lighted recessed serving bay.
Running my fingertips along the deep broad shelving inside, I marveled at its spaciousness with three-times the amount of room for fruits and vegetables. Tallying all the novelties of this spanking new fridge, I felt a sudden twinge of guilty pleasure.
Now that my old fridge is long gone, I can now proclaim, if I’ve ever been in love with a refrigerator, this is the one for which I've gone head-over-heels, as fickle as that may sound. My, how quickly things can change.
2011 © 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.
Looking back over the years, it stood by us, serving as a family bulletin board and album.
Ribbons of pride and promise dangled from top to bottom and side-to-side, like medals hanging from a soldier’s uniform. Decorated with magnets of all shapes and sizes, it displayed A+ spelling tests, report cards, photos, coupons, phone numbers, children’s artwork, love notes.
It indiscriminately fed our family of five, friends, neighbors and strangers alike. That old refrigerator nourished more than hungry souls. It consoled broken hearts, filled great loneliness and celebrated even greater happiness. It comforted us at all hours - both day and night.
It welcomed home three babies and several puppies. Provided for the kids' high school graduations and saw us through five college commencements.
Now an antique of sorts, it once had processed perfect pie dough, pasta sauce and potato pancakes. Yet, recently it took a turn for the worse and helplessly watched unused food spoil.
Considering how many years we've been together, I realized the day its replacement arrived how attached I was to that old refrigerator.
Solemnly waiting at attention during that lonely passage out the front door, I felt a part of me march right along with it. Weighted down as a pallbearer carrying a lifelong friend, I fought back tears as I watched it go.
As I passionately bade farewell in the mid-afternoon sun, sorrowfully seeing it teeter and wobble on the dolly lift, I noticed how the years had taken their toll on my old faithful fridge, now weathered to only a shell of its once virile self.
After the servicemen hoisted it onto the back of their truck, I hesitantly welcomed the new one – a sleek French-door beauty with pullout deep-freeze drawers, no less.
Not willing to look straight on at this bold, lustrous type, so as not to betray its predecessor, whose tracks were still fresh, I stole sideways glances while quickly filling it with food.
Quietly, the new model commanded attention, adorning our kitchen with a clean contemporary sheen. If it were not for that shiny stainless steel finish, I’d hardly know it was there, unlike the last one, whose worn out motor sputtered about.
Trying to contain my enthusiasm, I couldn't get over all the sexy new features: amazing temperature controls, an alarm when doors are left open, not to mention instant cold water, chopped ice and cutely shaped ice cubes at the push of a button in a lighted recessed serving bay.
Running my fingertips along the deep broad shelving inside, I marveled at its spaciousness with three-times the amount of room for fruits and vegetables. Tallying all the novelties of this spanking new fridge, I felt a sudden twinge of guilty pleasure.
Now that my old fridge is long gone, I can now proclaim, if I’ve ever been in love with a refrigerator, this is the one for which I've gone head-over-heels, as fickle as that may sound. My, how quickly things can change.
2011 © 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.
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