Just when I thought it was safe to say I had never seen two shoes lost by the side of the road [as in last week's column], I saw a pair.
I was on a walk with my husband when he looked up and said, there they are. I said where, and he said up there.
Looking up, I saw two tennis shoes laced together, hanging from a power line. Hm-mm, the sight of those shoes struck me as a sardonically cute and nasty prank. Or, maybe they were a territorial gang sign used to mark boundaries as they do in big cities.
Further along on our walk that evening and nearing sunset, I spotted a rainbow of bed sheets with ends delicately lifting like sails in an autumn breeze. What an oddity in an apartment complex with coin-powered machines to wash and dry clothes.
I marveled at those sheets juxtaposed to our wi-fi world, where invisible networks, like the wind, download movies, television programs and other forms of entertainment directly to our living rooms with the click of a button.
To me, laundry hanging on the line is a picturesque display of both hope and economy. I love this so much that I took dozens of photos of laundry hanging from postage stamp verandas on countless high-rises in London, when I was there in May.
It was quite a paradoxical scene. London is the most global city in the world, where 300 languages are spoken. It's a place where some of the most sophisticated and complex business transaction take place every day, a city where Mideast oil titans spend not billions but "squillions" on the most luxurious homes in the world.
Yet, London is a place where people still hang out their laundry, counting on good old-fashioned fresh air to dry clothes, linens, blankets, towels and even pillows.
Speaking of old-fashioned ways of doing things, I still write in cursive. I print only when making a sign, such as "FREE" if I have something to give away at the end of my driveway.
Now, I'll bet you didn't know writing in cursive was outdated. Neither did I until this past week, when a 30-something person enlightened me. She told me that young people these days don't use cursive.
Aren't they teaching cursive in school? I asked. Yes, she replied, but we never use it. So why is that, I wondered out loud. Because printing is easier than cursive, she explained. This revelation caused me to have yet another "hm-mm" moment.
I beg to disagree, I countered. You see with printing, you lift your pen with every letter. But with marvelously supple ever-flowing cursive, one letter glides right into the next, creating a beautiful string of consonants and vowels.
My, how times have changed. More than 35 years ago, when we moved into our home, the highway noise was non-existent. But as the years have passed and economies have flourished, there is a constant throb of car and truck traffic in the backdrop of our otherwise serene setting on the edge of the South Dakota prairie. I used to abhor the traffic as unwanted noise.
However, I've gotten so used to it that it has become more of a purr to me, a scintillating crooning that tells me I am home. The traffic noise is now a pulsating almost rhythmic character that moves briskly, reminding me I am not alone and that life goes on around me.
2010©Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist.Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Hey, Joe, have you lost your boxers?
Have you ever noticed that when people go outside they seem to undress. How else would you explain the pair of men's boxers hanging on that guard rail?
And what about those socks draped over the fire hydrant?
How in the world does someone lose their britches on a highway overpass? I mean, what's that all about?
Someones running shoe is hanging upside down on a fencepost along I-29, a busy highway near my house. I wonder if the owner will ever recognize it as he drives by at 75 miles per hour.
I've been looking for someone walking around with just one shoe on, but so far I haven't seen anyone who matches that description. I'll keep looking.
This makes me wonder how someone can lose just one shoe. Why is it that you never see a pair of shoes alongside the road. I haven't lost one shoe outside anywhere in my entire life.
T-shirts, jackets, backpacks, cowboy boots, bedroom slippers, umbrellas, mittens, scarves, purses, flip-flops - I've seen them all at one time or another abandoned along streets and sidewalks, in ditches and parking lots.
Now losing your hat, I get that. Hats have been blowing away since indigenous people in ancient times wore things on their heads, like banana leaves, to keep from getting wet.
Hats easily blow away, especially if you don't tie them down.
You see red ones, blue ones, yellow ones and green ones lying on the ground. Ball caps and bonnets, stocking hats and shower caps, safety helmets and cowboy hats all lost to the wind.
It's those other articles of clothing that baffle me.
As far as the boxer shorts, I can only think of two reasonable explanations for them. One: they could have flown out the window on the way to the laundry mat. And as far as the second, well, we won't go there.
The sight of discarded clothing is oddly funny and a tad bit sad to me. At least that's how I felt when I noticed a pile of shoes and socks the neighborhood kids left behind on the lot across the street after a game of touch football.
I wonder if parents are so busy today that they don't even notice their kids shoes and socks are missing?
When I was a kid, I had only one pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, and they had to last all year. Most adults I know share the same story.
There are some folks who have had perfectly good reasons for discarding their clothing, like the people in a 2007 Fox news story I read from Niagara, N.Y. It stated, "Canadian shoppers taking advantage of the parity between the U.S. and Canadian dollars are leaving behind more than cash when the head home. They're leaving behind their old clothes."
According to the article, the shoppers wore their new clothes home so they wouldn't have to pay a duty when crossing the border into Canada. Smart, eh? The old clothes were left behind in parking lots, dressing rooms and restrooms at malls and shopping plazas in the Buffalo-Niagara Falls area.
Leave it to New Yorkers to come up with a solution to a strange problem. At one of the malls, managers put collection bins near the exits where Canadian customers could deposit their unwanted items. The clothing was then given to the needy.
Now that's what I call a happy ending to all those clothes left behind.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
And what about those socks draped over the fire hydrant?
How in the world does someone lose their britches on a highway overpass? I mean, what's that all about?
Someones running shoe is hanging upside down on a fencepost along I-29, a busy highway near my house. I wonder if the owner will ever recognize it as he drives by at 75 miles per hour.
I've been looking for someone walking around with just one shoe on, but so far I haven't seen anyone who matches that description. I'll keep looking.
This makes me wonder how someone can lose just one shoe. Why is it that you never see a pair of shoes alongside the road. I haven't lost one shoe outside anywhere in my entire life.
T-shirts, jackets, backpacks, cowboy boots, bedroom slippers, umbrellas, mittens, scarves, purses, flip-flops - I've seen them all at one time or another abandoned along streets and sidewalks, in ditches and parking lots.
Now losing your hat, I get that. Hats have been blowing away since indigenous people in ancient times wore things on their heads, like banana leaves, to keep from getting wet.
Hats easily blow away, especially if you don't tie them down.
You see red ones, blue ones, yellow ones and green ones lying on the ground. Ball caps and bonnets, stocking hats and shower caps, safety helmets and cowboy hats all lost to the wind.
It's those other articles of clothing that baffle me.
As far as the boxer shorts, I can only think of two reasonable explanations for them. One: they could have flown out the window on the way to the laundry mat. And as far as the second, well, we won't go there.
The sight of discarded clothing is oddly funny and a tad bit sad to me. At least that's how I felt when I noticed a pile of shoes and socks the neighborhood kids left behind on the lot across the street after a game of touch football.
I wonder if parents are so busy today that they don't even notice their kids shoes and socks are missing?
When I was a kid, I had only one pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, and they had to last all year. Most adults I know share the same story.
There are some folks who have had perfectly good reasons for discarding their clothing, like the people in a 2007 Fox news story I read from Niagara, N.Y. It stated, "Canadian shoppers taking advantage of the parity between the U.S. and Canadian dollars are leaving behind more than cash when the head home. They're leaving behind their old clothes."
According to the article, the shoppers wore their new clothes home so they wouldn't have to pay a duty when crossing the border into Canada. Smart, eh? The old clothes were left behind in parking lots, dressing rooms and restrooms at malls and shopping plazas in the Buffalo-Niagara Falls area.
Leave it to New Yorkers to come up with a solution to a strange problem. At one of the malls, managers put collection bins near the exits where Canadian customers could deposit their unwanted items. The clothing was then given to the needy.
Now that's what I call a happy ending to all those clothes left behind.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Three-way love affair gets mileage
It wasn't easy, but I told my husband that I am in love with a female for the first time in my life.
I mean it, this gal is awesome.
She never let's me down and when I'm headed in the wrong direction, she simply turns me around and sends me off on the right path.
Even on the worst days we've had together, she stays calm, her voice is clear and her advice is level-headed.
No temper tantrums in this relationship.
She is mild-mannered from start to finish. Her tone is silky smooth, pleasant to the ear.
I just can't get her out of my mind. And when I think about how fantastic she is, I can't believe that up until a few short weeks ago I didn't really know her.
As I journey through life, she's right there, never leaving my side, always knowing the right thing to say.
This female handles my most difficult conundrums with sound guidance, never becomes excited or upset and never raises her voice.
At times when I feel totally lost, all I have to do is remember her guarantee to stand by me through life's highways and byways.
In my heart of hearts, I choose to believe she will never let me down.
I am so in love that I tell everyone about my new-found beau. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like shouting her name from the rooftop.
Although her unflinching sensibilities have irked others, earning her the "B" word, with a capital "B," I don't buy it. I rather like her directness, not to mention her firm unwavering manner.
Now, you may think this is simply a case of infatuation, a classic example of mid-life crisis, a far flung fling that will pass, but it's not. I am head-over-heels in love with this my soul mate, my new true blue friend.
And when I learned that my husband is crazy about her, too, I wasn't surprised. It goes to show you just how wide her appeal is.
I know it may sound a bit kinky, but the three of us are now traveling through life together and we have never been happier.
She calls herself "TomTom." We assume that's her real name, but we call her "Tommi."
Born in Canada, Tommi is our one and only global positioning system.
Oh, how we love her! Let us count the ways....
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
I mean it, this gal is awesome.
She never let's me down and when I'm headed in the wrong direction, she simply turns me around and sends me off on the right path.
Even on the worst days we've had together, she stays calm, her voice is clear and her advice is level-headed.
No temper tantrums in this relationship.
She is mild-mannered from start to finish. Her tone is silky smooth, pleasant to the ear.
I just can't get her out of my mind. And when I think about how fantastic she is, I can't believe that up until a few short weeks ago I didn't really know her.
As I journey through life, she's right there, never leaving my side, always knowing the right thing to say.
This female handles my most difficult conundrums with sound guidance, never becomes excited or upset and never raises her voice.
At times when I feel totally lost, all I have to do is remember her guarantee to stand by me through life's highways and byways.
In my heart of hearts, I choose to believe she will never let me down.
I am so in love that I tell everyone about my new-found beau. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like shouting her name from the rooftop.
Although her unflinching sensibilities have irked others, earning her the "B" word, with a capital "B," I don't buy it. I rather like her directness, not to mention her firm unwavering manner.
Now, you may think this is simply a case of infatuation, a classic example of mid-life crisis, a far flung fling that will pass, but it's not. I am head-over-heels in love with this my soul mate, my new true blue friend.
And when I learned that my husband is crazy about her, too, I wasn't surprised. It goes to show you just how wide her appeal is.
I know it may sound a bit kinky, but the three of us are now traveling through life together and we have never been happier.
She calls herself "TomTom." We assume that's her real name, but we call her "Tommi."
Born in Canada, Tommi is our one and only global positioning system.
Oh, how we love her! Let us count the ways....
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won
first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and
Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Whistle or sing a happy tune
Every once in awhile, I wonder what our jobs would be like if we just whistled while we worked.
Or better yet, what if we sang. You never hear workers whistling or let alone singing on the job. I think the trouble is we're just way too serious.
People often complain of being in silos or walled off at work, where they feel distant because of a lack of contact. Instead of talking face-to-face, we email each other or phone co-workers in the very next cubicle. How impersonal is that?
"Just whistle while you work
And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place..."
Historically, work songs were sung while workers shared a common task. They often were timed to the swinging of a sledge hammer or pumping levers and the like.
How come we don't use work songs as an antidote for isolation on the job or even a cure for workplace violence.
Work songs used to help people complete the most difficult tasks before automation took the place of good old-fashioned elbow grease. Just think of how they might help our down economy and relieve pressures to work smarter.
"So hum a merry tune
It won't take long when there's a song to help you set the pace..."
Some offices tune into their favorite country radio stations. I suppose that could be a substitute for singing on the job. But I don't think it's the same as belting out your favorite lyrics at the top of your lungs while delivering a report down the hall or drafting a spreadsheet.
What is there to feel good about when you play a country song anyway? You lose your wife, your dog, your job, your hair, your house, your health, maybe even your dreams. Are you feeling the love, yet?
"And as you sweep the room
Imagine that the broom is someone that you love
And soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune.
When hearts are high the time will fly so whistle while you work..."
I like the idea of singing together. I think the world would be a much happier place if everyone, including the top dogs, would get together for a rousing songfest once a week.
Imagine your CEO leading rounds of "Roll Out the Barrel" every Friday afternoon. His sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, his hands moving to the beat of the music and everyone joining in. Next to him is the COO and the CFO. We all buds having a good time, lifting everyones' spirits. As ridiculous as this may sound, it would put a big spike in my happy-o-meter.
"Just whistle while you work
Put on that grin and start right in to whistle loud and long
Just hum a merry tune
Just do your best and take a rest and sing yourself a song..."
Every once in awhile, I wonder if reestablishing the old practice of singing while we work would create harmony and maybe even help us grow the top line and shrink the bottom line. I'm thinking a workforce chorus with a dunk tank for floor managers. It could happen during all those coffee breaks we never take because there is too much work to do.
"When there's too much to do
Don't let it bother you, forget your troubles,
Try to be just like a cheerful chick-a-dee..."
Who knows? Maybe they need to sing or tweet, like the bird variety, on Wall Street. Heaven knows they need help.
And just one last comment: I'd like to see a national day of worksongs. I don't care if you can sing or not. Sing anyway.
"And whistle while you work
Come on get smart, tune up and start
To whistle while you work..."
Source: "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs"
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Or better yet, what if we sang. You never hear workers whistling or let alone singing on the job. I think the trouble is we're just way too serious.
People often complain of being in silos or walled off at work, where they feel distant because of a lack of contact. Instead of talking face-to-face, we email each other or phone co-workers in the very next cubicle. How impersonal is that?
"Just whistle while you work
And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place..."
Historically, work songs were sung while workers shared a common task. They often were timed to the swinging of a sledge hammer or pumping levers and the like.
How come we don't use work songs as an antidote for isolation on the job or even a cure for workplace violence.
Work songs used to help people complete the most difficult tasks before automation took the place of good old-fashioned elbow grease. Just think of how they might help our down economy and relieve pressures to work smarter.
"So hum a merry tune
It won't take long when there's a song to help you set the pace..."
Some offices tune into their favorite country radio stations. I suppose that could be a substitute for singing on the job. But I don't think it's the same as belting out your favorite lyrics at the top of your lungs while delivering a report down the hall or drafting a spreadsheet.
What is there to feel good about when you play a country song anyway? You lose your wife, your dog, your job, your hair, your house, your health, maybe even your dreams. Are you feeling the love, yet?
"And as you sweep the room
Imagine that the broom is someone that you love
And soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune.
When hearts are high the time will fly so whistle while you work..."
I like the idea of singing together. I think the world would be a much happier place if everyone, including the top dogs, would get together for a rousing songfest once a week.
Imagine your CEO leading rounds of "Roll Out the Barrel" every Friday afternoon. His sleeves rolled up, sweat on his brow, his hands moving to the beat of the music and everyone joining in. Next to him is the COO and the CFO. We all buds having a good time, lifting everyones' spirits. As ridiculous as this may sound, it would put a big spike in my happy-o-meter.
"Just whistle while you work
Put on that grin and start right in to whistle loud and long
Just hum a merry tune
Just do your best and take a rest and sing yourself a song..."
Every once in awhile, I wonder if reestablishing the old practice of singing while we work would create harmony and maybe even help us grow the top line and shrink the bottom line. I'm thinking a workforce chorus with a dunk tank for floor managers. It could happen during all those coffee breaks we never take because there is too much work to do.
"When there's too much to do
Don't let it bother you, forget your troubles,
Try to be just like a cheerful chick-a-dee..."
Who knows? Maybe they need to sing or tweet, like the bird variety, on Wall Street. Heaven knows they need help.
And just one last comment: I'd like to see a national day of worksongs. I don't care if you can sing or not. Sing anyway.
"And whistle while you work
Come on get smart, tune up and start
To whistle while you work..."
Source: "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs"
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Equality when it comes to owees
Have we become too complacent about Band-Aids? When I have to wear one, I think it should match my outfit.
After all, my shoes coordinate with my purse. My earrings are the same color as my necklace. My blouse matches my skirt. Why not Band-Aids, too?
I'd like an entire set of bright pink, red, yellow, orange and chartruse Band-Aids to go with my summer apparel and earthtones to coordinate with my fall wardrobe.
There's just something so dull and clinical about wearing a plain old skin-colored Band-Aid. And, I think the people at Band-Aid headquarters have been slow to respond to the latest trends.
Just look at i-pods, cell phones and BlackBerries. They have color and patterns. Even food packaging these days is hip. Why not Band-Aids.
What about paisley, plaid and polka-dot ones to spruce up the look of our paper cuts?
I did some checking into this and found out that kids have it made when it comes to the Band-Aid cool factor.
When children get an "owee," they have their choices of Hello Kitty, Toy Story, Disney Princess, Disney Cars, Star Wars, Hot Wheels and Ben 10 Tattoo bandages. How come adults don't have choices?
I can't tell you how tempted I am to purchase a box of Strawberry Shortcake Band-Aids just for myself. The only problem is I don't know how I'd explain these to my husband and coworkers.
Up until now, I hadn't thought much about the movie stars adults would enjoy in their boxes of 60 ultra-thin, breathable bandages. And, what about sports stars or historical figures?
Come to think of it,I wouldn't mind having Brad Pitt wrapped around my little finger. That sure would make any bruises seem a whole lot better.
How about George Clooney or Leonardo DiCaprio? Now, we're talking serious Band-Aids!
For men with razor cuts, they could stick on Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie or Marilyn Monroe, instead of those ugly patches of toilet tissue.
The fact of the matter is Band-Aid big wigs need to spend a whole lot more time in the Board Room on bandage strategies for adults. After all, we get hurt, too. I hope they're listening.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
After all, my shoes coordinate with my purse. My earrings are the same color as my necklace. My blouse matches my skirt. Why not Band-Aids, too?
I'd like an entire set of bright pink, red, yellow, orange and chartruse Band-Aids to go with my summer apparel and earthtones to coordinate with my fall wardrobe.
There's just something so dull and clinical about wearing a plain old skin-colored Band-Aid. And, I think the people at Band-Aid headquarters have been slow to respond to the latest trends.
Just look at i-pods, cell phones and BlackBerries. They have color and patterns. Even food packaging these days is hip. Why not Band-Aids.
What about paisley, plaid and polka-dot ones to spruce up the look of our paper cuts?
I did some checking into this and found out that kids have it made when it comes to the Band-Aid cool factor.
When children get an "owee," they have their choices of Hello Kitty, Toy Story, Disney Princess, Disney Cars, Star Wars, Hot Wheels and Ben 10 Tattoo bandages. How come adults don't have choices?
I can't tell you how tempted I am to purchase a box of Strawberry Shortcake Band-Aids just for myself. The only problem is I don't know how I'd explain these to my husband and coworkers.
Up until now, I hadn't thought much about the movie stars adults would enjoy in their boxes of 60 ultra-thin, breathable bandages. And, what about sports stars or historical figures?
Come to think of it,I wouldn't mind having Brad Pitt wrapped around my little finger. That sure would make any bruises seem a whole lot better.
How about George Clooney or Leonardo DiCaprio? Now, we're talking serious Band-Aids!
For men with razor cuts, they could stick on Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie or Marilyn Monroe, instead of those ugly patches of toilet tissue.
The fact of the matter is Band-Aid big wigs need to spend a whole lot more time in the Board Room on bandage strategies for adults. After all, we get hurt, too. I hope they're listening.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
Excuse me, do you have the time?
When I learned the other day that less than 25 percent of us wear watches anymore, I realized that I'm a member of yet another minority.
I can understand why the majority are watch-less, and when you think of it, who really needs one anyway?
Most people, young and old, carry cell phones, BlackBerries and i-pods with built-in clocks, so they constantly know the time of day.
According to a CBS News story by Amy S. Clark titled "Wear a Watch? What for?" the way we track time is not what it used to be.
In her report, Clark reveals that most teens have never worn a watch and more and more adults are adopting this trend.
She quotes behavioral scientist Max Kilger, who says a cell phone is one step up from a watch. "It begins to help you manage your time. And a BlackBerry is one level up from that."
In other words, people no longer check the time, the time checks them. Instead of looking at wrist watches, like I do a gazillion times a day, people have electronic devices that check them by beeping or vibrating.
Clark's article notes that people's lives have become automated by ring tones and chimes, telling them when to pick up the kids, when to go to the doctor or when to meet a client.
This all sounds quite backwards and makes me wonder who's in charge, anyway?
Remember, you used to know the time of day when your mother hollered for you to come home for dinner?
Back then, you knew it was time to get out of bed when the milkman left cold fresh jugs of milk on the side porch bright and early. Or you could see light coming through closed blinds at the break of day.
You knew it was one o'clock in the afternoon when the mailman came by and six in the evening from the sound of the ice cream truck ringing its way down the street.
You could tell it was noon by the way daylight lit up the dining room, and you knew what time it was when the kitchen was illuminated by the setting sun.
Years ago and still today, you know exactly what time it is by where the sun is in proximity to Earth. When the sun is predominantly in the East, it's still morning. Overhead? It's the afternoon. And when it's setting in the West, you can pretty much call it a day.
When I was a kid, I knew what time of night it was when I could hear my dad coming home way past my bedtime. I should have been asleep long before, but something kept me awake.
On Sundays, I knew how much time I had before church just by looking out the window. You see, the church my family attended was right across the street from my childhood home.
By surveying the number of cars parked outside, I could calculate how much time I had before the service started.
Back then, I didn't wear a watch. Didn't need to.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I can understand why the majority are watch-less, and when you think of it, who really needs one anyway?
Most people, young and old, carry cell phones, BlackBerries and i-pods with built-in clocks, so they constantly know the time of day.
According to a CBS News story by Amy S. Clark titled "Wear a Watch? What for?" the way we track time is not what it used to be.
In her report, Clark reveals that most teens have never worn a watch and more and more adults are adopting this trend.
She quotes behavioral scientist Max Kilger, who says a cell phone is one step up from a watch. "It begins to help you manage your time. And a BlackBerry is one level up from that."
In other words, people no longer check the time, the time checks them. Instead of looking at wrist watches, like I do a gazillion times a day, people have electronic devices that check them by beeping or vibrating.
Clark's article notes that people's lives have become automated by ring tones and chimes, telling them when to pick up the kids, when to go to the doctor or when to meet a client.
This all sounds quite backwards and makes me wonder who's in charge, anyway?
Remember, you used to know the time of day when your mother hollered for you to come home for dinner?
Back then, you knew it was time to get out of bed when the milkman left cold fresh jugs of milk on the side porch bright and early. Or you could see light coming through closed blinds at the break of day.
You knew it was one o'clock in the afternoon when the mailman came by and six in the evening from the sound of the ice cream truck ringing its way down the street.
You could tell it was noon by the way daylight lit up the dining room, and you knew what time it was when the kitchen was illuminated by the setting sun.
Years ago and still today, you know exactly what time it is by where the sun is in proximity to Earth. When the sun is predominantly in the East, it's still morning. Overhead? It's the afternoon. And when it's setting in the West, you can pretty much call it a day.
When I was a kid, I knew what time of night it was when I could hear my dad coming home way past my bedtime. I should have been asleep long before, but something kept me awake.
On Sundays, I knew how much time I had before church just by looking out the window. You see, the church my family attended was right across the street from my childhood home.
By surveying the number of cars parked outside, I could calculate how much time I had before the service started.
Back then, I didn't wear a watch. Didn't need to.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Is that a stick I see walking?
I like insects, just as long as they don't take up residence inside my house.
Take for instance the giant beetle that was snarling up a storm the other day on my front porch.
Buggy eyed and hard shelled, that little guy was not a happy camper. By the hissing sound he was making, I wasn't sure if he was ill or just having a bad day.
When I looked up what type of beetle he was, my hopes were quickly dashed to learn that beetles are the largest order of insects in the world. Trying to find his exact image in a mug shot would take forever and I just don't have the time.
When I called for my husband, Brian, to come and see, he said, "Oh, that's a June Bug."
"Ah, a June Bug!" I said, still fascinated while examining the intricate pattern on his reddish brown bulky physique.
That reminded me of an awareness I had the other day when a cicada landed on the screen of my office window during a downpour.
The sight of him distracted me from my work, which is unusual for my intensely focused self.
When I stepped over to the window to get a closer look, I was amazed at the design of his variegated underbelly and intricately veined wings.
Hanging on for dear life, he remained affixed to my screen, waiting out the storm while lightning and thunder provided a background of high drama.
I mentioned the cicada to a co-worker, thinking she'd want to come and see. It was obvious by her non-response that my interest in the bug was boring and that I needed to get a life. Oh well, I thought, her loss, my gain.
When I start thinking about insects, sometimes I can't stop. Some of the bugs I find most interesting disguise themselves in nature as a form of self-defense.
Like the Dead-leaf Moth, which can easily be taken for what else but a dead leaf.
I'm mesmerized by how the young caterpillars of Dead-leaf Moths hide in nature disguised as seed-filled bird droppings. How brilliant is that, pretending to be animal do-do. Older ones appear to be chubby green worms with large spots that pose as fake eyes. Wow, that's so cool!
Another impostor is the American Walking Stick. Brownish in color, this insect often is mistaken for a twig. It's been awhile since I saw one, but I'll never forget my first encounter. Lanky and somewhat clumsy in its movements, that wingless bug lumbered along a tree branch. Not believing my eyes, I blurted, "That's a walking stick!"
Don't get me started on the lime-green Katydid that camouflages itself by blending into corn rows and bean stalks. Come to think of it, I should have a bumper sticker on my bike that reads, "I brake for bugs." It's not unusual for me to stop and examine all sorts of strange-looking creepy crawlers.
Once while I was on a walk in Central Pennsylvania, I found the most beautiful giant yellow butterfly lying dead on the side of the road. I have this lovely creature preserved under a glass frame in my office. More than once, I've gotten blank stares from people when I explain why there's a dead butterfly on my desk.
The more I think of it, the more I realize that my interest in bugs makes me an oddball of sorts.
A lot of the women I know instantly would jump onto chairs while screaming bloody murder at the site of my little insect friends. And just about everybody, except for maybe two-year olds, squish bugs at first sight.
But that's just not me. I hover, intently study their complicated patterns, movements, and then run and tell anyone who will listen, "Come and see!"
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Take for instance the giant beetle that was snarling up a storm the other day on my front porch.
Buggy eyed and hard shelled, that little guy was not a happy camper. By the hissing sound he was making, I wasn't sure if he was ill or just having a bad day.
When I looked up what type of beetle he was, my hopes were quickly dashed to learn that beetles are the largest order of insects in the world. Trying to find his exact image in a mug shot would take forever and I just don't have the time.
When I called for my husband, Brian, to come and see, he said, "Oh, that's a June Bug."
"Ah, a June Bug!" I said, still fascinated while examining the intricate pattern on his reddish brown bulky physique.
That reminded me of an awareness I had the other day when a cicada landed on the screen of my office window during a downpour.
The sight of him distracted me from my work, which is unusual for my intensely focused self.
When I stepped over to the window to get a closer look, I was amazed at the design of his variegated underbelly and intricately veined wings.
Hanging on for dear life, he remained affixed to my screen, waiting out the storm while lightning and thunder provided a background of high drama.
I mentioned the cicada to a co-worker, thinking she'd want to come and see. It was obvious by her non-response that my interest in the bug was boring and that I needed to get a life. Oh well, I thought, her loss, my gain.
When I start thinking about insects, sometimes I can't stop. Some of the bugs I find most interesting disguise themselves in nature as a form of self-defense.
Like the Dead-leaf Moth, which can easily be taken for what else but a dead leaf.
I'm mesmerized by how the young caterpillars of Dead-leaf Moths hide in nature disguised as seed-filled bird droppings. How brilliant is that, pretending to be animal do-do. Older ones appear to be chubby green worms with large spots that pose as fake eyes. Wow, that's so cool!
Another impostor is the American Walking Stick. Brownish in color, this insect often is mistaken for a twig. It's been awhile since I saw one, but I'll never forget my first encounter. Lanky and somewhat clumsy in its movements, that wingless bug lumbered along a tree branch. Not believing my eyes, I blurted, "That's a walking stick!"
Don't get me started on the lime-green Katydid that camouflages itself by blending into corn rows and bean stalks. Come to think of it, I should have a bumper sticker on my bike that reads, "I brake for bugs." It's not unusual for me to stop and examine all sorts of strange-looking creepy crawlers.
Once while I was on a walk in Central Pennsylvania, I found the most beautiful giant yellow butterfly lying dead on the side of the road. I have this lovely creature preserved under a glass frame in my office. More than once, I've gotten blank stares from people when I explain why there's a dead butterfly on my desk.
The more I think of it, the more I realize that my interest in bugs makes me an oddball of sorts.
A lot of the women I know instantly would jump onto chairs while screaming bloody murder at the site of my little insect friends. And just about everybody, except for maybe two-year olds, squish bugs at first sight.
But that's just not me. I hover, intently study their complicated patterns, movements, and then run and tell anyone who will listen, "Come and see!"
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)