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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
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.
Friday, December 31, 2010
It's just like forty going north...
This year, I wanted to buck the trend on New Year's resolutions by keeping the ones I make.
According to one survey, among the Top 10 New Year's Resolutions are enjoying life more, learning something new and getting organized.
I admit, I really do want to enjoy my life more. I've been described as being way too serious. Guilty as charged. It's seems like all I do is work, work, work. I honestly want to have fun, kick back and relax the way other people do.
Maybe smiling more or laughing out loud would be a good place to start. I know that using humorous metaphors sometimes give me a chuckle.
So, my first New Year's Resolution is to insert a metaphor somewhere in conversation once a day. For example, when I'm particularly pleased, I'll blurt out, "Well butter my biscuit!" When I'm not feeling negative, I'll say, "You don't have a snowball's chance..." Well, you know the rest of that one.
And when I'm frustrated with a certain individual's stubborness [wink, wink], I'll whisper to myself, "He'd argue with a fencepost."
When my schedule is overloaded, I'll shout out, "I've bitten off more than I can chew!" If I'm surprised, I'll exclaim, "Well shut my mouth!"
And at those rare times when I'm being blamed for something I did not do, I'll reply, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Mister."
O.K., well, enough of that silliness, now, back to my old serious self.
I am fascinated with biology, especially cell structure and have always wanted to reread all the fascinating facts in my old college biology book about eukaryotes cells, prokaryotic cells, protozoa, DNA structures and chromosone links.
So my second 2011 resolution is to learn one new biological fact every day. Wow, if that doesn't tickle my fancy, I don't know what does.
I also want to organize the spare room, which has been a catch-all for years. But to do this, I'll need my husband's help. Yeah, right, getting him interested in this project is like getting cold tar to run on an uphill grade in the middle of winter. (Maybe enticing him with a mulberry pie or a foot rub would do it.)
Stop! Stop, enough of the metaphors. Oh, the heck with the resolutions, here's my bucket list for 2011:
paint the shed,
ride in RAGRAI,
run a marathon,
start a non-profit for the needy,
travel to Tanzania with STEMM,
vacation on the south coast of England,
visit my cousin in Holland,
my friend in Brussells,
my sister in Washington,
and my other sister in Utah,
conduct another reading in Vermillion,
compile my second book,
my third book,
and my fourth book.
Whew, this is making me dizzy! Maybe I ought to downsize my list to just one specific, measurable, attainable, realistic and timely goal, like smiling more. Well, pick my peas, I could smile just like a gator at an old-fashion baptism.
[Happy New Year to all my faithful readers. May peace, love and all good things come your way in 2011 and always.]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
According to one survey, among the Top 10 New Year's Resolutions are enjoying life more, learning something new and getting organized.
I admit, I really do want to enjoy my life more. I've been described as being way too serious. Guilty as charged. It's seems like all I do is work, work, work. I honestly want to have fun, kick back and relax the way other people do.
Maybe smiling more or laughing out loud would be a good place to start. I know that using humorous metaphors sometimes give me a chuckle.
So, my first New Year's Resolution is to insert a metaphor somewhere in conversation once a day. For example, when I'm particularly pleased, I'll blurt out, "Well butter my biscuit!" When I'm not feeling negative, I'll say, "You don't have a snowball's chance..." Well, you know the rest of that one.
And when I'm frustrated with a certain individual's stubborness [wink, wink], I'll whisper to myself, "He'd argue with a fencepost."
When my schedule is overloaded, I'll shout out, "I've bitten off more than I can chew!" If I'm surprised, I'll exclaim, "Well shut my mouth!"
And at those rare times when I'm being blamed for something I did not do, I'll reply, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Mister."
O.K., well, enough of that silliness, now, back to my old serious self.
I am fascinated with biology, especially cell structure and have always wanted to reread all the fascinating facts in my old college biology book about eukaryotes cells, prokaryotic cells, protozoa, DNA structures and chromosone links.
So my second 2011 resolution is to learn one new biological fact every day. Wow, if that doesn't tickle my fancy, I don't know what does.
I also want to organize the spare room, which has been a catch-all for years. But to do this, I'll need my husband's help. Yeah, right, getting him interested in this project is like getting cold tar to run on an uphill grade in the middle of winter. (Maybe enticing him with a mulberry pie or a foot rub would do it.)
Stop! Stop, enough of the metaphors. Oh, the heck with the resolutions, here's my bucket list for 2011:
paint the shed,
ride in RAGRAI,
run a marathon,
start a non-profit for the needy,
travel to Tanzania with STEMM,
vacation on the south coast of England,
visit my cousin in Holland,
my friend in Brussells,
my sister in Washington,
and my other sister in Utah,
conduct another reading in Vermillion,
compile my second book,
my third book,
and my fourth book.
Whew, this is making me dizzy! Maybe I ought to downsize my list to just one specific, measurable, attainable, realistic and timely goal, like smiling more. Well, pick my peas, I could smile just like a gator at an old-fashion baptism.
[Happy New Year to all my faithful readers. May peace, love and all good things come your way in 2011 and always.]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
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