If I Could Turn Back Time

 Thought for the day: If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude. [Maya Angelou]

I reckon we've all had to change our attitudes to survive this crazy Twilight Zone of a year. Fine, I can do that... I have done that. I'm sure you have, too.

But one thing I don't want to change is my darned clock. I mean, why in the name of all that's good and holy would anyone choose to nudge the clock back an hour this weekend? Who, I ask you, is delighted at the prospect of prolonging this year from Hades by adding an extra hour to it? Now, if the powers that be really want us to turn back time, I think they should make it worth our while. Why not crank it back ... oh, I dunno... maybe twenty years or so? Betcha that would garner near-unanimous support.

Could be worse, I suppose. 

At least we don't have to rearrange huge stones to change the time, eh?

                                      

                                                     A handy-dandy guide just for you...

Yeah, I know it's a pipe dream to think we could dig our heels in and forget about changing the clock. (Now if we could move it forward ... like past the election, past the pandemic, past the insanity...)

I trust that, like me, you've had enough of this stinking year. We've had our fill of the pandemic... the needless deaths... the racial divide... the protests and rioting... the toxic political atmosphere... the lies... the venomous hatred. It sucks. All of it. But wait! That's not all! Let's not forget the horrific wildfires, the hurricanes, and the floods. And how about them murder wasps? The brain-eating amoebae? And of course, for me, the worst thing, the most definitive thing, has been my husband's death. Some of you have lost loved ones this year, too. I say ENOUGH, already! We're full of this year. Fed up! Done with it. Then again, so many bad things have already happened this year,  what else could possibly go wrong?

WHOA!!! Scratch that! I take it back. If the zombie apocalypse is coming, I don't wanta know. This year has been for the birds. I tell ya, it's enough to make a saint swear.

Come to think of it, birds, too. Yep, I've got it on good authority that birds are fed up with this year, too. Specifically, ever since five African grey parrots were adopted (from five separate sources) by the Lincolnshire Wildlife Park in London, those angry little guys have been cursing a blue streak. To keep their fowl attitudes from spreading to the other parrots in the sanctuary, the ornery little potty mouths had to be moved away from the others. Quaranteed. So to speak. Hmmmm, I bet that didn't do much to improve their attitudes...

 On the plus side, this year... this pandemic... this unrest... can't last forever. Before we know it, it'll be winter. Then a new year... and hopefully, a better year. A more hopeful year. Less stress. More joy.

                               But FYI: best to be careful this winter. I mean, it's this kinda year...     

 Sure, this year has given us all a ton of challenges, but it hasn't been all bad.  There's been some good stuff, too. Like I found a really good company to fix our air conditioning when it went belly-up smack dab in the middle of our Georgian summer. I've also gotten pretty darned good at fixing toilets, if I must say so myself. Plus, all that hand-washing and disinfecting has made toilet-cleaning easier than ever. It seems the stuff has permeated my skin, so now the toilet gets cleaned every time I tinkle. Woo HOO!  Oooh, and our younger son got me set up on Netflix. Awesome! I loved it, and quickly developed a brand new binge-watching talent. Until it stopped working. (My TV isn't "smart," so he fed the stream through our DVD player... which decided to stop working. ) BUT... a new TV... a "smart" one... is supposed to be delivered today. I also got a cellphone. A first for me. Something I never ever wanted, but I got tired of my friends and family insisting I "had" to get one. So I did. A week ago. I hope they're all happy now. (Just because I have it doesn't mean I'm gonna use it.) Just kidding. A little. At first, I kept it nearby... in its box. Turned off. (sigh) Fine. It's still in its box, but at least, I turned the darned thing on. Baby steps, right?

Anyhow, chins up, people! (Otherwise, you'd be staring at your feet or your boobs all day. And that's just weird.)  Maybe if we were to rate 2020, we'd struggle to give it any stars at all, and we wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but this, too, shall pass. Honest. Sure, if 2020 were a drink, it'd be hemlock or maybe that yummy colonoscopy prep stuff.. If it were a movie, it'd be ... what? Baby Boss, maybe? Sausage Party? Which song...? Oh, I've got it. It'd have to be the dogs barking Jingle Bells. Come on... help. Which song and/or movie do you think suits the essence of 2020? Sock it to me. I've got nothing but time.

                                     Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

                                 

                                                              

                                                                                 

In the Zone

Thought for the day:  Hopeful thinking can get you our of your fear zone and into your appreciation zone.  [Martha Beck]

Yes, indeedy. It's that time again, people.  Yet another month has slipped through our fingers, and it is once again time for our IWSG monthly posts. As always, thanks to our fearless leader, Alex Cavanaugh, for founding this fine group, and thanks to all the other nurturing guys and gals who've helped turn it into the thriving community it is today. I'm telling ya, this group offers better support and lift than the world's most expensive bra. (No pesky underwires, either!) To join this super duper supportive group of writers and to see links to other participating blogs, please go HERE

Well, yes sirree, I took most of the month of April off from blogging, ostensibly to get back to my poor neglected manuscript, which has been gathering dust for the past year. I knew it would be difficult to get back into the groove after so long, but um, I failed to even find the darned groove. To tell the truth, I didn't spend much time looking for it, either. I still believe in the value of the story I want to tell, but the truth is, I don't know if I can regain the enthusiasm it requires to get 'er done or not. At least, not right now, because I'm having a hard time believing writing even... matters. (Yeah, I know. Blasphemy, eh?) But I'm not quite ready to give up yet.

Because of my current situation, this month's question is particularly pertinent:

Do you have any rituals that you use when you need help getting into the ZONE? Care to share?

[image: unsplash]

Well, that's a real challenge, isn't it? Or as someone much smarter than I said, "Therein lies the rub..."

OY! I'd LOVE to get back into the normal zone again. I really would. I'd love to fire that ol' football into the end zone in a perfect spiral, right into the hands of a deft receiver. Woo HOO! Touchdown!

Or, um... I'd settle for a few successfully written pages.

Unfortunately, I seem to have... dropped the ball. And rather than trying to recover it, I've retreated to the bench. I don't feel like playing.

The zone is a state of mind which is marked by a sense of calmness. In addition, there is a heightened sense of awareness and focus. Actions seem effortless and there is an increased belief that your dreams or goals can become achievable and real. In addition, there is also a sense of deep enjoyment when the person is in this unique, special, and magical state of being. [Dr. Jay Granat, sports psychologist]

[image: unsplash]

You ever been in that kind of zone? The closest I've ever been was at the bowling alley some years ago. At the time, I bowled on multiple leagues, and I was pretty good... but certainly not great. But that one night... it was as though I could do no wrong. STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE! Some of my balls curved into the pocket like magic, but even the ones that weren't exactly on target resulted in yet another strike. It was incredible! A crowd gathered behind our lanes, watching and cheering me on, but  I could barely hear them for the pounding of my heart. I could barely breathe.

And I blew it. Got a split in the tenth frame and ended up with a 261. But man oh man, it sure felt good while it lasted. It felt good when I was writing regularly every day, too, but if I were to compare what's happening now to what happened in that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to roll a perfect game, I haven't just rolled a split in the tenth frame. I didn't roll a ball at all. I simply shoved it back into my bag and retreated to the lounge to sing some karaoke.

[image: unsplash]

Alas, my bowling days are over, but it's probably just as well. Judging by how lost I feel these days, I'd probably roll the ball in the wrong direction.

It's the same with writing. I've been in the zone there before, too, but I'm having a hard time finding my way back. Then again, I'm not looking very hard, either.

[image: unsplash]

Sure, I used to have some writing rituals. I learned to write first thing in the morning... before I even allowed myself to read the newspaper. And I'd stop writing for the day right in the middle of a scene, which made it easier to get back to it the next day.

Now, it's like my inner self is rebelling. Reading the newspaper comes first. Writing generally loses out, because there's always something else that requires my attention.

Clearly, I need some new rituals if I ever want to finish my book(s). (Or maybe I just need to get back to the old rituals.)

                                                    But rituals don't always work.

[image: wikimedia]

Not that I'm not in the zone... of course I am! For better or worse, we're all in some kinda zone. The problem is, it feels like I've ventured into the twilight zone.

Life has been rather surreal for the past year. Between my husband's whack-a-mole battles with cancer and now, this pandemic, somehow, whether or not I write doesn't seem to matter very much in the scheme of things, ya know?

What matters most is spending time with  my husband. What matters is laughing and making the most of each day. In due time, perhaps writing will regain its level of importance in my life that it once enjoyed. But ya know what? If it doesn't, I'm okay with that. Life is good. And besides, writing isn't the only game in town. (Think I'm too old for football...?)

How about you? How do you get... and keep... yourself in the zone? Go on... I'm all ears...

                                        Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

WEP: A Christmas Miracle

Thought for the day: At Christmastime, anything is possible.

I enjoyed participating in the last WEP challenge so much, I decided to submit something for this one, too. Why not? It's fun!

As you can see, the theme this time around is ribbons and candles, and for lack of a more inspired title, I'll call my offering A Christmas Miracle.














                                               A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

Ella’s eyes sparkled as she bounced in place, fairly vibrating with excitement. “Hurry UP, Nana! Open it!”

Gertrude shakily removed the last bit of wrapping paper, revealing a laminated bookmark decorated with enough gold and red glitter to fill a small bathtub. A gold cross shone at its top, and down its length, glittery red hearts alternated with equally glittery red letters that spelled L-O-V-E.

Ella clapped her hands. “Do you like it? Do you?”

 “Oh, my goodness!” Gertrude gushed, pressing one gnarled hand to her chest. “This is so beautiful a famous artist must have made it!”

“NO-O-O! It was me! I made it for you!” Ella giggled, her face more radiant than ever. “Now you can throw away that icky ribbon.”

Gertrude looked at the faded ribbon peeking out from the pages of her well-worn Bible on the table beside her. Then she patted Ella’s cheek. “I’ll happily use your bookmark in other books, sweetie, but my ribbon stays right where it is. That’s where it belongs.”

“But why?” Ella asked, her bottom lip trembling. “I thought you’d like something new and pretty.”

“Oh, I do like it, dear. I promise you I like it very much, but not for my Bible, because that ribbon is much more than just a ribbon.” With a smile, she whispered, “It’s a miracle.”

Ella sniffled. “It just looks like a dirty old ribbon to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving. Would you like to hear about it?’

The little girl nodded and climbed into her grandmother’s lap. “I like your stories.”

“Oh, but this one isn’t make-believe. It’s about something that happened a long time ago, when I wasn’t much older than you are now.” She tweaked Ella’s nose. “But I wasn’t nearly as cute as you.”

When Ella stopped squirming and giggling, Gertrude hugged her and continued. “It was just my parents, my younger brother and me back then, and we didn’t have much money, but we were happy. We had a roof over our heads, and we never went hungry. ‘Course, most of what we ate, we grew ourselves, and we rarely had meat, but we were fine. We had each other, and like I said, we were happy.”

Gertrude stroked Ella’s hair, a faraway look in her eyes. “Mama cooked a chicken on Thanksgiving, and after all these years, I still remember how good it was.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “The best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

“Why didn’t you have turkey? We always have turkey for Thanksgiving.”

Gertrude kissed the top of Ella’s head. “We didn’t have enough money, pumpkin. Hardly anyone did back then. Anyway, Papa lost his job a few days later, so we all knew it’d be an even simpler Christmas that year than usual, but Mama made me a new flour sack dress and told me I could have one small toy.”

Ella laughed. “NO-O-O! That’s silly! Nobody can wear a flour bag.”

Fabric flour sacks

Gertrude chuckled. “We sure did! Back then, flour bags were made of pretty fabrics, and lots of people used them to make clothes. The dress Mama made me was covered with tiny purple flowers. It was beautiful.”

Ella nodded her head solemnly, absorbing this new information. “What toy did you ask for?”

“I didn’t. I told my parents to get my brother two, because he was younger. But when I said my prayers on Christmas Eve, I asked God for a piece of purple ribbon to match my dress, so I could wear it in my hair when we went to church on Christmas. And Papa heard me.”

“So he got it for you?”

“He tried. Mama told me he walked all the way to town in a snowstorm and knocked at the door of every single store, but they were all closed. She said he was really sad when he got home.”

Ella kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Nana. So you didn’t get your ribbon until after Christmas?”

“Oh, no,” Gertrude said. “When I woke up on Christmas morning, it was lying on my pillow. One uncut piece of ribbon that was the same deep purple as the pansies I used to plant in my yard here every year. It was the perfect length to put in my hair, too, as though it had been created just for me.”

Wide-eyed, Ella gaped at her grandmother. “Where did it come from? Your mother?”

Gertrude shook her head. “No. She was just as surprised by the ribbon as my father was, and they both cried when they saw it.”

Ella gasped. “Elves?!”

“No, dear,” Gertrude said gently. “I believe God answered my prayer.”

Ella looked at her grandmother’s Bible with awe. “Wow,” she whispered. For once, the fidgety little girl sat perfectly still, as though deep in thought. Then she turned to her grandmother, her eyes aglow and an angelic smile on her face. “Think he’d give me a pony for Christmas?”

Gertrude laughed. “Do you think one will fit on your pillow?”

Ella giggled. “I was only kidding. Can I help you plant purple pansies next time?”

“Oh, I’m afraid my planting days are done, but thank you for offering. You’re a sweet child, Ella Bella.”

The little girl jumped down from her grandmother’s lap and faced her with hands planted firmly on her hips. “Then Mama and I will have to plant them for you!”

Tears sparkled in Gertrude’s eyes. “That isn’t necessary, sweetheart. I don’t need to see purple pansies to remember how beautiful my ribbon was. To remember the miracle.”

“But I do!” Ella insisted. “I want to plant purple pansies every single year until I’m old like you, so I never ever forget.”

Gertrude smiled at her beautiful thoughtful grandchild, every bit as much of a miracle as that piece of ribbon ever was. “Well then, Ella Bella, purple pansies we shall have.”

                                                              ******************

                                              May all your Christmas dreams come true.
                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

P.S. This story was inspired by a lovely old song called Scarlet Ribbons. 

WEP: Deja Boo

Thought for the day: I shipped my characters to Alaska, but on second thought, maybe I should've sent them to Mali-boo...

Since this is my buddy/kid sister Renee's last month to be on the WEP team, and she said she'd really like it if I participated... how could I not?

So here it is... just for her. And the rest of you, too. I hope you like it.

To access the stories written by the other participants, please go
HERE



                                                   DEJA BOO

John sat rigidly erect in his recliner, deeply engrossed in Yolanda Renee’s latest murder-and-mayhem mystery. Nowadays, getting lost in her books provided just about the only spark in his otherwise meaningless existence.

“BOO!”

He dropped the book and gasped. Drowning in his own saliva wasn’t exactly the heroic demise he’d imagined for himself, but apparently, his dear wife thought otherwise. After his coughing spell ended, he regarded her through watery eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Gladys.”

The sound of her laughter echoed in the room. “I’m sorry, dear, but how can I possibly stop when you continue to make it so amusing for me?”

She perched on the arm of his recliner. “Don’t you miss me?” 

A smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. “How can I miss you if you never go away?”

“That’s a terrible thing to say! Haven’t I always been a good wife to you?”

He nodded. “The best.”

She left her perch to peer at their faded wedding picture on the mantelpiece. “We were so young,” she said with a sigh. Then she spun to face him, her alabaster skin nearly translucent in the lamp’s soft glow. “You haven’t taken me anywhere in ages!”

John closed the book and set it on the table beside him. “Gladys, sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re dead. Remember?”

“Of course, I remember, you silly man, but just because I stopped breathing doesn’t mean I stopped thinking, and what I think is you need to take me on a trip.” She smiled. “It isn’t too late to take that Alaskan cruise we were always talking about.”

John wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. “Yes, Gladys, it is too late. You’re dead. D-E-A-D dead. Why aren’t you making mischief in Paradise?” He frowned. “That’s where you’re supposed to be, right? Not that… other place…”

“Oh, hush!” Gladys said. “Must you always belabor the point? So what if I’m D-E-A-D dead? I’m here now, aren’t I? So why not a cruise? You promised!”

“A cruise.” He shook his head again.

Gladys grinned. “And guess what, Mr. Tightwad? Good news! You only have to buy one ticket now.”

Against his better judgment, John made the arrangements. First class all the way, too. Maybe it wasn’t too late to keep at least one promise to her. On the other hand, maybe he was stark raving mad, and he was destined to be tormented by her imaginary visits until the day he died. Either way, he had to try.

He kept expecting Gladys to pop in at any minute to say how excited she was about the trip, so he spent the next week on full alert...  but she never showed. This cruise was supposed to be for her. So where was she?

When he boarded the ship, he scanned the crowd before rushing to his stateroom, but she was nowhere to be found. He stared despondently at the roiling gray water as the ship eased out to sea. What was the point? Where was she?

His stateroom might as well have been an outhouse for as little as he appreciated it. He forced himself to nibble some of the perfectly-prepared food, but without Gladys beside him, the chef might as well have served him a pile of sawdust.

The truth of it was, he wasn’t enjoying this cruise at all. It was meaningless without Gladys. Everything was meaningless without her. What he wouldn’t give to have her with him, making him laugh with her silly jokes and pranks, smiling at him, loving him. But now it looked like he wasn’t even going to have the freaky pleasure of sharing the trip with her ghost.

The last night of the cruise, John sat on the deck gulping bourbon. It was time to accept it: the party was over. Gladys was gone, and she was never coming back. It was just his guilty conscience over all his broken promises that made him imagine her visits. Nothing but wishful thinking, and he was a damned fool to ever think otherwise.

He snorted. Why would anyone leave Paradise to spend even a minute with the likes of him? He was a lousy husband, and she deserved better.

“Oh, you weren’t so bad.”

John’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her standing on the railing in front of him. She smiled and executed a graceful pirouette.

 “I miss you so much,” he said. “God help me, I thought we’d have more time.”

“I know you did.” She hopped down and sat in the lounge chair beside him. “And now we do, sweetie. We have an eternity.”

She stretched her hand toward him, and he reached out to grab it. He touched nothing but moist salty air, but an intense coldness like he’d never felt before spread from his fingertips, up his arm, and through his entire body.

“BOO!”

John opened his eyes slowly. Where was he? It was hot. Hot as…

“Hi, sweetie,” Gladys said. “Welcome to the afterlife.”

Panic spread through him as he gaped at the abyss and  tall flames behind her. No, no, no, this couldn’t be. If the road to hell was paved with good intentions, he belonged here, but surely… not Gladys! She was an angel. An angel with a wicked sense of humor, but an angel, nonetheless.

Gladys giggled, and the flames disappeared. “Just kidding,” she said. “Now, let's go see Australia.”

                          ***********************************************

                           Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

[All images in this post are courtesy of the fine photographers at Unsplash.]

Don't Mess Up My Do!

Thought for the day: I came; I saw; I conquered. [Julius Caesar]

[source: morguefile]

Well, good for ol' Julius, I say. Me? I'm more in the I came; I saw; I took a picture camp. I mean, the idea of climbing a mountain simply because it's there holds absolutely no appeal to me. Nada. Zilch. Zero. If that makes me a wimp, sobeit. At least, I'm still alive.

I also have no desire to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, be shot out of a cannon, tame a tiger or go swimming in a waterfall.



                                           Check out this short video of Niagara Falls:

 Horseshoe Falls, AKA the Canadian Falls, is the largest of the three waterfalls that make up the Niagara Falls, which lie on the border between Ontario and New York. It's 167 feet (51 m) high and 2700 feet (820 m) wide. Amazing, isn't it? So what do you think when you look at this massive amount of roaring water? Something along the lines of WOW? I mean it's breathtakingly beautiful, which is why it's been a favorite honeymoon destination for so many years. It's kinda humbling, too, to see such a powerful force on display.

So. How many of you look at it and think, I believe I'd like to conquer all that power? Come on... show of hands. Nobody? All right, then. At least I know I'm not the only wimp around here. Unlike us, people have been challenging the falls since the 1800s. Why? Um, because it's there, I suppose.

These old photos from Wikicommons show daredevil Charles Blondin, who, in 1859,  thought it'd be a fine idea to take a stroll across the Niagara Falls gorge on a tightrope. From one hundred sixty feet above the river gorge, to be precise, on a three-inch thick cable stretching 1100 feet. No safety equipment at all. Just his balancing pole. The dude was so sure of his success, he even offered to carry someone over on his back. (What a guy!) Alas, no one took him up on the offer. (Musta been a bunch of wimps like us.)

But that was just his first attempt. In subsequent crossings, he walked the tightrope while blindfolded, pushed a wheelbarrow, and yes... even carried someone across on his back. His agent. His brave... or crazy as a bedbug... agent. (I sure hope he got paid more than the standard 10% for that gig.)

After Blondin's feat, others replicated the gorge crossing... because they could, I suppose. But it wasn't until 2012 that someone actually walked the tightrope over the falls themselves.
 
                                                    The famous daredevil Nik Wallenda:

Not interested in taking a stroll on a tightrope, huh? Nah, me neither. Heck, I twisted my ankle just walking across the bedroom floor last week. .. no tightrope involved. For sure, my middle name isn't Grace, and with good reason. So if not a tightrope, how about a... barrel?

[source: wikipedia]

Would you believe the first person to survive a trip over Niagara Falls in a barrel was... a woman?! Not that I think women are less courageous than men; it's more a matter of believing women are, shall we say... less rash. Not only was Annie Edison Taylor the very first person to make that plunge successfully, but she did it on her sixty-third birthday! (What did you do on your sixty-third birthday...?) What? Oh yeah, a lot of you haven't even hit 63 yet. Sorry about that. So what are the chances you might try something like this when you do hit 63? I don't remember what I did... but I can guaran-damn-tee ya, it was a far far cry from doing that.

In 1901, Annie, a widow fearful of ending up in the poorhouse, rode the barrel over the falls with the hope of gaining a better financial future. Her custom-made barrel of oak and iron was padded with a mattress, and after being tossed overboard from a boat, the river carried her barrel to and over Horseshoe Falls. She came through the ordeal relatively unscathed, with only a small cut on her head. Know what she said afterwards? If it was with my dying breath, I would caution anyone against attempting the feat... I would sooner walk up to the mouth of a cannon, knowing it was going to blow me to pieces than make another trip over the Falls.

So. I guess it wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, huh? What's more, her financial security was brief-lived. She earned a bit of money traveling around with her barrel and giving speeches, but her manager absconded with her barrel. The cad. She used her meager savings to track him and her barrel down, only to have him and the barrel disappear again. She lived out her life working as a clairvoyant and providing magnetic therapeutic treatments. (If she were a clairvoyant, I wonder why she couldn't find her barrel...?)

[source: wikipedia]

One last wackaddoodle daredevil. Bobby Leach was a circus performer and stuntman, who often bragged that anything Annie could do, he could do better. So in July of 1911, he took the plunge in his barrel, becoming the second person to succeed. He survived, but he also spent six months in the hospital recuperating from his many injuries, including two broken knees and a fractured jaw. And yet... and yet... he became quite famous, much much more so than poor Annie ever did. (Reminds me of a Virginia Wolfe quote: For most of history, anonymous was a woman.) At any rate, Leach made good money touring Canada, the U.S. and England, giving speeches about his death-defying plunge over the falls, showing off his barrel and posing for pictures. In a strange twist of fate, this self-aggrandizing stuntman and daredevil was killed, not by some death-defying act, but by a dastardly banana peel. While on a publicity tour in New Zealand in 1926, he slipped on said peel and injured his leg in the fall. The injury got infected, he got gangrene, and he succumbed two months later. Such irony. It wasn't the appeal of dangerous feats that did him in... it was a lowly peel.I'm sure there's a moral in that story somewhere.

He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life. [Muhammed Ali]

 I say staying alive is a pretty darned good accomplishment. 

Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity. [Martin Luther King, Jr.]

Agreed. Kinda makes me think of the state of world politics right now. And just as I choose not to dive into Niagara Falls, I also choose to steer clear of talking politics these days. Rather than plunge into the chaotic roar, I'll wear a slicker and stand at a nice safe distance with the other tourists, where the mist may reach me, but I won't drown in negativity. Because, you know, I wouldn't want to mess up my do.

                           Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Finding Joy in Success

Thought for the day: That some achieve great success is proof to all that others can achieve it, as well. [Abraham Lincoln]

[image courtesy of Morguefile]

Achieving a goal and reaching some level of success is worth celebrating, but not just when it's a personal achievement. I think we should cheer for everybody's successes. If, as John Donne said, No man is an island, and any man's death diminishes me, shouldn't it also be true that appreciation for the achievements of others can elevate us, as well?

That explains why so many of us get such a thrill out of watching athletes accomplish feats far beyond our own abilities, and why so many of us swell with joy when in the presence of great art. We marvel and maybe even feel a teensy bit of pride at these wondrous achievements of mind and body. There's even a word for it. Buddhists call it Mudita, which essentially means finding joy in the happiness and success of others.

Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible. [Albert Einstein]

Today, we're going to look at the impossible achievements of some amazing men. There's an old Swedish proverb that says, The best place to find a helping hand is at the end of your own arm. But... what if there is no arm...?

What some may consider a catastrophe, others consider a challenge.

[photo from Army Medical Museum]

Consider Civil War veteran Samuel Decker. While reloading his gun in 1862, it misfired and took off the lower part of both of his arms.

So what did he do?

By 1865, he'd designed and overseen the building of his own state-of-the-art prosthetic arms. With the help of his invention, he could dress himself, feed himself, write, and even pick up objects as small as a pin.

[photo from Army Medical Museum]

In 1867, he was invited to the Army Medical Museum, where these photographs were taken to document him and his ahead-of-his-time invention.

Think his story is amazing? Wait until you hear about a young man who currently lives in Andorra...

[photo from Mirror Online]

For as long as he can remember, David Aguilar, like many other children around the world, has loved playing with LEGO® blocks. But David is a little different from most of the other children... he was born with a profoundly deformed arm.

So what did he do?

At the age of nine, he made his first LEGO® prosthetic arm.

It wasn't as successful as he would've liked. Not strong enough.

But he didn't give up.

In recent months, this enterprising 19-year old young man, who dubs himself Hand Solo, built another much more sophisticated... and stronger... arm from LEGO® building blocks.

What the mind can conceive and  believe, and the heart desire, you can achieve. [Norman Vincent Peale]

                                                                          Wanta see?

                                                    Doesn't that make you feel... good?

Wait! That's not all! A gentleman named Carlos Arturo Torres invented a LEGO® kit for children to build their own totally cool prosthetic arms! He said the idea was to take away the stigma of being different and make the prosthetic fun for children to wear, and the kits he donated to some children in need of them were resoundingly successful. In 2016, his IKO Creative Prosthetic System won the Grand Prix at Netexpo, an innovation summit held in Paris, and the hope was to release this kit commercially sometime in 2017. Unfortunately, I haven't found any indication that this has happened as of yet. But maybe soon...?

So does this give you a whole new perspective on those annoying little blocks that hurt like Hades when you step on them in the middle of the night in your bare feet? Yep, there's a whole inspirational world of possibilities and millions of things I will never build with LEGO®, but let's rejoice at the things other people have accomplished with them and applaud every other wondrous human accomplishment. Why? Because life isn't a competition. We're all on the same team. It's mudita, baby.

There is strength in numbers. When the bricks stick together, great things can be accomplished. [Steve Klusmeyer]

                    And that's true, whether talking about building blocks... or people.

                           Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

That's Not Peanuts!

Thought for the day:  Don't take life too seriously and always remember: it is just a passing fad. [Mick Jagger]

[Mick Jagger 2013- wikipedia]

Whatever Jagger's opinions may be about life, it's probably a safe bet that he's gotten more than a little satisfaction over the fact that the Rolling Stones proved to be a whole lot more than a passing fad.

Nope, not gonna be writing about the Stones today, although I did amuse myself for a few minutes by jotting down a bunch of their song titles, and wondering how many of them I could slip into this post without anyone noticing. I dunno why. Just for kicks? A challenge? Because I'm listening to one of their CDs right now? Take your pick. But as fun as that idea might be, I'm going to let it loose for  now, so I'm free, instead, to shine a light on kicks, challenges and wagers, and some of the crazy things ordinary salt of the earth people are willing to do on the basis of a drawn card, a pair of tumbling dice, or a simple handshake.

[morguefile]

In some areas of our country, bizarre stunts are often predicated by a guy telling his buddies, Here, hold my beer. But sometimes, people... usually of the male persuasion... are simply daredevils looking for a blast of adrenaline. Okay, I get that. A whole team of wild horses couldn't convince me to pull any of those boneheaded antics, but still, I get it. Sorta.

Ormer Locklear- 1920 [wikipedia]

Then again, I wasn't around in the 1920s. Back then, thrill-seeking was practically a national pastime. No wonder the decade was dubbed the Roaring Twenties.

Last month, I did a post about a guy who, as the result of a drunken bet, stole an airplane and landed it on a New York street right in front of the bar where he left his buddies. (If you missed it, you can find it here.) But in the '20s, people got their kicks out of walking on the wings of airplanes... and hanging from them... and doing all kinds of other nutso stunts. And not usually because of a bet, either... because they wanted to do it! It was a fad, as was swallowing live goldfish, walking on tightropes, and sitting atop flagpoles for prolonged periods of time. I can understand sittin' on a fence, within a nice safe hopping-off distance from the ground, but a way-up-there flagpole? For days and days and days on end? Um, no thanks. Ditto the live fish-eating and the tightrope walking. Heck, I have no self-expectations about walking safely across a perfectly flat piece of land without tripping over an errant blade of grass, so no way I'd have any interest in trying to walk over a canyon on a lousy piece of wire...

[Herbert Hoover -wikipedia]

Anyhow, today's story is about another bet, although this one doesn't involve anything illegal, or particularly dangerous. A little on the wacky side, perhaps, but it was the '20s...

In 1928, a Texan named Bill Williams made a wager with his father-in-law over the upcoming presidential election. (There's no indication whether or not adult beverages were involved in said transaction, but come on... I think it's a fairly safe bet they were.)

Anyway, Bill bet that Al Smith would be elected, and his father-in-law picked Hoover. The stakes? If Smith won, the father-in-law would have to stand on his head in the middle of the Rio Hondo bridge for an HOUR. If Hoover won, Bill had to push a peanut over that same bridge with his NOSE... and keep on a-pushin' until he reached the next town... eleven miles away. It took the poor schnook nine days to complete his crazy peanut-pushing trip, at which time, I'm sure he had one mighty sore schnoz and was plenty torn and frayed at the end, but he did it. (His father-in-law must have had a heart of stone to make him follow through... I mean, couldn't he have ended the ordeal after, I dunno, five or six days... or better yet, after a few hours?)

[morguefile]

Never mind. Bill probably wouldn't have backed down from the challenge, even if his father-in-law offered, because evi-damned-dently, he wanted to do it. Know how I know? Because after meeting that challenge, he made a new peanut-pushing bet with his buddies. According to the Mysteries of the Museum website, the stakes were five hundred dollars, and some other accounts claim it was fifty bucks. Either amount of money wasn't exactly peanuts  in 1929. But all accounts agree on what Williams had to do to win the bet...

[Pikes Peak- wikipedia]

Most people are enthralled with Pikes Peak because of the glorious views. In fact, in 1893, the view inspired Katharine Lee Bates to write American the Beautiful.

Apparently, Bill Williams had other thoughts when he looked at the picturesque mountain. He thought it'd be a grand place to push a peanut with his nose, and he bet he could make the 22-mile trip all the way up Pikes Peak Highway to the top of the mountain in 22 days. This time, however, he made sure he was better prepared than he was for his initial peanut-pushing adventure. He brought extra peanuts, wore leather pads on his knees, and brought multiple pairs of shoes and canvas gloves. Oh yeah, he did a better job protecting his poor schnoz this time, too. He wore a face mask with a two-foot metal extension attached to his nose. Bottom line? He did it, and it took him 21 days, so he won the bet. He was the first Pikes Peak peanut pusher, but he wasn't the last. In 1963, a rock 'n' roll musician named Ulysses Baxter accomplished the same feat in 8 days, and in 1976, a college student pared the time down to an astonishing 4 days, 23 hours, and 47 minutes.

Quite a feat, eh? As for me, if I'm ever there, I'd rather use my God-given feet to hike up that road, (Oh, who am I trying to kid? I'd be in a CAR.) and if someone ever gave me a fistful of peanuts, my first inclination wouldn't be to push them anywhere, especially with my nose. Nope, give me peanuts, and they're going into that orifice under my nose. I'm jolly well  gonna eat 'em.

Well, it looks like I'm running out of time to be on the computer for now, so I'd better run. (Okay, walk slowly...) As for this post? It's all over now.

                      Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

P.S. In case you were counting, I used thirteen song titles in this post. (What??? So I fibbed a little. You can't always get what you want.) Oops... make that fourteen.

The most dangerous risk of all: the risk of spending your life not doing what you want to do on the bet you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later. [author unknown]

Wanta Bet?

Thought for the day:  Forget the lottery. Bet on yourself instead. [Brian Koslow]

[wikimedia]

I could be wrong, but I betcha when man evolved to the point of communication, one of the first things he did was make a wager with his buddy. They likely squabbled over things like who could throw a spear the farthest, who could catch the biggest fish or hunk of meat for dinner, or who could drag his mate around by the hair the longest before she did a little communicating of her own and bit him. The bets became a little more outlandish after man figured out the skill of fermentation. A competitive nature combined with booze... what could possibly go wrong?

[morguefile]

Here's to alcohol, the rose-colored glasses of life. [F.Scott Fitzgerald]

Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. [Ernest Hemingway]

Not all chemicals are bad. Without chemicals, such as hydrogen and oxygen, for example, there would be no way to make water, a vital ingredient in beer. [Dave Barry]

[amazon]

Heck, bar bets and tricks are so prevalent, you can find numerous books and videos that'll teach you how to con your friends out of drinks and money perform well enough to win those bets fair and square. Years ago, Smarticus did a lot of traveling for work, and when he returned home, he often showed me tricks he'd learned while raising a few beers with his co-workers. Not that I remember the details, but most of the bets involved things like cigarettes, matches, straws, money, glasses, and bottles. Clever. Silly. Harmless.

Other bar bets have been more consequential, like when Ernest Hemingway bet Howard Hawks he couldn't make a good movie from his worst novel. (He could... and he did. To Have and Have Not)

Or when Bennett Cerf bet a client that he couldn't write a book using fifty or less distinct words. (He could... and he did. That client, Theodore Geisel, used the pen name Dr. Seuss to write Green Eggs and Ham.)

But today, we aren't going to worry about the silly, the clever, or the consequential bar bets. Nope, we're gonna talk about an EPIC bar bet. Nobody could get away with pulling off something like this nowadays, but it's amazing that anyone ever pulled it off at all.

The someone who pulled it off was named Thomas Fitzpatrick, AKA Tommy Fitz, who is the gentleman on the left in this picture. He was a Marine during the Korean War, but this intrepid hard-drinking pilot made his infamous bar bet after the war.

[morguefile]

It happened in the wee hours of September 30, 1956, when this 26-year old was drinking with his buddies at a bar in Manhattan.

Fitzpatrick claimed he could fly from New Jersey to Manhattan in fifteen minutes. (Presumably in an airplane, although by that time, I'm sure he and his buddies were already flying pretty high without one.)

Someone dared to challenge his drunken claim. (gasp!)

BET ON!!! (hiccup)

[New York Times]

To prove his point, Fitzpatrick drove to Teterboro airfield in New Jersey, stole an airplane, and without benefit of lights or a radio, flew it back to Manhattan. He'd planned to land on the nearby George Washington High School athletic field, but the dastardly folks there didn't leave the lights on for him. (How inconsiderate!) So, not willing to give up and risk losing the bet, he flew down a narrow street between buildings, lampposts and parked vehicles, and at three o'clock in the morning, set it down on St. Nicholas Avenue near 191st Street... right in front of the bar. 

The New York Times called his feat a fine landing and a feat of aeronautics, and the owner of the airplane was so impressed, he didn't press charges. Fitzpatrick was fined a hundred bucks, and since the monetary amount of the bet was never disclosed, maybe he was lucky enough to have something left over after he covered the fine. Then again, maybe that isn't important. After all, he was already lucky enough to have survived the drunken flight. And that was that.

                                                               Or not.

[morguefile]

Two years later, on October 4, 1958, Fitzpatrick was drinking in another Manhattan bar with his buddies, when someone dared to challenge his drunken boast about stealing a plane and landing it in the street. (gasp!)

What choice did he have? He couldn't let some random dude call him a liar, could he?

No way!

BET ON!!! (hiccup)

[New York Times]

Once again, Fitz drove to Teterboro, stole an airplane and flew it back to Manhattan. This time, just before one o'clock in the morning, he landed on Amsterdam and 187th Street, just outside a Yeshiva building. 

Authorities weren't nearly as impressed with his aeronautical feat this time around. He spent the next six months in the pokey, where I presume the booze was kept well beyond his reach. (Otherwise, he might have made some sort of wager about breaking out of the place...)

Even though Mr. Fitzpatrick passed away in 2009, those who still remember this extrovert with a competitive streak as wide as the Mississippi think of him as a bit of a folk hero.

A drink was even created in his honor... alcoholic, of course.

This drink, called the Late Night Flight, consists of kahlua, vodka, Chambord, blackberries, egg white and simple syrup, and it's designed to represent the layered appearance of New York City's night sky. Pretty, isn't it? (The recipe is readily available online if you're interested.)

This whole story kinda makes me think. Nobody ever claimed that booze increases one's intelligence level or boosts one's decision-making skills, but just think: if Mr. Fitzpatrick could land an airplane under such challenging circumstances while he was inebriated, what in the world might he have been capable of if he'd been sober...?

Next Wednesday will be the IWSG day, meaning I'll be posting here on on Wednesday instead of Friday, but next week, in addition to the Wednesday post here, I'll also be guest posting on another very spiffy blog on Monday, Wednesday, AND Friday. That other blog is The Really Real Housewives of America, a fun and informative blog run by four lovely ladies. They frequently feature guest bloggers, and (woo HOO!) next week, it's my turn. (They must be turning into desperate housewives of America, eh?) Don't worry, I'll remind you on Monday. I hope you can drop by, because I'll be sharing some really smart-assed totally useless helpful tips on saving time and money. Hope to seeya then!

                          Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Leroy bet me I couldn't find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and I told him that was a stupid bet, because the rainbow was enough. [Rita Mae Brown]