It's Just a Name

Thought for the day: What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. [William Shakespeare]

[image courtesy of morguefile]

True, a name doesn't change the intrinsic nature of anything, but it sure can change our perception of it.

I mean... I'm sure Poopada Resorts is a perfectly... lovely place. I'm sure it smells like... a rose.

You can blame a newspaper article for this post. I'll tell you about the article in a little bit, but first I'm gonna take you on a journey through my convoluted mind, because the article got me to thinking about names, in general.

Did you ever have anyone or anything named after you? When I was a teenager, my younger cousin named all of his pets after me. The best one was a baby alligator named Susie. I'm pretty sure that thing hated me, because every time I went anywhere near it, it hissed at me.

[wikipedia]

However, contrary to what you might think, the impressive T. Rex Sue was NOT named for me. This largest, most extensive and well-preserved specimen, which was found in South Dakota in 1990, currently resides in the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. For sure, some of my ways are a tad outdated, I'm getting to be as old as dirt, and I like to think I'm fairly well preserved, but this huge bag o' bones is actually named after the scientist Sue Hendrickson, who discovered her.

Lots of geographical places are named after people. Countries, cities large and small, and all kinds of street names are meant to honor real people. Here in Atlanta, it seems like street names change more often than some people change their underwear. I guess our politicians want to honor the most popular or notable people of the day... and then do their best to abolish all remnants of them when they're no longer P.C. or considered worth remembering. (All on our dime, of course.)

[morguefile]

When I saw this sign, I couldn't help but wonder... was it called the old church when it was new? Or was it named New Church Lane up until the time its roof sprung its first leak?

I could write a whole post on funny town names. (Maybe some other time...) But here in the U.S., we have places like Boring, Oregon... Accident, Maryland... and Big Arm, Montana. (I always thought of it as Big Sky country... I had no idea they had a big arm, too!)

[image: Arthur Chapman]

And then there's... Chicken, Alaska. (There's also an Unalaska, Alaska... maybe it's a little warmer there?)

And Pee Pee, Ohio. (Think they have more port-a-potties than other cities?)

[image: Daniell Walquist Lynch]

And let's not forget Hell, Michigan. I could show you a mundane road marker welcoming you to Hell, but I thought this image was funnier. But now that I know there's a town in Michigan named Hell, I finally understand that oxymoronic-sounding saying, as cold as hell. And I also know that Hell does, indeed, freeze over, and quite often.










Okay, last one. I can't write something about odd town names without mentioning the two-town duo in Pennsylvania that always cracks me up. There's good ol' Intercourse, of course. Then... about fifteen minutes away lies the town of Blue Ball. (I kid you not!) Too funny.

[morguefile]

[unsplash]

A rather romantic... but essentially meaningless... thing one can do is name a star after someone... even yourself. The cost can be as low as twenty bucks and as high as a hundred, and what you'll get in return is a gen-u-ine certificate, by golly, as well as a celestial map pinpointing your namesake.


Now... finally, to that article I mentioned. It was about a naming competition of sorts.

[wikipedia]

In honor of Valentine's Day, a zoo in Sydney, Australia, invited people to name one of their brown snakes, a species that happens to be one of the most venomous snakes in the world. Doesn't sound very romantic to you, you say? Well, um, it wasn't meant to be.

The zoo advertised: Is your ex a snake? If so, now is your opportunity to cement their 'snaky status'... by naming a brown snake after them at WILD LIFE Sydney Zoo.

To enter, participants had to provide the ex's name and the reason (s)he deserved to be called a snake, along with a dollar donation. The winner was supposed to have been named on Valentine's Day, but I haven't been able to find said winner's name. (Maybe the zoo is still trying to sort through a mountain of entries?)

[morguefile]

A zoo in El Paso, Texas, did something similar for Valentine's Day, only they invited people to name cockroaches after their exes.

Better yet? The newly-named cockroaches were fed to meerkats and other critters during a live stream. HA!

Ahhh... romance, eh?


Okay, so today's path was a wee bit convoluted, but I hope you enjoyed it, anyway.

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

Keep the Change!

Thought for the day: In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being.We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirits. [Albert Schweitzer]

Yep, it's that time again. Welcome to this month's edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group meeting... er, virtual meeting, that is. Today, writers all over the world will be posting about the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the ins and outs... of writing. We'll celebrate... we'll complain... we'll commiserate and help rekindle those inner spirits. Whatever we need, this is the place to find it. Humble thanks and a jolly tip of the hat go to Alex Cavanaugh, our fearless ninja leader and the originator of this fine group, and to all of the other fine folks who've worked so hard to make it the huge success it is today. If you'd like to join (It's FREE!) or would like to read some of the other posts, please go HERE

On the writing front, progress has been glacially slow lately. Sales of my new book have been anemic; and reviews, practically non-existent. (sigh) Makes it a tad more difficult to stay focused and maintain enthusiasm about writing books two and three. But fear not. My enthusiasm will return. It always does. Now if only my damned muse would return from vacation...

Let's move right on to this month's question, shall we?

What are your ultimate writing goals, and how have they changed over time (if at all)?

When I was a senior in high school... you know, back in the Dark Ages... I contributed to and helped edit the school's literary magazine. After all these years, I still remember a poem my friend Bruce Troup wrote for it:

Change is never constant;

Constance never changes.

But all things change constantly.

Simple, yet profound, right? I guess that's why it's stuck with me for so long. 

Anyhow, to answer the question, of course my writing goals have changed. I used to think I was destined to be a great writer. Before I learned how to read, I made up the words and pretended to read books out loud. In second grade, a test we took to determine our potential career path (I kid you not!) said I'd be an author... and I believed it. In the summers, I concocted serialized fairy tales, and would sit in the shade of a tree and tell them to a group of neighborhood kids several afternoons a week. In fifth grade, filled with self-confidence, I entered an American Legion essay contest about Brotherhood...

[source: morguefile]

...and I LOST.

Talk about being one deflated puppy. Not even an Honorable Mention! I was crushed, because I'd worked so hard on that essay, and I thought it was so good...

PBBBBT! (That's the sound of my adolescent ego deflating.) Who was I trying to kid? I'd never be a writer.

Then my teacher, Mr. DeGrafft,  who was also one of the judges for the contest, took the time to tell me the judges loved my essay... but it didn't fit within the parameters of what the American Legion was looking for in a winning essay. They wanted rah-rah, Mom and apple pie feel-good declarations about our shared humanity and the inherent kindness of mankind.

 I, on the other hand, wrote about how people seemed to have an us vs. them mentality, so I thought the only thing that would lead to true brotherhood on our planet would be if we discovered a bigger adversary on another one.

Not exactly what they were looking for. But that wonderful teacher... that kind caring man...  rekindled my inner spirit by telling me why my essay didn't do well. He had so much confidence in me, he helped restore some of my confidence in myself. For that, I will always be grateful.

Since then, I've always been involved with some kind of writing, and like everyone else, my confidence levels ebb and flow. (Where's Mr. DeGrafft when ya need him?) Things might be at the ebb level now, but I'm pretty sure the drive will roll back in any day now...

So what's changed? I no longer believe I'm ever going to be a great writer. Nor do I dream about Pulitzer prizes and cheering crowds waiting for me at book signings. I don't expect to be accepted in every anthology I submit to, and I don't expect every story I send to a magazine to be published. Whether or not I ever had any innate talent is immaterial. I'm endlessly grateful for those teachers who instilled confidence in my writing and editing ability, but since I've gotten older, I've adjusted the bar to a more realistic level.

I write because I love to write, and I still love to spin a story. Do I still get discouraged? Sure, I do. But I'm a big girl now, (in more ways than one...) and I don't need affirmation and support like I did as a kid. (But I'd still like it every once in a while...)

That's why reviews matter so much to me. At their best, they show me that I've connected with another human being... and THAT is my overwhelming goal. When I feel a little low, I re-read some of the fantabulous reviews for Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade, and I look at some of the wonderful emails readers have sent me...

and I smile with gratitude. Life is good... even if no alien forces have united us yet.

                                 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]

Once More Around the Track

Thought for the day:  Know how the burglar got into the house? Intru-der window.

Not our house, but it DOES look cozy...

Nobody broke into our house this week, but  stuff crawled in the window, dragged me away from the computer, and made me (gasp!) do other things. So no new post for today. But, hey, come on in, anyway. (You can even use the door.)

What we're gonna do is sit back and relax with an oldie-but-goodie post, first published in 2011 as Vroom! Vroom! Since Smarticus and I are going to an Italian car show tomorrow... and (woo HOO!) meeting up with visiting blogger pal Mr. Charleston there... I figured a little fun something-something having to do with cars would be appropriate. I hope you enjoy it.

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

Thought for the day: Hey, I'm not old, baby ... I'm classic.

Hot Rod? Yeah ... sleek, classy ... I like it!

Since way back before we were married, my husband called me Hot Rod. Not sure why. Was it my classy chassis? My shiny good looks? Surely, it wasn't my rumbling exhaust system, because I never did that around him until after we were married. And he only wished I was racy ... or fast. 

Maybe it was just because ... he liked me? He sure as heck liked cars. Especially hot rods. Still does, because he's a real deal gearhead. Which means, since we were teenagers, he's been a skilled shade tree mechanic who can pretty much rebuild an engine with his eyes closed and both hands tied behind his back. Slight exaggeration, but not by much.

Now, as I've explained a few times before,  I come from a long line of wanderers ... y'know, people who possess an inordinate ability to get lost. When we were dating, Smarticus would entertain himself for hours by driving somewhere, and then letting me direct him home from the middle of that God-only-knows-where nowhere. So, I suppose it's somewhat understandable that my father was, shall we say, dubious when, in the fall of 1968,  I told him my favorite gearhead and I were going to enter a road rally. With him behind the wheel, and ME (har-de-har-har) as the navigator.

This is the car he drove back then. Big Red, we called her. A 1961 Chevy Impala. Not exactly the kind of car one associates with a road rally, is it?

At registration, each team received multiple pages of instructions. In code. Kinda. It might say something like 2 L after circle S. That meant to take the second left turn, and the circle S turned out to be a monogrammed screen door on one of the houses at the side of the road. Tricky, huh?

We ran into a teensy bit of trouble with one of the directions. It said RT. Right turn, right? That's what I thought, too. But it wasn't. It meant Right AT THE T. So we lost some time getting back on course. Not to worry. We (ahem) made it up quite handily. When we flew over a covered bridge, we pulled a regular yee-HA General Lee kinda maneuver. When Big Red came back to earth, I was sitting under the steering wheel. On his lap. Nice, but not terribly conducive to good driving. (He installed seat belts shortly after that.)





                                                                          Bottom line?

First Place Driver!!!

And if you can believe it, this direction-impaired, can't fold, let alone read a map person?

Holy moly! I won first place, too!!!!

After we moved to Georgia and were raising a family, he was too busy being an engineer at the foreskin of technology, (his words, not mine) to spend much time playing with cars. However, in the seventies, he and a buddy did build an econorail. You know ... a dragster?

That's ME sitting in there. Wow! It felt awesome.

Here's a better look at the champion window-rattler. The only sad thing is, after all the work it took to build her, they never got to race her. Not even once. Turned out the track didn't have proper insurance to cover that class vehicle back then, so they ended up selling her. Bummer!






Now, lo and behold, my happily retired better half is once again enjoying life as a gearhead. His three project cars are a gorgeous banana cream El Camino with a black racing stripe, a Corvette,  and my personal favorite, the Rat Rod:

1930 Model A

He put the original Model A body on an S-10 chassis, which facilitated a lot of modern safety features. How do you like that1958 Mercedes grill? We found it at a car show/swap meet when we went to Florida.

Another shot of his baby.

He took her out for a quick test run last week, and couldn't believe how FAST that girl can go. There's a long way to go before she's finished, but she is gonna be one awesome rat rod.

Hmmm, know what? He hasn't called me Hot Rod for quite a while. Shoot, I dunno,  maybe he oughta start calling me Rat Rod, instead.  After all, I may not have much rust, but I could use some extensive body work. And a good paint job. (But I still have plenty of VROOM under my hood!)

Oh, yeah. There IS a moral to my road rally story, if you think about it:

 With the  proper drive(r), you CAN overcome your weaknesses ... and you CAN win.

Still together, after all these years.

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


 **************************

A quick update. The rat rod looks even better now than she did two years ago... me? Not so much.

The Art of Gardening

Thought for the day:  Gardens have a way of bringing people together, drawing them from their homes.  [Clare Ansberry]

The Atlanta Botanical Gardens has been drawing a lot of people from their homes lately, and this past weekend, Smarticus and I joined them.

Formal paths through gorgeous gardens? Yep. A raised canopy path through the trees? Affirmative. Also, pond and desert gardens, a children's garden, and multiple greenhouses filled with exotic plants. Lots and lots of stuff to see. But do ya wanta see what's been drawing so many people to the gardens?

See something a tad unusual at the end of that path at the left? That's the Earth Goddess. Ever hear of mosaiculture? This blend of art and horticulture first bloomed (Sorry, couldn't resist.) in Europe as early as the sixteenth century, and has since grown popular all over Europe and North America.

There. See her better now? Talk about statuesque. She's twenty-five feet tall.

Mosaiculture framework is constructed of welded pencil and sheet steel, stuffed with growing medium, and fitted with an internal irrigation system. The plants are plugged into pockets of a special fabric that's stretched over the frame, and it takes several months of growth to achieve the desired sculpture. The exhibit in Atlanta showcases nineteen sculptures, and contains more than one hundred thousand plants.

Atlanta's exhibit, dubbed Imaginary Worlds, was made possible by the International Mosaiculture of Montreal, a nonprofit organization that's staged numerous shows around the world to highlight this centuries-old form of  3-D gardening. Lucky us, this show in Atlanta is the first major exhibition of this kind in the United States. Wanta see more?

Two cobras. Aren't they neat?

Here's a closer look at one of the cobra heads.

And one from the rear. One snake's body stretched out along the ground, and the other's was coiled, but they both featured similar designs.

A pair of butterflies.

A unicorn!

Isn't this shaggy dog adorable?

What's an imaginary world without an ogre? This one has a hole clear through his head, so kids can climb into one ear and out the other.

How about a couple dancing fish?

There were several smiling berries. I was only gonna show you this one, but I've gotta show you one other because...

... he reminds me of the Little Rascals' Alfalfa. Check out that center part. All he's missing is a giant cowlick.

Here's three of the rabbits, but there were quite a few more of them. Several frogs, too.

But I think you've got the idea. There was SO much stuff to see there, but rather than show or tell you any more about that, I'd rather share something else with you.

The International Mosaiculture of Montreal designed and created all of these sculptures before shipping them to Atlanta in fifteen temperature-controlled tractor trailer trucks. Pretty cool, huh? (Literally.) Also, since this non-profit took root in 1998, it has hosted an international mosaiculture competition each year, which is going on right now. This year's entrants will be on display at the Montreal Botanical Gardens from now until the end of September. All I can say is WOW! Check 'em out!

A garden isn't meant to be useful. It's for joy.  [Rumer Godden]

Gardening requires lots of water— most of it in the form of perspiration.  [Lou Erickson]

Gardens aren't made by singing, "Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade.  [Rudyard Kipling]

                                                 So how does your garden grow?

                                 Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
                                            May all your weeds be wildflowers.

P.S. In case you missed it, the lovely Janie Junebug conducted an interview with me on her blog yesterday, and will be doing a review of Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade tomorrow. Why dontcha stop by? If you're on the fence about whether or not you wanta read my novel... maybe she'll give you a little push. (Very gently, though, I'm sure.)