Author: Bev

Do you always get what you pay for?  Sometimes.

When my favorite off-brand of fig bars was unavailable, my husband generously sprung for the significantly more expensive and familiar name brand.  The texture was all wrong to my taste and they just didn’t cut it.

As to clothing, a hundred percent cotton is the same thing whether the label says Calvin Klein, Michael Kors, or no known name.  Cashmere is cashmere whether you purchased it at Goodwill or Saks Fifth Avenue.  In this instance you may have paid more than you received by buying a “name,” whether on a label or on a marquee.

Sometimes a generic or an “off-brand” is just right.  But in some circumstances a brand name product is truly the better product.  We all have our preferences, none is right nor wrong, just choices we make.

Whether it’s Heinz, Hunts, or Clover Valley, is ketchup, ketchup, or maybe catsup?  Some would argue, not so much; others will go for whatever is cheapest; yet others will aim to impress you and me by paying more for the name.

One can buy Michael Kors clothing at one of his flagship stores in New York, London, Paris, or many other places in the world.  Then again, you can buy his label in most department stores, outlets, Ross, T J Maxx, or find a gem at Goodwill.

Are you getting what you paid for?  Perhaps it’s in the eye of the beholder.

What about services?  Sometimes the tip for a restaurant server is automatically calculated in the bill.  What if the server was disinterested, inefficient, rude, or subpar?  In that case you didn’t get what you paid for.

I noticed recently with two different shipping companies that when there were “known issues” with their service, I didn’t get a break in the fees.  I pay the same thing whether the service flows smoothly as advertised or if there are significant issues with the service.

I did not get what I paid for, and their trite, “we apologize for the inconvenience,” just didn’t relieve my headache or soothe my frayed nerves.  I did get a laugh at their “workaround” which they sent to me while they continue to work on that “known issue.”

The problem, you see, was with a label receipt.  In some cases, a receipt is important.  But I was told in the workaround, to “just don’t print the receipt.”  “Uh, the receipt is vital to our record-keeping, so I’ll just continue to hand write the number on it until you fix the glitch, sometime between tomorrow and the fifth of never.”  “Okay.”

The other company’s workaround was also amusing.  It resembled the universal, high-tech fix, which is, “unplug it and plug it back in.”  I was told to enter a fake address at the beginning of the form, fill in the remainder of the form but before confirming the entry, go back and change the address to the International one where the shipment was to be sent.

It worked.  Isn’t life crazy, fun, and occasionally mind-numbingly absurd?

Recently while cleaning up after a party, and having to throw out a few plastic bowls, my compatriot said, “well, I’ve found with Dollar Tree items, I usually use them two or three times before I have to throw them out.”  I’d say for a dollar-twenty-five, a few good uses, and occasionally well beyond that, is getting what we paid for. 

The grapes I paid two dollars a pound more for at one store than the cheaper ones at another store, turned out to be awful.  As I dumped them into the compost, I muttered “there goes six dollars down the tubes.”  I usually counter my negative thoughts with something like, “oh well, I’ve wasted six dollars on worse things.”

On the other hand, there have been times when I’ve paid a few dollars extra for something and it did not disappoint.  But then we have watermelons and cantaloupe.  Aren’t they just a crap-shoot?

We will think we purchased a gem that has the nice wide stripes, is round, not oblong, bears the brown/yellow stain from the ground where the vine laid its produce, and get it home, cut into it and it’s pithy, or anemic pink, or bright red close to rotten.  Oh my, “that’s five dollars towards the wildlife fund.”

One time many years ago, my friend Barb and I drove across country on a youthful “walkabout” or discovery tour, whatever you want to call it.  I recall that somewhere in the mountains out west, or was it the desert, anyway we had a lengthy conversation about the distinguishing merits of Almond Joy and Mounds candy bars, from the “sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t” fame.  Well, let me conclude this not so lengthy tome with a similar, “sometimes you get what you pay for, sometimes you don’t.” 

Thank you for the trees

The breeze

And my knees.

I’m an outdoor fitness walker.  I usually try to walk adjacent to some woods but not in them in summer.  I’m a bit too susceptible to leaf poisons so I stick to a path or pavement this time of the year.  But I’ve got to have some trees very nearby.

I’m not a fan, pun intended, of Pennsylvania’s summer humidity.  I respond badly to thick, still, moist air that sticks to your body like cling-wrap.  It’s not a happy place, for me.  So, when a nice breeze kicks up during my warm weather walks, it’s a cause to raise my arms in a Hallelujah gesture of relief, praise and delight.

My knees, containing a goodly amount of arthritis now for over a decade, are usually happy during my fitness walks.  But once in a while, arthritis, likes to make its presence known.  So, I’m grateful for the strong ligaments and supportive muscles surrounding my knees, oh, and for Tylenol and Ibuprofen.

 

Thank you for the bees

The freeze

And the tease.

My husband has raised honeybees off and on for nearly forty years and we value these critters for their multi-purposeful endeavors to support vegetation worldwide.  I’ve been stung by them, with my classic grotesque reaction, a few times over the years but in all fairness, it was because I intruded into their space, not because of predatory meanness.

It’s vital to the growing season that we have a freeze.  Sometimes, our Pennsylvania freezes come at what we perceive as inopportune times, but without a freeze, there would be – well, no growth, either.

Both Spring and Fall or Autumn are the tease-seasons.  We get a glimpse of Summer; every Spring and we see what Winter might be like in the Autumn as well as a reminder of summer warmth.  I wouldn’t have it any other way that Pennsylvania experiences all four of the ever-changing seasons.  But those tease-seasons are the best.

 

Thank you for the ease

The sneeze

Excuse me please.

Isn’t it awesome once in a while to take a breather and experience some ease?  I think a sneeze is a breather of sorts, because it clears your head of the stuffed-up accumulation of toxins that have piled up in there.  Gesundheit and God Bless You.

 

Thank you for the keys

Remedies for fleas

And the vast, open seas.

I’m grateful for the keys that lock and unlike private spaces, secret codes, and the mysteries of the world and the heavens.  Oh, but finding your keys, that’s another story altogether.

Even if it takes a comb and a container of soapy water, a rather simple yet effective procedure, we can usually get rid of those jumping-jacks from our pets, sooner or later.

As to the seas, isn’t it wonderful that since “everybody’s lookin for somethin…we can travel the world and the seven seas” along with Annie Lennox, and hopefully find, that something that we need, to fulfill our “Sweet Dreams.”

 

Thank you for the she’s

The he’s

All of these.

I’m cool with the different genders.  We aren’t the same but complimentary.  You’re good at this, I’m good at that.  We go together, birds of a feather, as I reference The Pointer Sisters yet again, from “We are fam-i-ly.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you for lilies

Peas

And shopping sprees.

I couldn’t be too grateful for lilies, my favorite flower.  And just like doves, the birds of peace and partnership, lilies are referenced in the Bible as representative of the tenderest of vegetation that God does not neglect in his care, how much more does he care for us mere mortals.

Have you ever eaten fresh, raw peas from the pod?  You’re missing out if you haven’t.  Usually sweet and delicious.

What more can be said about shopping sprees.  I’m far from a shopaholic, but I do love a day once in a blue moon to “go get what I want” at a favorite store like Ross, or don’t even mention Amazon….

 

Thank you for The Smokies

The Rockies

And The Pyrenees.

I am a lover of mountains.  Any of them, all of them will do.  Driving along mountain passes is my happy place; walking in them is “Almost Heaven,” thank you John Denver.

Metaphorically I’ve climbed a lot of mountains and made it to the top.  It’s a nice view.

 

Thank you for all of these

And please

Read this at ease.

I wrote this eclectic and random poem during a walk one day.  It just sort of spewed from my soul, so it’s not even close to professionally crafted.  But, as with many of my dreams, I recorded this poem on my phone’s notepad; otherwise, these things are too fleeting to capture.

There is so very much that we can complain about, bombarding us each moment of our lives – and I confess I do enough complaining for the both of us.  I wanted in this column to share a collection of things I’ve been thankful for.  Write your own poem of thanksgiving; you might be surprised how long your tome will be.

Many folks of a certain age who think we’re still young but who are we kidding, played with things called trolls when we were kids.  Whoa baby, times have changed.  Trolls today are mean-spirited bullies who verbally and wholly rip to pieces those with whom they disagree.

Trolls in the 1960s were small hand-sized dolls, if you will, that had wild, “Don King hair” of colors such as fuchsia, canary yellow, blue or green.  They were creatures otherworldly but benign to our childlike minds and hearts.  They were play things.

There may be one or more troll dolls in a holding pattern somewhere in the crevices of our attic or I may have thrown them away in my more zealous Christian period.  In the Scandinavian folk stories of long centuries passed, the trolls of legend, were quarrelsome, antisocial, and slow-witted creatures.

Today’s trolls, and there are aplenty in the world of the Internet and beyond, are especially quarrelsome, human beings.  Their entire existence is based on malicious intent to inflame a reaction from their many targets.

If you have a weakness, and you feel strongly about something, anything, you’re likely to be baited by a troll.  Trolls viciously attack people personally just because they disagree with them.

The Internet has given every ordinary citizen the opportunity to express his or her opinion in increasingly harsh terms and nasty language.  And we had a President, like him or not, who bluntly disparaged everyone with whom he disagreed.  This President does the same, really, but in a slightly different style.  This is now.

Some of the first targets of Internet trolls, way back in the 90s were Christians.  Imagine that.  The Bible says something about Christians being targeted for persecution and voila, here we are, prime bait for trolls.

Why bait Christians?  Many have strong, uncompromising beliefs.  And there are so many kinds of Christians with a myriad of specific beliefs that make this group enticingly ripe for the spoils of Internet-anonymous, vindictive trolls.

I’ve heard it said about Judaism, that there are practicing Jews and there are ethnic Jews or folks who are of Jewish heritage but do not practice Judaism, the religion.  But I’ve not heard the same about Christianity.

However, there are Christians who identify as Christian because of family or ancestral tradition.  Or, maybe historically, these guys associate with Christianity as their religion, but they rarely practice it except on religious holidays and tragedies or near-tragedies, when prayer is emergent.

The Bible, an historical document, sacred to millions, and which references three historical religions: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, makes its “hermeneutics,” the science of interpretation, ripe for trolls. Some Christians are militant political warriors and will put up a fight in defense of Scripture.  This is all delightful fodder for trolls.

Do you know that one definition of evil is, intent to harm or at the least, ambivalence toward harm done?  Trolls of any ilk, however, are so extremely self-centered that they don’t consider their assaults on another’s emotional or spiritual well-being, to be wrong, or evil.  “What’s wrong with making a point,” they ask.

Sadly, because of the “you bully because you’ve been bullied” circle of life, there are Christian trolls out there on the world wide web, alongside the others who troll.  Christians are not immune to intentionally perpetrating unkindness toward other Christians not of their kind, denomination, sect, worship-style, church attendance, shared political favorites, or interpretation of the Bible.  Unbelievers are considered okay fodder for Christian trolls because they’re not “one of us.”

Trolls are otherwise called, “malignant narcissists,” or in plain speech, self-involved bullies who often hide behind the shield of Internet anonymity.  They just don’t care who they harm. It’s a “me first, you thirst” attitude.

I believe that most Christians don’t intend to offend when they act out their spiritual faith.  But I also think that some of us just offend some people by being who we are.

Internet trolls, however fully intend to offend the folks they target for offense.  Who does that?  I thought such behavior was reserved for sociopaths or psychopaths.  But if you follow any thread of conversation or comment on the Internet, you’ll encounter a troll or two with their daggers out.

Perhaps folks like this just don’t have enough to do.  If you have the time, or maybe I should say, take the time, to make ignorant comments about random people on the Internet, seriously, you need something productive to do with your time.

If you’ve ever looked at a well-developed depiction of a family tree you will have observed that it’s loaded with branches.  From the main trunk, large branches extend outward with bunches of branches growing out of other bunches of branches.

When I think about Christians, “the Family of God,” I’m reminded of The Pointer Sisters song, “we are fam-i-ly, I got all my sisters with me…we’re together…birds of a feather….”  Christians are a family with all kinds of brothers and sisters, half-sisters and step-brothers, all stemming from the same root system and trunk.

Many families don’t see eye to eye on everything, but most of us acknowledge our connectedness. We’re kin, and there is a history and familiarity that reminds us that we’re related through a similar ancestor.  Kinship garners respect, if not agreement.

You’ve heard the saying that you can’t pick your family.  And honestly, we can’t expect to agree with the whole “family of man,” or even accept them.  But maybe we should start acting like kin, just the same.

There’s something to be said for the concept of “live and let live,” and to just shut up.  How about instead of trolling the folks we don’t see eye to eye with, we scroll on past and adopt the benign concept of, “no comment.”

 

I was pondering getting rid of a candy dish, full yet of sugar-free hard candies, that belonged to my mother.  She passed away in 1999.

I’m not particularly fond of that dish, which has been housed in the back of my China cabinet for over twenty years.  I’m doing a bit of a clean-out, thus the question of whether to keep or donate that dish.

That multi-colored, patterned dish with a lid is among other items such as candle holders that serve only as place holders in the cabinet.  It’s not beloved, and or usable like other items that are kept in one of the two built-in China cabinets in our dining room.

The rules of simple living and decluttering your life include: don’t bring a new item into your house unless you first sell, donate or throw away at least one item that you already possess.  This simple rule helps keep your clutter to a minimum, if you can do it.

We won’t discuss my husband here, too much.  But I will say that he has been forbidden to purchase another colored t-shirt, either short or long sleeved.  Every color and shade of shirt is presently represented, and some color-duplicates are stuffed into our small closet and chest of drawers.  One more t-shirt and he will have slipped right over the precipice into hoarding, and I’m determined to save him from the embarrassment of such a stigma.

Now, back to myself and mom’s candy dish.  I love glassware.  Maybe it stems from a diet trick I adopted years ago, to eat small portions from a pretty plate, drink tea from a beautiful cup and juice from a delicate wine glass.  It made me slow down and eat deliberately and savor that cup of tea or drink of juice, even more because the delivery method was thoughtful and nice.

So, I’m inclined toward the glassware section of every shop, or store that I enter.  But our house is small, and storage is limited.  For this I’m grateful, that our fateful forever-home purchase all those years ago saves me from a potential overindulgence in the glassware that I crave.

About that candy dish, I asked myself silently if I would be disloyal to mom’s memory if I donate that dish to charity.  Then I thought of my friend who recently lost her mother and is presently sifting through her things.  Her brother declared her utterly unsentimental as she decided to get rid of this and that item, found among the myriads of unused stuff that her mom squirreled away for way too long.

I took an honest look at my own temperament and determined that I too am unsentimental.  Realistic and practical, utilitarian and commonsensical suit my style.  I’ve been known to say “there’s not a romantic bone in my body.”  This I inherited from my mom.  LOL was not her style nor is it mine although I do laugh out loud on the rare occasion.

Understand this, the fact that we rarely laugh raucously, doesn’t mean we aren’t happy.  We get amused by things and our joy may be unbounded.  But it’s an introvert thing, that outward expression of the multitude of internal material that we possess, is not gonna happen often.

I have both negative and positive memories of my mom.  I particularly and fondly remember her for the uncontrollable giggles we shared at inappropriate times and places; oh, and her literacy, which I value above rubies, her birth stone.  On the other hand, I don’t thank her for the couple of OCD traits that she modeled and which threaten to overflow from my own brain on occasion.

But these are memories not things.  I realize that things are symbols of memories but the memories stand alone and only take up space in our heads, not our closets.  “Skeletons in closets” comes to mind, though.

About that candy dish, I think, my practical, utilitarian self has decided to donate it.  Maybe someone will buy it from the charity shop and love it, treasuring it as their own.  Clearly my memories of mom are intact and do not threaten to leave me because that candy dish no longer takes up space in the back of my China cabinet. 

I confess, however, that the decision to throw away the candy from the dish, tugged a tad at my heartstrings.  So, I guess there must be a shred of sentimentality in my temperament, after all. 

Are you sentimental?  If so, are your feelings of nostalgia connected to a disposition to save things, hold on to things, feel uneasy letting things go, and thus accumulating too many things?

I don’t know, give it some thought.  Hearts and flowers, chocolates and hugs y’all, if you need them.

 

“Truth is, you had a purpose before anyone had an opinion.  Finish your mission.”  This quote is one of those to which I have responded on Facebook.  Consequently, they keep coming via cookies or some such tracking software which identifies the type of media you follow on social media or the internet in general.

Don’t get me wrong, if I win something, I’m happy, but given my wholehearted agreement with the opening quote in this column, if I lose, I’m also happy.  These days I do most things because I love doing them or at the very least because I want to do them, not because people respond positively when I do them.

In the spirit of Sally Field’s once famous utterance at winning an award, “you like me, you really like me;” I’m genuinely grateful when someone responds positively to my work, whether it’s mowing the lawn, planting a flower, producing an awesome meal or cake, cookie or salad, writing a funny or enlightening article, or cleaning up something that was once dingy or sad.  Although your positive response is a welcome and lovely bonus, I’m doing this because it’s what I do, even an expression of who I am?

Good, better, or best, I’m delighted to have been in the running of any race.  In fact, I awoke this day thinking of the word, “good” and if it’s one of those that we had to “conjugate” in high school English class.  I recall analyzing words like good, better, best and I think conjugation goes something like that.

I don’t believe I have to expend the mental energy to verify if good is one of those words, but in the context of my thoughts here, the concept of “best of the best,” is just another form of good and better.  You’ve heard someone say, “I’m good,” when responding to your asking them to do something and they’d just as soon not?

Well, I’m good, and I mean it in the best possible way.  It would feel good to be voted the best, I won’t deny.  It feels nice to be admired for your abilities, your looks, a job well done, and to be paid, which is one way of telling you you’re good.

Google informs me that “both good and well change to better and best in their comparative and superlative forms.  Use the comparative form – better – when comparing two items.  Use the superlative form – best – when comparing three or more items.”  So, you’re only considered best when you’re better than three or more other good people.  Hmm.

I learned many years ago to try really hard not to compare myself to others because comparison can be a root of jealousy, self-blame, and/or conceit; none of which are pretty.  So, when I want to be the best at something, I try only to compare myself to my former self.  Am I the best that I can be?  And, just as importantly, are you the best that you can be?

So, democracy and the idea of voting for your favorite – really a popularity contest, rankles me just a little bit.  I wonder, is the most popular one, the best one?  Doesn’t popularity wax and wane?  Popularity isn’t solid, in my view.  It’s fickle.

My mom once called me fickle and I was highly insulted.  I think it was in relation somehow to being late for church when my husband and I had to drive twenty miles compared to her one-mile trek.  Mom, really?

So, the fickleness of popularity and democracy, neither sit well with me.  Now, Republic, which America is supposed to represent, is another story.  Republics are based on the rule of law or constitution which theoretically protects minorities, the unpopular ones who might be trampled by the popular ones in a society.

If you’re popular, you probably don’t notice injustice quite as much as those of us who have to fight through the massive crowd to get noticed.  Imagine being a minority, it’s like being an eternally short person in a sea of giants, jumping up to get a glimpse now and then of what’s out there.

I’m competitive, but with myself.  I push myself to be better.  But I’m no salesperson and I don’t take to self-promotion like a duck to water.

So, good, better, or best, pat yourself on the back for running the race, putting in an effort, and doing your best.  I’m good if you’re good.  In fact, whether you’re voted for or not voted for, popular or unpopular, you’re really the best.

It seems that one person’s joy is another’s allergy.  In fact, I once marveled out loud at what I called the heavenly aroma of Russian Olive trees, or was it Honeysuckle, while walking the woods nearby.

I thought it was a benign statement until a friend reminded me that it couldn’t possibly be a heavenly aroma to those massively allergic to it.  Point taken.  I won’t debate the theology of what might constitute a heavenly aroma and/or whether allergies could exist in the spiritual place called heaven.  To me, that aroma was something indescribably beautiful.

I suppose if you’re allergic to peanuts, you couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of smelling them roasting, or eat them in trail mix, or mixed with caramel in brittle or a candy bar.  If perfume is too much for your respiratory system to tolerate, it’s a pity that you can’t pamper yourself with the feeling of luxury and allure that a pleasing perfume affords.

We still own cats even though my husband has been allergic to them his whole life.  He sneezes once in a while.  I’m potentially allergic to dust and, well, you know where I stand on dust.  It happens, daily, allergic or not.

If there’s an allergy season, quite possibly it’s now, late Spring.  Pollen and pollinators are stirred up and frenzied to get their jobs done, and the wind is helping them along.  Hay fever was one of the first allergic reactions identified, thusly naming the respiratory ailment so many millions of us abide, or are threatened by, depending upon their severity.

Some of us are unfazed by allergy season since indoor allergens are just as fiercely attacking our respiratory systems as outdoor ones. And if you’re allergic to dust mites like me, hello OCD because you are what some have called “shit out of luck,” because dust is everywhere.

Just like wind, air circulation, aromas, a vast variety of foods, and furry friends, one will find something to sneeze at, cough over, weep, develop a morning sore throat, tear over and run for the tissue box in a mild or miserly reaction to some such substance either man made or natural.  When did allergic reactions to this, that, and the other thing, become so prevalent?

I’ve been allergic to penicillin since infancy.  I developed hives.  But, aside from that allergy, I was free of seasonal allergies until the last few years and with each birthday they increase in their nuisance-quotient.  Both my spouse and I have been fortunate that our allergies are for the most part an inconvenience and we’ve ignored them.

I was advised in early adulthood by a medical professional not to test the strength of my penicillin allergy as it may surprise me with an accelerated and dangerous reaction, akin to anaphylaxis, compared to the hives of childhood.  I wonder what’s with the acceleration of allergic reactions as we age.

I never used to be sensitive to dust or pollen but nowadays I sneeze, cough, and wheeze through the days, spring, summer, fall, and winter.  I’m thankful, for me it’s not severe and just a nuisance, rarely requiring any medical assistance, just a passing, “God bless you,” or “gesundheit,” which never hurt anybody.  And, during COVID, a stray look of “stay away from me,” occurred when clearing my throat behind my mask.

It is my understanding that allergies begin with a genetic predisposition combined with exposure, over time.  So, it makes sense that the “over time” bit, makes us more allergic to more substances as we age.

From peanuts to perfume, strange and unexplained allergies have descended upon the world along with climate change and wokeness.  I wonder which came first, the chicken or the egg.

I was thinking about the children’s book, “The House that Jack Built,” that always reminds me of my big brother of the same name and profession.  The book flows in a clever verse that I can’t duplicate here, not being that clever.

But, in the context of this tome, it goes a little like this: thanks to the bees which pollinate the flowers, growing on the plants, and which make the honey that can help us through these lovely sneezy breezy days of Spring.  Anyway, gesundheit and God bless you, one and all. 

I’d been wanting to visit French Canada for years, decades even.  We, by which I mean my husband, partner, and best friend, one of the trifectas of marriage, and I, got serious about going to Quebec a few years ago.  Then Covid hit and the northern border closed, along with much of the world.

But we finally made it a road trip in recent weeks.  Can you say water?

I won’t be popular in confessing that I’m not a fan of water in the form of rivers, oceans, lakes and such.  But our journey was afloat in such like.

If it wasn’t the finger lakes and their wine grapes, it was the St Lawrence River that might as well be a sea, the ocean-like Lake Champlain, Eagle Lake, featuring nest after nest atop power poles of said national bird, and what seemed minor lake after lake, it was one big marsh after this water hole or that, for hundreds of miles from north to south through Pennsylvania to New York, Vermont, Ontario to Quebec.  If you think that was a mouthful, take a big gulp of water and let’s move on.

I can appreciate waterways, and have learned as I age to value the stuff as my beverage of choice.  But I stop at the border of loving the stuff “en mass,” so to speak.

It’s not so much a clinical fear of water because I don’t consciously dread facing death by drowning, but I can’t say I’m keen to sit, stoop, walk or live in the confines of a vessel stranded on top of nothing but water.  She shivers me timbers a bit.

I’ve crossed the Atlantic on two ocean liners, over and back, tackling the “big pond.”  I’ve ridden paddle boats on what was Lakemont.  The speed ferry with me and mine aboard, hovering atop the English Channel from Dover, England, to Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, was fine, since, true to its name, was quick.

My husband has conned me into rafting on the river and got me into a row boat.  I cruised the Hudson River and drove across it via a bridge or two.

Speaking of bridges, not so fond of them either, not surprisingly.  There was the swinging bridge of my youth, reminiscent of “Little House on the Prairie,” walking to church from Sunnyside to Eichelbergertown and the metal bridge with the big rectangular holes just about the size of a little child’s foot where I once lost a shoe into Yellow Creek below, between Sunnyside and Hopewell.  I’ve had up close and personal experiences with bridges.  Not a fan, but I’ve crossed a few and lived to tell the tale.

I’ve been known to claim that I can swim enough to save my life.  I took the obligatory swimming lessons as a child and hated every second of it.  “Swims like a fish,” could never be used to describe me.  And my head under water feels anomalous to life as I know it.

My version of the endeavor called swimming is more like a cross between doggy paddling with my head well out of the water, partially because I have hair that takes issue with water and because I breathe air with lungs not gills.  Flailing to beat the band, while floating, finishes the flourish with which I swim.  This is all in the attempt to propel myself forward and backwards, imitating real swimmers.

My “swimming” is a form, as well as functional effort to appear that I’m swimming but honestly an epic fail at doing it anywhere near, right.  But again, I’ve lived to tell the story.

I’ve been to Sea World and I love a good Aquarium.  I’ve gone fishing and don’t mind most seafood but I can confidently say I’ll never jet ski, water ski or fulfill any activity that involves my legs donning any accoutrement, a lovely French word by the way, that replicates walking, running or skimming the surface of water.  Don’t you people know that was an action reserved for only the likes of Jesus?

Creeks, rapids and falls are some kind of beautiful, but remember that the origins of my name, Beverly is the highly industrious, yet troublemaker to small waterways, the Beaver.  We’d rather work the water than lollygag in it.  I’m a serious fan of woodlands.  And, for me, the miniature, winding creeks that spring up randomly in the woods are a sound and sight source of pure joy.

About getting wet while fully clothed, that’s a no for me.  My husband is fully versed in my simple protocol on this matter, yet for a man who washes his hands and is perfectly happy to walk around afterwards dripping H2O to and fro in his wake, he doesn’t fully respect my gangsta about getting wet.  Can you say wet socks?

He loves rainy days too.  I, on the other hand, identify with Karen Carpenter’s Rainy Days and Monday’s sentiment.  They are more likely than not, to be challenges to my mood.  But rain on a metal roof is kinda soothing, I will give you that.  But don’t make me go out in it.

Actually, water gets us places, and it keeps us water-based beings (some forty-five to seventy-five percent), living, breathing, and is vital to our survival.  Navigating the earths waterways to get hither and thither is part of our heritage and our future.

So, thank you water.  I might do a bit of complaining about you, but you’re a good bloke, and ducks are mighty fond of you.