Vintage

The winds gathered together and said

“Let’s have some fun!”

They gathered themselves up and began dancing in circles,

Whirling faster and faster!

Spinning, spinning, spinning,

Like young children at play,

The winds gathered themselves up

And pushed, faster, faster, faster!

Screaming out their delight ,

They moved from the water to find new friends.

As they left the waters,

They continued to play,

Kicking around rubbish

Like children on a playground.

The trees were jealous of their movement,

And wanted to be free, to move like the wind.

They called out to the wind,

And  wanted to dance with them.

They began bobbing and weaving

With the wind.

“Faster!” the wind cried out,

Spinning ever more quickly.

The sun hid its face

As the wind more swiftly flew,

And the trees threw their leaves in anger,

Straining to be released from the ground.

Twisting, bending, stretching, reaching out!

Shaking themselves in frustration,

And in their frustration they bent themselves down

And shuddered as their boughs cracked with the strain.

Alas! Freedom was not theirs

And the wind howled with laughter

Until tears fell in torrents,

And were lashed about wildly

As the delirium ran unabated.

“Faster!” the winds cried, howling into the darkness,

And the trees again tried to gain their freedom.

And when roots finally released from terra firma,

They found their  freedom was for naught

As the released captive fell to the ground,

Still straining to join the wind in its wild revelry.

Finally, the winds tired of their game and moved on,

Leaving the trees sighing in the waning breezes,

Counting their broken limbs and lost greenery,

Surveying their dying brothers.

“If only,” they said sadly to each other.

“If only.”

And the winds spent themselves,

Dropping tears in exhaustion upon the earth,

Their dancing slowly fading away,

Until only a small whisper was left,

Tickling the leaf of one last shrub,

Far from where the frenzy began…

“Maybe next time,” it sighed,

And rested.

Normally I am known to have rather specific opinions and, according to some, can be a bit of a know-it-all.  I read a LOT, and listen to talk radio rather than the current FM brain rot, so perhaps I am a little more knowledgeable than some, less so than others.  But today I began to wonder “Since when…” and have no concrete answers to my musings.

Since When did our media become the official approval processing center for political candidates?  The way the major news media personalities are carrying on because Sarah Palin’s VP candidacy was kept a secret from them has revealed the depth of their narcissism.  I was shocked at seeing Sam Donaldson almost come out of his chair in rage the Sunday after Governor Palin’s candidacy became known.  The gnashing of teeth and hair pulling that continues as of this writing reminds me of a toddler’s temper tantrum.  I am happy that finally someone is standing up to the media.  Which leads me to my next musing…

Since When did our political candidates assume the jailhouse pose when put in front of the media?  I know the media is important for disseminating information, but really!   I lose all respect for the politicians that constantly play up to the media in order to get good reviews and garner public support.  Since the media controls the flow of information, they are in prime position to filter out – or in – the information they want us to know.  This usually coincides with their personal bias…which leads me to another musing:

 Since When did the media stop reporting the news and began making the news?  I was under the impression that journalism was an attempt to report news to inform the general public.  Now, the pretty ones on our TV screens think they are kingmakers and policy creators.  Forget the experience (or lack thereof) of any candidate – I want to know which journalists have the background to hold high public office?  If they think they can select our next president, surely they would have the qualifications to know, in-depth, what the office entails.  Having white teeth, pretty hair, and an obnoxious desire to ruin our society is not, in my humble opinion, enough qualification to take on this very important responsibility.   I would prefer that they provide the very valuable and valid service of reporting the facts, and leave the editorial to, well, the editorials!  If you are not an unbiased reporter, then be honest with the public!  Even reporters are allowed to vent their opinion – as long as it is understood to be opinion instead of fact!  Radio talk show hosts such as Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck admit to being biased in a particular direction, and their shows are to provide entertainment based on the current events of the day.  They have never claimed to be anything other than what they are, and I believe that is fair.  But when a journalist presents himself or herself as a “journalist” and are to be reporting “facts,” but in fact are spouting their personal opinions, then that is fraud.  They are taking advantage of the large segment of the public who remain relatively politically ignorant.   For them, it’s like taking candy from a baby.  And people who take candy from a baby are usually and rightfully reviled.

Since When did we lose our pride in ourselves?  Was it during the era of “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” when it became very popular to despise our government?  Was it The Pill, which gave the youth, full of energy and of themselves, the freedom to do the previously forbidden with freedom from consequences?  Did the media change during the Vietnam War, or during the Nixon Watergate years?  Since When was it the ultimate to find a “gotcha” story than report on the good in our society?  The wrongs should be exposed, but I have a hard time finding the good publicized.  The heroes in our world are relegated to the last 20 seconds of the nightly broadcast so that the “journalists” can go home secure and snug in their belief that they have presented all sides of our culture.  We who watch all the way through those last 20 seconds can leave their show feeling good about ourselves.  It’s like putting the seat down on the toilet without flushing.

Since When has it become politically correct to hate ourselves?

Since When did the rest of the world’s opinion of us become more important than our opinion of us?

Since When did our society become the dregs of culture, the scum on the pond, the bottom of the barrel?

And can someone please explain to me why we are inundated with people who literally die to get here?

 I just returned from a shopping trip at a local department store.  I noticed a young – VERY young – girl with a pink shirt in hand go to the self-checkout aisle and start pushing on the screen.  I knew this youngster would not be paying for her selection, but her mother was nowhere in sight.  She continued to push at the screen until her baby sister approached her, and then the two wandered off behind a display and out of my sight.  I brought this event to the attention of the customer service rep who was helping me, and she became very concerned and asked where they were.  “They were right there,” I pointed, “but they walked off that way.  I just don’t know where there mother is.”  “They just announced a lost child,” the rep said.  “Really?” I asked, then added, “I think I’d shoot myself if I allowed my kids to run around a store without me.”  Right about that time, the shirt girl reappeared and began pushing at the screen again.  “There she is!” I said, “and there’s her little sister with her.”  The CSR went to the girls and asked where their mother was, and I saw shirt girl point off somewhere.  “Then you two need to hold hands and go be with your mother.  Go on…go on!”  The two girls walked away and the CSR followed them and asked the mother to keep her children with her.  As I left, the mother looked at me as if she was angry.  Why?  Because I’m not comfortable with her children getting carried off by some pervert?

I’ve noticed a gradual loosening of parental control over children over the years.  I used to go to PTA meetings but stopped.  I quit going not because I was unconcerned about my children’s school, or because I was nonchalant about their future, but because the noise from all of the children playing and carrying on (and the parents talking at the same time as the speaker, by the way) frustrated me to no end.  I even saw one child with a toy that his parents had brought for him to play with during the meeting – a toy gun that made noise!  I decided it was best for to stop attending before I slapped someone and got sent to jail. 

I’ve noticed an increase in rudeness in general, but the lack of parental control truly astounds me.  I’ve seen kids careening around stores in grocery carts, banging into the aisles and nearly running over customers, laughing uproariously.  I never saw those parents.  I wish I had.  I would have loved to express my dismay at almost becoming in-store roadkill. 

Do parents not care about their children anymore?  Are they TRYING to get rid of them?  Do they not care about their physical safety, or their future social skills?  These kids that today are allowed to eat food in the store as they shop learn that it’s okay to take things without paying for them.  Then the parents are upset because their pwecious widdle baby-wabies are prosecuted for shoplifting.  Alternatively, their kids-come-grownups have little idea of how to behave in public because Mommy and Daddy were so busy either trying to be their friends or ignoring them that they were never taught social norms.  Why don’t they have friends?  Why can’t they be successful?  Freud had it right – go and look at the mother.  Or lack thereof.

Please parents, keep your children with you in the stores!  Teach them (and yourselves) to respect others  by keeping your mouth shut when the speaker is speaking.  By respecting others you provide a role model for your kids.  When shopping, don’t allow anyone in your party to open any package until it is paid for.  Be responsible.  Teach them to be responsible.

Then the perverts will have a harder time getting to your kids.

Then you may be asked back to places you visit.

Then prices in stores may go down because the shrinkage will be less.

Then we may be able to feel more confident about our future, because we can be more confident in our future adults.

When I was about six years old, we moved to a suburb of Houston.  Every lot in our neighborhood was two acres of land, and there were many fields in the area where the weeds were higher than my head.  Our new neighbors across the street gifted my oldest sister with two cats, a male and female of the same litter.  The male was black, with a white triangle outline point above his nose, the point ending on his forehead and the lines ending on either side of his nose.   He was named Punch, but he was short-lived, being hit by a car only a few days after getting his new home.  Perhaps he was trying to visit his mother.

The other cat was named Jemimah, and to this day I believe her to be possibly the prettiest cat I’ve ever seen, save one.  Calico colored from head to tail, with a white ruff at her neck and white socks, she had quite a personality!  Jemimah made herself quite at home, and before long was entertaining male suitors.  Her first litter was eleven kittens in all, and in quite a range of colors!  Among others, there was the extremely long-furred orange cat, the short-haired tabby, a replica of punch, and one kitten that took Jemimah’s beauty crown.  This female was never named, but she had beautiful soft gray fur, with a mix of longer, pure silver hair.  She also had a white ruff, and she was absolutely gorgeous!

Jemimah was truly the matriarch of all she surveyed.  She had a grace and sense of pride.  We fed our cats and dogs our table scraps (and with twelve kids, there could be a pile of scraps!), and in the evening one of us would go outside and call “here, kittykittykittykitty!” until the four-legged furballs would come screaming in from every corner of the globe.  One night, Jemimah failed to arrive, and I held the best scraps for her.  “Here, kittykittykitty! Heeeeeere kittykittykitty kittykittykitty kittykittykitty kittykitty!” I called, but still no Jemimah.  I decided to call one last time before forfeiting Jemimah’s dinner to one of her many progeny.  “Heeeeeere kittykittykitty kittykittykitty kittykittykitty kittykitty!” I called one last time, and just as I was turning to scrape the plate, I saw our momma cat out of the corner of my eye.  She was running at top speed, just a blur as she slipped under the fence gate and, still a blur, she saw me watching her.  I could hear the brakes go on as she screeched to a stop.  She sat on her haunches, surveyed me briefly, and then proceeded to wash her face and ears as I watched in amusement.  When she finally finished her ablutions, she then sat there, just far enough away that I had to go to her to feed her, and waited on me to wait on her.  Obviously, her pride was damaged by being observed doing something so ungainly as running to dinner!

She was the ultimate kitty momma.  She was prone to stealing the kittens from the other cats’ litters, and one summer we had to raid her nest to retrieve the kittens she had stolen and return them to their rightful mothers.  Only once did she refuse to accept a kitten.  When the drop-dead gorgeously grizzled gray cat turned out to be a neglectful mother, we tried to put her babies in with Jemimah’s litter, but she refused to feed them; instead, she moved her kittens to a new site.  We tried in vain to save the babies, but they were too young and we were too inexperienced.  I cried as one by one, the beautiful kittens succumbed to starvation and died.  We never figured out why Jemimah had such antipathy towards her daughter, but of course, that is a secret that Jemimah took to her grave.  After her litter and the death of her kittens, the pretty cat eventually wandered off somewhere, never to be seen again.

 Jemimah, always tried to get into the house to have her kittens. We always knew when it was her time - not just because she resembled a furry barrel with legs - but because she always found a way to sneak past someone and run for the carpet under Mom and Dad’s bed. Once there, she’d dig her claws into the carpet and refuse to budge. We’d eventually entice her out with some cat food. Once we got our little grubby hands on her, we’d very gently and carefully pick her up (she loved to be cradled, so we had to flip her on her back, and doing that while she was so pregnant required some care) and carry her lovingly outside - then QUICKLY close and lock the screen door so she couldn’t streak back inside the house!

Jemimah made sure that her babies knew their business!  I remember being outside one summer twilight, and turning to see Jemimah walking toward the fields behind our house, with her retinue of kittens trailing her obediently.   We never had rats on our property near our house.  Jemimah was fearless, even taking on our neighbor’s German Shepherd.  Bullet never lost the scar left by our cat, as she tried to take his nose off one day!  The only time I saw here running from another creature was the day the mockingbird chased her across the yard.  They had both decided to set up housekeeping in the tool shed, and the mockingbird would have none of it.  She chased our cat across the yard each time Jemimah went back to get one of her kittens.  Eventually, all of her babies were ensconced in their new home – in the weeds along the septic line.  We had to be very careful about mowing the grass for a while! 

Jemimah was for a time, my best friend.  As a child, I faced my share of tribulations, and I would pick up Jemimah and cradle her, scratching her ruff and sharing my problems with her.  She never gave me solutions, but with her I always felt wanted.  As a matter of fact, she had problems letting me leave!  If I tried to remove my hand from her neck, she would place her front paws on my wrist and pull it back down to her neck for more scratching!  She was a cat who knew what she wanted!  I spent many an hour in our backyard, her paws around my hand, sharing my tears and talking out my issues.  Every child should have such a pet!

Her offspring were varied, but there was always a theme to the litters.  Her litters tended to be large – her first was eleven babies!  Orange was a popular color, as was gray (tabby) and calico.  And in every litter there would be a kitten with that Punch-like triangle over the nose – sometime white on background, sometimes a dark triangle.  They all lived, except for one litter which was smaller (she was much older at this time), only about four kittens.  They were all calico, and they all were stillborn.  I can only imagine that they were male calicos, which, I’ve heard, don’t usually survive.  There was one kitten that made it through the birth, but not the first few weeks.  It was a strange cat, with fur that looked like someone had snatched patches from the other cats and stuck it on her while blindfolded.  She had a gray tabby patch on top of her head, a triangle above her nose, calico splotches (the same calico colors as her momma) on her body, with patches of orange and silvery gray thrown randomly here and there.  I really wanted to see what she would look like as an adult, but alas, my younger sister, in her enthusiasm for the new kitties, accidentally killed it as she tried to make a new shelter for them with some bricks.  Poor girl, she took our anger for a while, and she felt absolutely horrible about the whole thing.

As I grew older and became more engaged in my school activities, my younger siblings began to take on the chores of feeding the cats and such.  Busy as I was with band practice, etc., I did not realize that Jemimah wasn’t at home for several days.  I was told that she had been disappearing a few days at a time.  It turned out that she had adopted another family nearby, and was spending time with them!  Traitor!  But I smiled and returned to my busy schedule.  One day, Jemimah just stopped coming back home.  I preferred it that way – not having to see her die, not having to bury her as we cried.  In my mind, she’s still out there in the field somewhere, catching rats and raiding some neighbor’s affection.

It’s so much better that way.

I do not know why this thought crossed my mind, but as I was exiting a local store today, I had a sudden, painful flashback to a time when I witnessed something that resembled a water buffalo tightly encased in black Spandex®.  Walking behind this woman as her thighs and buttocks rolled to and fro, her cellulite moving in almost hypnotic patterns before me, I wondered yet again what people see when they look in their mirrors.

The Bible states that there is a season for everything, as in “a time to sow and a time to reap”.  Well, that applies to things other than farming, as well, such as “a time to wear miniskirts and a time to damn well cover it up”!  I am sorry to be so judgmental and cruel, but I think I am doing a public service by asking certain people, especially women, to ask their husbands to hide all knives, frying pans, forks, and all other objects that can be used as a weapon to either make holes in their bodies or smash certain parts flat, and then ask them “Should I wear this?”  And I beg certain people, mostly husbands but also wives, to be brutally honest and say, “Honey, I love you just the way you are, but wearing that outfit in public scares young children and will prevent you from ever running for any kind of public office, and I’d hate for you to limit yourself that way!  Please let me burn it in an environmentally safe way, so as not to pollute the neighborhood!”

Ever since synthetic fibers were made and spandex® – I suppose I should use a trademark thingie, since I believe it’s a trade name - Spandex® made its debut, those bipeds who hold their physique in high esteem have been using it to highlight their physical charms. This is great as long as the charms haven’t succumbed to age, weight, or gravity.  However, when those forces act on the body, they don’t have the same action on the eyes nor the brain, so the continued use of Spandex® continues well beyond its effectiveness, rather like leaving fruit on the tree beyond its maturation date.  With much the same effect.  As much as I don’t like looking at rotted fruit on the ground, I try to avoid dangerous uses of Spandex® much more.  What is more dangerous than 200 pounds of buttock flesh encased in something similar to a sausage wrapper meant to hold in 50?  It can only be that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder – in this case, the Spandex® wearers.  They are suffering from a medical condition known as Spandex® blindness.  Bless their hearts.

What is the age beyond which Spandex® should be worn?  If you can answer “yes” to any of these questions, then you are beyond the Spandex® age:

►       Do you have children? Then either your figure is shot or you’ll embarrass them.  Hang up the Spandex®!  Do it for the children!

►       As you wear Spandex® and walk down the street, do you hear retching behind you?

►       As you wear Spandex® and walk down the street, do you hear giggling behind you?

►       Do you hear faint mooing sounds as you shop?

►       Are your thighs in danger of setting of fire alarms as you walk? Do they rub?

►       Is your waist measurement greater than Shaquille O’Neal’s foot length (both feet added)?

►       Men, in the above, add six inches because (and get your heads out of the gutter!) men always measure where they wear their pants, not where they SHOULD wear their pants!

►       Do young children stare at you when you wear Spandex® in public? Do they cry?

►       Be honest – when you put on your Spandex®, do you have a sudden urge to go to SeaWorld®?  Or the zoo?

►       As you walk, is the back of your thigh still moving from the last step when you are halfway through the next?

►