Not Quite Einstein
I have a theory for everything.
Some of my theories are based on historical or scientific data (interpreted by me.)
Some theories stem from observation (also interpreted by me.)
And some are just pulled right out of my ass.
Historically, for example, I have a theory that if Custer had prevailed at the Little Big Horn, he would have been the next President of the United States. I believe that his plan was to chalk up one more big victory and then head to Washington. Didn’t quite work out as he planned.
Image via Wikipedia
One of my observational theories, formulated back in college is this: One of the critical differences between men and women is that men think the Three Stooges are funny, and women think they are stupid.
Image via Wikipedia
Here’s an ass-pulled theory: Every kid thinks it would be a hoot to break a leg and walk on crutches for a while. You get sympathy and a weapon at the same time.
But my very favorite of all my theories is a combination of science and observation, with a bit of ass prestidigitation thrown in:
**You can only stand a temperature that’s higher than your age.**
Remember when you were eleven, and you’d go out and build a snow fort, and sit in the snow, and eat snow, and get snow down your pants. Didn’t matter, did it?
And teenagers can snowboard in the roughest, coldest conditions, but by the time you’re in your thirties, you only want to go skiing when the snow is already melting.
By the time you’re fifty, you’re putting on gloves in September and sleeping in socks until May.
At eighty – time to move to Florida.
With this theory, I even have a rationale (or rationalization) of why it doesn’t apply to small children. Until about the age of ten, kids have no control over their environment. They get dragged in and out of weather at the whim of their parents. So, in my theory, they fall under their Mom’s age for their first decade.
As a matter of fact, you can pretty well guess Mom’s age by how the kid is dressed. A preschooler so bundled up in December that she can barely lower her arms: Mom’s in her forties. A toddler who’s hatless and shoeless in early April: Teenage mom.
Image by r_ockle via Flickr
I had occasion to prove my theory once again this past Saturday. We went apple-picking. It was a sunny but cool late afternoon, and I was enjoying this wholesome activity. Then the clouds came in. The temp dropped to the high fifties. Being a low sixty myself, I suddenly had enough of apple-picking, and we high-tailed it to the car. We ate our apple-cider donuts with the motor running and the seat-heaters on.
I feel just a little like Einstein sometimes.
Image via Wikipedia
P.S. – I never before had a car with seat-heaters, but I am never going without again. They are fabulous. My mother always said that if your head is warm, you’ll be warm, but I am finding that I like my other end toasty. And a seat-heater is versatile. I turn on the passenger seat when I pick up a pizza, and it stays nice and warm till I get home.
P. P.S. – For any of you readers who live in a country that utilizes that ridiculously logical Celsius: Get your own theory.
Welcome To My Ponzi Scheme
1910 Mug Shot of Charles Ponzi (Image via Wikipedia)
Welcome to my Ponzi Scheme.
Well, not mine, really. I guess it may have originated with WordPress or with some blogger from the stone-age blogger days.
It’s the VERSATILE BLOGGER AWARD!
I am actually very happy to have received it, because it means that other bloggers like what I write. And that is amazing.
In particular, two bloggers nominated me in the same week: What I Meant 2 Say and If I Were Brave. Both these blogs are terrific and worth checking out. Plus they know how to write, and so I am delighted that they think I can write too.
Being an accountant, I did the math however. If one blogger has to nominate 15 bloggers, and those 15 each nominate 15… well, it only takes FIVE iterations before the number of bloggers who have been nominated total 759,375. That pretty much covers all of WordPress. Twice.
So it’s sort of like when all the kids get a trophy in T-Ball.
On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong with getting a trophy in T-Ball. It still feels really good. And the Versatile Blogger Award feels really good too. So thank you.
As part of this award, I am supposed to nominate 15 other bloggers. And I’m delighted to pass on this award. However, I am trying to work with WordPress to get my links to work in the body of my blog…with no luck. But my blogroll works, so check out the list on the bottom of this page. These folks are worth reading.
Now onto Step 2 of the Versatile Blogger Award. I get to talk about myself. There’s nothing I like better. I am required to mention seven things about myself that my readers may not know.
1. I am completely (and adolescently) in love with James Taylor. Actually, you may already know this because I take every opportunity to mention him.
2. My secret ambition in life is to solve some famous unsolved crime. Lizzie Borden, Jimmy Hoffa, Jack the Ripper. Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong? When someday they have an answer, look for my name.
3. I’ve done two things in my life that will never be repeated by another human being again. I flew to Europe on the Concorde and I attended a meeting at the top of the World Trade Center.
4. I wish I had been sluttier in college. I was a very studious kid. I wish now I had more fun. After all, antibiotics are quite effective.
5. I sing extremely well. I have a spectacular voice. No one else shares this opinion. I don’t understand why they are not hearing the same thing that I am. I think it is envy.
6. I’m a one-upper. I have an uncontrollable tendency to try and top every story I hear with one that is funnier, scarier, crazier, etc. It’s a sickness.
7. Despite the fact that I haven’t gotten every little thing I ever wanted in my life, and in fact, lost out on some of the big things too, I am the happiest person I know.
And now I have a Versatile Blogger Award.
Fraidy Cat
There’s a fellow blogger I admire – If I Were Brave:
http://ifiwerebraveblog.com/ (if I could figure out how to add a link, I’d do so, but this is the best I can do.)
She’s an ordinary woman, a little on the cautious side (in her own opinion), who tries every day to be just a little braver. Of course, she’s really very brave. She writes a blog and shows her thoughts, fears and mighty brain to the world.
But she got me to thinking about bravery.
I’ve done some brave things during my life. My Mom thinks I am very brave. Especially because I have traveled for business on my own, arriving in a strange city, and going where I need to go in my strange rental car, and then – the most difficult part for me – finding my way back to the strange airport.
But I have a lot of fears. Many are good fears. It’s okay to be afraid of death and cancer and war. But many of my fears are rather irrational.
1. King Kong.
Image via Wikipedia
This was my first fear. When I was a little kid, tucked into my bed at night, I was terrified to look at my window. I was sure that King Kong was going to be reaching his hairy arm through the window to grab me. Of course, I’m no longer afraid of King Kong, but that mighty ape has translated in adulthood as a fear of ground floor bedrooms. I know that there is no King Kong to reach me several flights up, but someone could definitely be reaching in from the yard.
2. Ventriloquists’ Dummies and Marionettes. I cringe at those creepy faces. I’ve seen too many Twilight Zone episodes. Even Howdy Doody is not exempt. He’s effing scary.
Image by John Kannenberg via Flickr
I’m not afraid of all puppets however. I like Lamb Chop.
3. Clowns. See above.
Image by Tim in sanhazzay via Flickr
4. The Dentist.
Image via Wikipedia
This doesn’t really need an explanation. Most people fear the dentist. But after years of sheer terror, I had finally found a great dentist – gentle, reassuring, quietly competent – I actually started to act like a sane adult in the dentist’s chair. Right up until he was arrested for stealing drugs from his own patients. Back to square one.
5. Escalators.
Image via Wikipedia
I’m afraid that my heel will get caught in the treads, and I’ll be sucked into the mechanism.
6. Reptiles, specifically crocodiles and alligators.
Image via Wikipedia
I can’t even look at them on TV. Fortunately, I live in Connecticut.
7. Winter Driving.
Image via Wikipedia
I’m afraid I’ll skid into a ditch on icy roads. Unfortunately, I live in Connecticut.
8. Motorcycles.
Image via Wikipedia
My husband wants one. A vintage Indian motorcycle. I bought him a vintage Indian t-shirt. He’s not getting a bike.
9. Electrocuting myself. In the bathtub. In a thunderstorm. Thank you, Grandma.
Image via Wikipedia
Just My Imagination
Every once in a while I wish I could think like a man. Because I’d really like to know what the heck my husband could possibly be thinking. So I decided to give it a try. Here’s an incident from a few years ago, told from what may be my husband’s point of view. I’ve changed the names and dates, but it’s not much of a disguise.
Most of what I write on this blog is true, and this may be too.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Ah, damn. I did it again.
MaryAnn had that hurt puppy look that she reserves for only me.
“I just don’t understand you. What is so difficult about remembering one single day?”
“I’m really sorry.” I tried hard to keep my eyeballs stuck right in their sockets, as she always accuses me of rolling my eyes when I am insincere, and I was in enough trouble already.
Years ago, MaryAnn had this framed embroidery thing—she called it cruel, but I never really got that, since I thought it was kinda pretty—that her great-aunt Florence or Flora or some such old lady name—I know, Mildred—gave us for a wedding gift. It was all little silver bells, and in fancy writing it said, “The bells rang for joy… For MaryAnn and Frank… On this day… July something nineteen something.” It hung right above the dresser, where I saw it every morning when I put my wallet back in my pocket for the day. It was sort of like the emission sticker expiration on your car. It’s not like you really notice it, but it sort of gets absorbed, so you have this physical sense of the date. But about five years or so ago, MaryAnn redecorated the bedroom and she took the damn thing down. “It’s way too sweet,” she said, confusing me even more on the cruel thing. Anyway, there’s been hell to pay ever since.
The first year the embroidery came down, I forgot our anniversary. MaryAnn was upset and I took her out to eat at one of those too-expensive restaurants, and the next day—well, the next weekend—I went out and bought her pearl earrings.
The second year, I got credit for remembering. I think MaryAnn must have been complaining at the office because Mike, this guy who sits near MaryAnn in the next cube, calls me at work—at WORK—and says, whispering-like, “It’s your anniversary. MaryAnn would really like flowers. And sent to the office, so everyone will know what a prince you are.” “I owe you,” I said. “No shit,” said Mike, “a case of Rolling Rock.” Man, I was in good shape for weeks that year.
But Mike transferred to Claims a few months later. And I haven’t remembered since.
So MaryAnn was sitting across the table from me, with a look on her face like she just broke a toe.
“I really am sorry. You know I have a terrible memory,” I tried again.
“You don’t seem to have a bad memory for other things. If this was important to you, you’d remember. You just don’t care.”
Now it was taking real work for my eyes not to be pinging around my head. Why can’t she just TELL me? Why can’t she just warn me a day or so ahead? But no, she’s got this goddamn idea that if I don’t remember myself it doesn’t count.
“No honey, it’s real important to me. The best day of my life. I’m just shit-for-brains with dates.”
“Oh, yeah?” she countered. “I bet you remember the day you bought your first car.”
“Um, not really. A Ford, maybe. I don’t remember much about it.” I added, “I’m sorry I’m such a fuck-up. I’ll make it up to you. I will. Would you like to go to Newport for the weekend? I could buy you one of those tennis bracelets. Not with little tennis racquets, like I thought at Christmas, but with the real diamonds like you showed me.”
“I know you love me,” MaryAnn said. I think I had softened her a little. “But it hurts when you don’t remember our wedding day.”
If I could get her to smile, I would be past the quicksand part. “Can we hang up that embroidery thing that your aunt made? How about in the bathroom?”
She laughed. All set for a year, except for the diamond bracelet part. There goes a grand.
It was June twenty-first, 1970. I was sixteen. I wanted a car so bad. “How much money do you have?” my old man asked. I had three hundred and twenty dollars. We went to the used car lot that one of his poker buddies ran, and we picked out a 1963 Ford Galaxie 500. It had a police intercept 390 and a two-barrel carburetor. We took it out and it went one hundred and ten down Route 72. No problem. My dad handed over my money. We changed the automatic to a 3-speed tranny, and then it went one-thirty-five. It had silver gray interior, but the exterior was a girly cream color. I re-painted it this great Mopar color, Blue Fire Metallic, although I have no use for any Mopar product now. Man, I wish I still had that car. I loved that car.
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The Code
About a year ago, my co-workers commented on a particularly stunning outfit I happened to be wearing.
We have no dress code at my office. We are exceptionally casual. So my stunning outfit consisted of jeans, black top with empire waist, floral sweater in black, gray and white.
Of this group of co-worker friends, I am the oldest. I could almost say, “I am the oldest by far” – but let’s not go that far.
I was happy to receive these sincere compliments on my attire – (I am delirious, actually, when anyone says I look good – why just today a friend said I had a lovely complexion, and I needed to work that into this post, so here it is.) – and I found it an opportune time to discuss my future fashion choices.
I am obsessed slightly worried that I will start to look foolish if I don’t sometime soon “dress my age”. I don’t want to be an old lady dressing like a teenager. We’ve all seen some of those.
Donatella Versace (younger than me)
So my friends and I made a pact. They formulated a secret code to let me know if I cross the line from stylish to ridiculous.
Here’s the code: “What a fantastic outfit. My daughter would love it.”
We had a good laugh over it that morning.
******
But Yikes. Here it is a year down the line, and I heard the secret code.
I went to work the other day in one of my favorite outfits. I’ve worn it before. It’s cool. I love it.
Red empire waist tunic, black knit jacket, superb jeans.
And a nice sweet woman, about ten years younger than I, said, “What a great top. My daughter would love it.”
Oh no.
But wait…
She wasn’t part of the pact. She doesn’t know the secret code.
Does that make it worse?
Or non-applicable?
I Look at Clouds From Both Sides Now
Image via Wikipedia
Yesterday, I went to the ophthalmologist (gee, that’s a weird spelling, but that’s what spell-check says and I believe that little spelling-bee guy inside my laptop).
I have had this eye problem for a couple of weeks. “Floaters,” they’re called, and lots of people have them. But my floaters are taking over my left eye. Not-so-little blobs are running around in there… sort of like my neighbor’s runaway sheep.
So I had it checked out.
I have “Posterior Vitreous Detachment.” As the ophthalmologist described it, the thick transparent fluid (vitreous) that fills the bulbus oculi (eyeball) has detached from the retina. In layman’s terms, my jello has shrunk away from the sides of my bowl.
It is not dangerous, but it’s not reversible either. The floaters happen because now my eye can see its own cellular debris. The doctor assured me that it will become less distracting in time, simply because my brain will get used to it.
It’s not so bad; I can live with it. Except for this: The ophthalmologist said, “PVD is an age-related condition. A natural part of the aging process.”
Oh, really?
Listen up, Sonnyboy. Maybe you should get your vision checked.
Don’t you see these leg-lengthening slim stylish whiskered jeans?
And how about these fabulous chocolate pearl drop lever-back earrings?
The collagen-plumped lip gloss?
There is nothing about me that is age-related, kiddo.
Why, I even have an iPhone in my purse.
(Well, okay, I concede that I have a purse.)
Pen Pals – Facebook Style
I am friends with a famous author. Facebook friends.
This is not just a case where I clicked ‘Liked’ and now I get posts about the next novel in process or book signing appearance. I do have some celebrity Facebook friends like that. And I kind of like these famous people sharing little snippets with thousands of fans. (JT, if you are reading this – I would so marry you…I love your guitar lessons and your play dates and travel plans.)
But no. This famous author is my back-and-forth friend.
About two months ago, I noticed that a ‘real’ friend of mine was also friends with the famous author. So I asked her how she knew him, and she said that although his Facebook page says not to send a Friend Request unless you know him personally, everyone sends him requests and he says Yes all the time. She advised me to include some personal connection as to why I wanted him to be my friend. So I did. And he did. Friend me.
The weird thing about Famous Author. He writes to people. He doesn’t just post. He sends Facebook messages to individual people. Like me.
I won’t tell you exactly what I claimed was my connection to him, since I don’t want to give away his identity. He has 2,266 Friends and he is adding about 50 friends every day. (Word gets around.) So I am concerned that when he gets to about 5,000 Friends he may not have time to write to me. But here’s a hint: we are the same age.
A week or so after he Friended me, I got a Facebook message. When I saw the little “1” at the top of my screen, I figured it was my sister-in-law, asking me about vegetables or something.
But it was Famous Author.
And he had an important question to ask me, considering that we are contemporaries.
” What time is Shindig on? “
I could hardly believe my eyes. And if I expected esoteric, literary discourse… well, hell. Forget that. I was delighted.
I figured he was just welcoming me as a Friend. But on the other hand, what did I have to lose? So the next day I wrote him back.
“Oh,no! I sneered at Shindig..It was all Hullabaloo for me!”
Not my cleverest repost, but it was the best I could come up with. And true. I hated Shindig – though I can’t recall a single reason why. Ah, fickle youth.
So I had corresponded with Famous Writer. That was pretty cool. I was sure to buy his next book now. The End, I thought.
And then this Thursday – 2 weeks later – I got this:
“Aha, Hullabaloo! They’ve got some vintage clips of that show on YouTube. Brings you right back, although the production values and sets look pretty cheesy now. Wonder if all those Hullabaloo dancers have had knee replacement surgery.”
Even cooler. And (this is the really cool part) – it was no cleverer than my comment, and it took Famous Writer two weeks to write it. Okay, so it is possible that it took him two weeks to read my message, and two seconds to write an answer, but I prefer the first interpretation.
But I felt it was time to have a deeper conversation than this. This was my chance to ask an exceptional and successful writer for some real advice. So I wrote back:
“Oh, but enough of trivialities. Here’s the more important question: Dr. Kildare or Ben Casey? Or even: Bonanza or The Virginian?”
Considering the crucial nature of my query, he wrote back right away:
“Easy. Bonanaza and Kildare (although Vince Edwards gets points for marrying one of the Miss Rheingold winners). Here’s a harder one: Which Patty Duke Show cousin did you prefer–Cathy (she enjoys the Ballet Ruse and crepes suzette) or Patty (she loves to rock’n’roll, a hotdog makes her lose control !!??)
Okay, gotta go watch the Obama speech.”
Now I know that we both wanted to watch the President, but I figured he would probably keep an eye on the computer too, as he must be anxious for an answer. So I responded quickly.
“Patty….she could really kill the Mashed Potatoes.”
The state of the economy may have distracted Famous Author. I didn’t hear back until the next day.
“Which, by the way, started long time ago with a guy named Sloppy Joe.”
Here’s a guy as stuck in the sixties as me!
My reponse:
“I am in awe of your vast trivia knowledge. (unless of course it’s Google..then I am in awe of your googling skills.)”
I figure Famous Author is bound to get tired of this inane thread any time now.
But I wouldn’t trade our Shindig/Hullabaloo debate for some profound discussion Kafka vs Camus.
I would, however, trade it for: “Let me introduce you to my agent.”
Let Me Count The Ways
I laugh at my husband – a lot. This is because I find human behavior very funny, and I get to observe his behavior more than most other humans. Except myself of course. I watch myself obsessively… and I am a riot.
My husband can be ridiculous and he can be annoying, both of which a fun to write about.
But today is a day for reflection and an appreciation of the sweetness of life. So here are some of the reasons why I love my husband:
1. He’s a genius. (and not just because he can see how awesome I am.) He can fix anything – furnaces, cars, computers. Once he even fixed my bracelet. He can look at the innards of stuff and figure out what each gizmo should or should not be doing, and then he can get them to behave.
He built our house. It’s fabulous. And he installed a generator. It comes on automatically when we lose power. That was very handy two weeks ago. And although it doesn’t provide power to every outlet in the house, my husband made sure that there is power to the outlet where I plug in my hairdryer.
2. He’s protective. I’d taken care of myself for a very long time before I met him. It’s nice to relinquish some of that. I have a champion. He offered to beat up a boss who was mean to me, and although I declined, I did enjoy envisioning it.
When we first got married, we lived in a quiet neighborhood. But my husband still worried about me crossing our mostly deserted road to go to our mailbox.
“How did I ever cross the street before I met you?” I asked jokingly.
“I don’t know. It’s a miracle you’re alive,” he answered seriously.
3. He likes bad music. When we take a long car trip, he makes sure to pack all his Gene Autry CDs. If, after several hours, I politely request something more modern, he’s ready with The Beach Boys.
“The Beatles ruined everything,” he often states, knowing full well that I adore The Beatles.
He doesn’t want music that will change the world. He wants a dude singing about his car. But if he’s stuck in time musically, he’s also stuck in a very appealing way. To him, I’m still young, and pretty… and thin.
4. He’s a very serious guy. He worries. He’s not lighthearted. He’s never silly. He’s a built-in challenge that sharpens my wit. It thrills me to get him to laugh. Of course, if I can’t, I can always turn on “World’s Dumbest.” There’s nothing like a teenager smacking himself in the head with his own skateboard to make my husband roar.
5. He married me. This sounds like a pathetic, needy gratitude. But hell, it’s true. I met him when I was thirty-eight. My life up until then was full of men, each briefly, with long stretches of solitude in between. I wasn’t unhappy being single; as a matter of fact, the older I got, the more I liked it. But at thirty-eight, I did begin to wonder if, just maybe, I might be the teensiest bit unloveable. But I’m not. One crazy, but very smart, guy loves me.
Image via Wikipedia
Don’t Call Me Shirley
My father named me. My father named all four of his children. I supposed my mother figured she’d love us so keenly regardless of our names, she let my father choose.
My mother told me many times that she had wanted to name me Collette. But my father named me Nancy.
There is an old family story (actually it’s old because I made it up forty-five years ago, and… well…I’m family) that my father named me Nancy because Frank Sinatra named his daughter Nancy, and if Nancy was good enough for Ol’ Blue Eyes, it was good enough for Dad.
Image via Wikipedia
I have no real evidence that my father was even much of a Frank Sinatra fan, but he laughed heartily during The Dean Martin Show, and Dino and Frank were pals, so it could be true. I think it’s true. A lot of stuff I make up is true.
In the 50s and early 60s, unusual names were just that – unusual. By which I mean, practically nonexistent. All girls were Linda or Susan or Carol or Kathy. With a few Nancys and Patricias and Jeans thrown in for what these conventional folk called variety. If your parents were really daring, you might be Jeanne.
When I was ten, I met a girl named Jennifer. I thought it was the most exotic, romantic name I had ever heard. My cousin Susan agreed. So did my best friend Linda.
My idol at that time was Hayley Mills. But as far as I was concerned, she didn’t have a real name. Just something made up for the movies. Like Cinderella.
Names have life spans. Mary had a very long life span – centuries even. But then there’s Shirley, which maybe got a decade.
You can often tell how old a woman is by her name. If I meet a Barbara, there’s a good chance she’s a couple of years older than I. Pamelas will be two years younger. At work, we have three Cheryls. They are all the same age.
Nowadays, there seems to be a lot more creativity in names (Apple, Rumor, Sunday). But in addition to these outliers, there’s still that groupthink phenomena that leads parents of a generation to choose the same names. Melissa gives way to Ashley, Ashley gives way to Emily, and Emily to Isabella. Ava has become the new Susan.
Recently I met a young man who was about to become a father. I asked if they had chosen a name.
“Nancy,” he said.
I was astounded. No one is named Nancy anymore. I’ve never met anyone under 55 named Nancy.
“Well,” he explained, “Nancy is my wife’s grandmother’s name, and we like old-fashioned names.”
My shock doubled. Nancy is going to be a great-grandmother?
But even worse…
Old-fashioned?
I think not. Nancy may be out of style right now, but it is NOT old-fashioned. Mildred and Florence are old-fashioned. Maybe Edna. Not Nancy.
It’s not like I grew up when laundry hung on the clothesline, doctors made house calls, and women wore corsets.
No siree. I grew up when laundry hung on the clothesline, doctors made house calls, and women wore girdles.
Image by geg_thomas via Flickr
Sheep Rapport
This weekend I went to the local country fair. I think the official slogan is:
Eat Crap and Look At Cows.
I didn’t think the fair would start with a moral dilemma, but there I was at the gate faced with a ticket choice of $8 for adults or $5 for seniors. Since I am over the age threshold for seniors, I can legitimately save three bucks. So the unethical thing would be for me to say I was younger, and pay MORE to get in. But I wanted to.
My husband waited patiently. He likes to save money, but he knew better than to ask aloud for “Two Seniors” without getting the lay of my land, so to speak. He just shrugged.
“One senior and one child?” he finally asked.
“Okay,” I said. “Ask for two seniors. But whisper.”
Well, that was depressing, so we headed right for the Eat Crap section of the fair. I displayed great self-control: fire-roasted corn-on-the-cob, french fries, and a root beer float. For fair fare, that’s practically health food.
We spent some time at the truck pull. My husband likes to see trucks haul shit. He cheered like mad for the Ford trucks. He booed when the Chevys come out.
On to the Look At Cows portion.
We met a young girl waiting to show her calf. We discovered that she LEASED her calf. Part of her high-school agriculture coursework. So there’s some farmer out there who gets paid for letting kids take care of his herd. I am thinking that cow leasing could be a nice second career for me.
The chickens were loud, the rabbits were timid, the pigs were indifferent. But the sheep were my favorite. Sheep like me. Just look at this little guy smiling at me. He’s positively flirting.
My husband says sheep’s mouths just naturally curve so they look like they are smiling. But I know better.
I have a special rapport with sheep. I think they recognize a kindred spirit.
About a quarter of a mile down the road from our house, there is a sheep farm. The fields there are beautiful, and the neighborhood is quite upscale, so the sheep are very satisfied.
I stop daily on my way home from work and say hello. They are always friendly.
One day last year, when I drove past the farm, the sheep had escaped and were all milling around, just chillin’ in the road. Unlike the teenager at the fair, I have not had any coursework in animal husbandry, but I figured the least I could do is knock on the farmhouse door, and let them know that their lambs were loose.
But when I got out of the car, they all came to meet me. So I walked to the field and they came! I was a shepherd!
I got them all in the pasture, and they were smiling–laughing even. But as I closed the gate, it stuck.
And one sheep gave me a very knowing look, and bolted. And all the other sheep followed this strong-willed old gal and they ran off down the road. I had to knock on the farmer’s door after all. The old man said, “Oh, yeah, they do that once in a while.”
But I recognize that old sheep. (Well, not literally, – they really do all look alike). But I recognize that old girl in myself. Happy and content. But always ready to break out and run down the road. And yelling to all the other girls, “Follow Me!”
notquiteold 