Almost One

If you popped over here from Facebook - thank you!  I couldn't format on that platform and this short piece has a message  - a hint if you will - to the subject matter of the poem. 

Almost One

...but still I have this
Dilemma.  Where is the box
Big enough to hold my grief

How do I seek
Nepenthe.  Magic potion
Elixir.  Cocktail of
Altered consciousness

Where is relief
Easing of heartache
Soothing of pain
Smoothness of emotion

Schoolchildren should never be
Concerned with two things
Being hungry and being shot
Moms raise babies.  Not targets

…but still I have this quandary
Where is the box to
Banish bereavement
Expel maternal anxiety

Bang-Bang. Pow-Pow

Where have I been?  It has been almost two months since I returned from Florida and blogged about my magical travel experience.  Fast forward to mid-April.  I'm home.  I've been in self-isolation (is that redundant?) since the afternoon of March 10th.  I left the YMCA and then my Al-Anon meeting that day and had the same sense of not wanting to go back out into the world.  And while I miss my routines, I am happily employing a Can-Do attitude.  Certainly my forebears endured more hardships in their lifetimes. Pogroms and The Holocaust to name just two.

I have the luxury of a warm home.  Television and internet access.  Food and other sundries can be delivered to my doorstep.  The newspaper still thuds on my balcony every morning.  Zoom enables me to see, but not touch, my kids and grands.  Overall, I cannot complain.  I am breathing, staying fit, reading & writing.  Which brings me to this...

I am not a fiction writer.  I've never dabbled in dialogue, set a scene, developed a plot.  I am mostly a poet.  I do write essay-esque here.  I've written vignettes of memoir - storytelling really - of my childhood and perceptions of growing up all things suburban.  But fiction?  Nah.  In fact I read mostly non-fiction.  I tend to grab books on the craft of writing, poetry collections and memoirs.  During this endless Sabbath I have dipped into fiction.  Mainly because I have them here on my bookshelf.  I discovered that reading fiction is much less heady than digesting non-fiction.  I am whipping through these stories.

Denverite (on-line news source) had a Covid-19 Flash Fiction contest.  Complete with publication and prize money!  I thought - Why Not?  Though I have never written fiction before, I'd try my hand at something new.  After all what else was I doing?  Flash Fiction is typically between 500 and 1500 words.  I submitted the following piece that came in at 786 words.  With little hope of winning, I might add.  When the winning entries were published on three consecutive days last week I didn't see my name or piece.  No surprise there.  Reading them made it clear what mine was lacking.  Did I mention dialogue? Scene?  Plot?  Yep.  All missing.  In retrospect I realize my 'fiction' piece was more like my other writing.  What was in my head making it's way onto paper.  C'est la vie.
Will I attempt fiction at a future date?  Only time will tell, so stay tuned.  In the meanwhile enjoy my non-winning foray into fiction.

Time to Write,

Jane

Just One

by Jane Hillson Aiello    March 2020

What if this is it?  The last time I’ll ever brush my teeth with Trader Joe’s Fennel toothpaste?  I love this stuff.  I suppose I can resort to mint when it’s gone.  What about the last grape I get to savor?  Or witnessing my last snowfall?  I sometimes see those vintage yellow and black Fallout signs on Colfax, near the Capitol Building, announcing an underground shelter.  Why am I thinking about Fallout Boy and how similar the Fallout symbol looks like the little disc I used to press into the large, center hole of my 45’s of The Partridge Family or The Cowsills.  Then I could play them on mom’s hi-fi console that was a gift from my uncle and came all the way from Germany in a big wooden crate.  And my little friends and I would play-out West Side Story and dance to Trini Lopez and why am I thinking about being a kid in the sixties.  How we would duck under our desks and how come I was never the important kid designated to pull down the black-out shades.  Or the seventies where my biggest worry was how mad my mom was going to be when I told her my earth shoes melted on a heating grate at a party I wasn’t allowed to go to.  But I did.


Stay focused.  Stay present.  Those years of Beatle mantras and pop-psych should be paying me a dividend.  Helping my mental health.  Breathe.  Slowly, not suddenly.  Calm down – there will still be bananas.  Maybe not.  Isn’t the Cavendish variety popular today because the bananas of my youth were wiped out by a virus?  A virus?  No, it was a fungus.  I’m sure of it. A fungus.  Not a virus.  People get viruses.  Plants get funguses.  It started in Asia and morphed to Africa; I think.  I’m not sure.  I do know that I’m feeling like a banana.  Thick-skinned and sturdy on the outside.  Nothing but mushy flesh and fear on the inside.  And I’m fatigued.  Tired of being cooped up.  Aren’t chickens in coops?  What if there are no eggs?  Why am I thinking about bananas and chickens and eggs?  I eat bananas and eggs.  I don’t eat chicken.  I am pondering all things yellow.  Maybe because I am a coward.  Fearful of the times.  Afraid of both fungi and viruses. 


I am holed up at home. Rabbits hole up in a warren.  Outlaws of the wild west holed up in caves, deep in the mountains. Them thar hills.  This is Denver.  This is not the days of Pioneers.  Have you seen the pioneer license plate?  It has a wagon.  Maybe it’s a Conestoga.  Alcoholics are on the wagon. As a kid I had a Radio Flyer.  I never had a rabbit as a pet.  I had a friend named Warren.  Why am I thinking about wagons and rabbits and childhood friends?  We used to play Cowboys and Indians.  Very inappropriate, appropriating, politically incorrect.  What else?  My mother never let me have a toy gun.  I used my finger.  Bang-bang.  Pow-pow.


Where is my weapon?  Do I have enough ammo?  This is not the old west.  We have hipsters, not cowboys.  When I first moved here, I would see Cowboys on sixteenth street.  They wore Wrangler jeans and almost white Cattleman hats by Stetson.  Only cowboys wore Wranglers.  Greenhorns, like me, wore Levi’s.  Button fly, boot leg.  We knew better.  We were happening! I never thought I’d own a gun.  I was a liberal flatlander.  Millennials know what is happening.  They seek information, but is it always accurate?  True?
  

What is truth?  My truth is I enjoy my oddly flavored toothpaste and firm, red grapes.  I enjoy exploring Colfax for oddities and Broadway for antiques.  I enjoy bananas, and eggs, but not chicken.   I enjoy snowflakes and music – but probably not Fallout Boy.  The truth is I’ve only shot my gun indoors, supervised at a range in Castle Rock.  The truth is I am not a very good shot.  The truth is I had Vaseline smeared on the right lens of my glasses when I learned to shoot.  The truth is I am right-handed but left eye dominant.  The truth is I didn’t know I’d ever have to learn these types of things.


The truth is I don’t know how this plays out.  The God honest truth is that I don’t believe I am all that resilient.  The truth is I don’t know how long I can maintain this false Can-Do attitude.  The truth is I don’t need to tally my bullets.  Because the truth is, at the end of the day, I will only need one.

The Power of Poetry

Travelling is not the joy I remember it being when I was a child.  Back in the sixties we took a family trip from New York to Miami, Fl.  This was my first time on an airplane, and boy was I excited!  I even remember the mustard yellow skirt and sweater set I wore on the plane.  The 'stewardesses' gave my siblings and me plastic wings to pin on our clothes, a deck of cards to amuse us, pillows and a blanket.  That wool suit, purchased in Gimbels, proved to be a sweltering choice of outfits upon deplaning.  Nonetheless, our meal was served on a real tray with metal silverware, our drinks were in glassware and the flight attendants were all smiles.

Recently, en route to Florida,  I arrived ridiculously early to the airport.  I checked myself in, and tagged my own bag.  This doesn't save me the long line to drop off my suitcase with an agent.  The bag I paid extra to schlep myself - hello?  Skycaps? - is weighed without a hint of a smile.  NEXT!  Next for me is the security line, a line for the train, lines for the loo...  By the time I grab a coffee and get to the gate, I am amazed how much time has withered away.  I'll be on the plane in no time - just to wait again!

It's OK.  I still marvel at the technology of getting on  a jet in one city and getting off in another.  In less than four hours I will be at my sister's on the east coast.  But the joy of flying has dissipated greatly over the years.  Yet I had a magical, marvelous experience on my flight home from Melbourne, Fl. recently.

When I had checked in through the app 24 hours before my flight I received a shitty seat assignment.  It wasn't until I was standing in that bag drop-off line that I noticed, because I didn't look the day before.  What I don't know won't stress me out.  But I'm waiting in what is of course the longest, slowest queue and thinking of how maybe being really nice to the agent will reward me with a better seat.  Luck and karma were on my side and I went from a middle seat in the way back of the plane to a place in front, on the aisle.  Score!

After a quick supper and several trips to the ladies room, I am in the waiting area of the gate.  Deep breaths.  I'll be home soon.  I'm seated next to a young man, who is with his dad.  I'm guessing the kid is 10.  He reminds me of my former neighbor, Jovon, at that age.  I strike up a conversation with the young man, he is hesitant to talk to a stranger, but warms up as his dad and I chat.  I learn his dad lives in Florida, his mom in Denver and his dad is taking him back after a long Christmas break visit.

The gate agent announces a delay due to a mechanical issue, always reassuring... NOT.  Then they decide to load us up and I'm thinking my brief time with this kid has come to and end.  Remember how I got my seat changed?  As we board the aircraft the dad, the kid and I find ourselves sitting in the exact same positions as at the gate.  I don't believe in coincidences.  I think of them more as God tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to pay attention.  I smile and sit.

We're told that even though we're all in our places, we are not quite ready to go.  A trim piece needs to be repaired, trips off and on airport property must take place to get the parts, security has to be followed...  we're in for at least 40 minutes or so on the plane, at the gate.  People are grumbling, but I decide to make the best of it and take out my writing pad.  I glance at the young man next to me and ask him if he likes poetry.  He shakes his head - uh-uh.

I tell him I am a poet, and ask him if he'd like to hear one of my poems.  I tell him I saw a space launch and returned to the beach the following day to write about it.  I read him this poem:

Launch

by Jane Hillson Aiello   01-20

Blastoff was quick
An upward star
Shot from earth
To the heavens

Falling stars down-sweep
Across the milky
Midnight universe

Flames and thrust
Blurry, yet concise
Propulsive marvel
Technological twinkle

God painted the sky
With tiny drops
Of sparkling light

Man gives us
Engineered force
Elusive destinations

Fire dot dissipates
I inhaled stardust
Exhaled molecules

Remembered how small
I will always be

He seems receptive, so I ask if he'd like to hear another.  He responds affirmatively and I tell him how my cousin told me to put a seashell in my pocket at the beach, and I wrote this poem just for her:

Linda’s Seashell

by Jane Hillson Aiello January 2020

Wherever she goes
There’s a shell in her pocket
From a beach far or near
She is never without it

When she feels chilly
Her hand closes around it
Remembers the day and
The place where she found it

If she’s worried or anxious
The shell is quite near
Running fingers over scallops
Brings her back to where

She was walking so quiet, on the
Day that she chose it
And it’s still in her pocket
When she chooses to hold it

A talisman, a worry stone
A vintage fidget spinner
It is priceless and precious
And it’s always there with her

It’s a memory, a promise
Of more beach days to come
If you look in her pocket
You’ll always find one

Then I take a leap and ask him if he's ever written a poem.  No is the reply.  So, I ask if he'd like to.  YES!  I gently prompt him to tell me about his visit with  dad.  He informs me about the Holiday party he attended, the presents he received for Christmas, the kick-boxing class with his father and I am writing it all down. Then I show him how to re-write those rambles into stanzas, quiz him to come up with rhyming words to make the poem work, and voila!  We have written an eight-line (four couplet)  poem to commemorate his trip.  He is wide-eyed and I feel pretty good too.  I put my name on the bottom of the page, tear it out and tell him that one day he will remember an old lady on a plane taught him how to write a poem.  We both smiled and laughed.  Finally we take off.  Waiting time is never wasted time.

Sometime into the trip, I raise my eye mask to check the time and sip some water.  The young man, whose name I still do not know, asks if he can have my notebook.  I give it to him and doze back off. It's a late night flight and with the delay I am tired.  I had no idea what he'd do with my pad, it was filled with notes and personal essays and poems, but I trusted the ask.  When I readied for landing, he handed the pad back to me and he was beaming.

This delightful young man, who had just penned his first poem had drawn me a picture that he said was based on my "Launch"  poem.  "See the rocket?"  "See the ocean?"  "See the beach?"  Yes I do!  And I also see your name is Angel, and thank you for the drawing and thank you for signing your name.  That is what an artist does.  And you young man are a wonderful artist.

Finally on the ground in Denver, everyone is sleepy and shuffling about, gathering items from the overhead, checking our surroundings.  A young mom travelling with two little boys, maybe ages three and five, if I had to guess, smiles at me and I smile back.  She hands me a small folded wad of paper and says this is for you and please wait until you get home to read it.  I simply say thank you.

My friend picks me up at this ungodly hour.  I am quiet.  I am reminiscing about my trip and the flight on the ride back to my apartment.  I am so tempted to unfold the paper and read the message from the mommy who sat one row up from Angel, his dad and me.  But I wait.  I suspect it is magical, a gift of sorts, and I want to honor her wishes.  By the time I am home (and dealing with a beeping smoke detector - could that battery dying have waited one more day?) I'm too exhausted to even think about anything but my bed.

Over coffee the next morning, in the chair where I have written much prose and prose, I unfold my note from a stranger:

 Maybe travel is a bit magical after all. 

 And that is the power of poetry.

Time to Write,

Jane

Ode to a T

My dad and brother wore white T-shirts under their button down oxfords in the sixties.  My brother even wore those T's at Idlewild Swim Club, because his skin was fair and my mother pre-invented UV protection clothing by insisting on the undershirt, in the hazy East Coast sun.  When these BVD's wore thin, got a hole or yellowed - I am not sure what my mother's criteria was - they became rags.  For dusting, saturating with Pledge, attacking the oven.

She didn't leave them intact.  She'd notch them, but I can't remember how...  her teeth?  Scissors?  When finally able to grab both sides she'd rip the fabric in two, and repeat the process until the desired size of tattered T was achieved.  I remember that tearing sound.  The insistent grating noise of cotton weaving torn asunder.   In retrospect I think my mom enjoyed the auditory output of her efforts.  She certainly did it enough.

Those shreds would be used for household tasks until they were deemed worthy of the trash bin.  Looking back I can say my mom was reducing, reusing, recycling.  But that chat didn't exist in the sixties.  Instead she was being frugal, in a manner I am sure she inherited from her immigrant mother.  With more thought to money than the earth Bubbes, Grand-Meres and Omas utilized this thrifty technique out of a sense of practicality.  Not social justice.

Maybe having a partial  piece of my dad's clothing conjured images of her at-work husband and brought comfort in her suburban ennui.  Perhaps violently ripping something he wore pleasured her; gave an outlet to emotions she could not express in a post-war, pre-women's lib society.

In many ways I too practice frugality.  I've been known to use an old shirt for a rag, a holey sock for a dust mitt.  Am I emulating the forewomen of my family, or protecting Mother Nature?  I frequently remind myself it is OK to not choose.  In this instance I can be both environmental and sentimental.

Ah. Youth Poetry.

I'm a double rebound to Denver and the metroplex.  I lived here in the late 70's / early 80's.  In 1998 I returned to the metro area for one year, living in Lakewood, before heading south to Colorado Springs for a long stint.  The summer of 2015 found me 'burbing it in Centennial, almost Littleton really.  And I've been here ever since.

My first foray to Denver as a newly expired teenager were the days of poor.  Housing was cheap, roommates were easy to find, beer was the Silver Bullet.  Entertainment wasn't too high-brow.  Celebrity on Colorado Boulevard or the Alley at Cin City.  My now ex, then boyfriend, and I would take long drives into the mountains for a day's enjoyment, stopping at places like the Elusive Wapiti or Little Bear for a bargain burrito or burger.

It wasn't until I had children that I considered purchasing memberships at arts and cultural institutions.  That year in Lakewood had me splurging on The Denver Botanic Gardens and The Butterfly Pavilion.  We'd go for backpack Saturdays at the Denver Art Museum and checked out the newly arrived venue of Ocean Journeys.  It was the planting of a small philanthropic seed.  Join organizations to support them, as well as not stress if a fussy kid or hunger pangs forced an early departure.

Fifteen years of southern Colorado living had me joining The Fine Arts Center and enjoying intimate shows at Theatreworks.  These were probably the busiest mommy and working years of my life.  It seemed I had less time and more money.  I yearned to enjoy the amenities a fair-sized city had to offer, but girl scouts, and football, and class parties ate into the little free time I had.

But this living in the south suburban Denver area has me indulging in memberships of all sorts.  I joined The Denver Art Museum, The Denver Botanic Gardens and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science.  Initially I loved going for an hour or two, here and there.  Then Denver got busy, then busier, and exploded into a hot mess of transplants.  Every trip to nurture culture was an exercise in patience.  One Mother's Day my friend Gail and I circled the parking lot of DMNS so many times we were singing "Arthur's Theme" - getting caught between the moon and NYC.  We finally made our way into the lobby and the line would rival Disney at Spring Break.

My last trip to the Denver Art Museum was for the Dior exhibit.  First we were herded into a holding pen, while waiting on headsets.  Then we were put into another claustrophobic space to be oriented.  Then we were let loose in the gallery, where I was pushed out of people's way and had my heels 'bit' by strollers the size of loveseats.  I lasted 14 minutes.  Which came to one dollar per minute at the member rate of admission.  An email to membership addressing my concerns was ignored.

These three memberships all come due in the fall, and guess what?  I have decided not to renew any of them.  I have made a conscience choice to support literary endeavors in 2020.  For me that means renewing my membership in The Poetry Society of Colorado and Lighthouse Writer's Workshop.  I paid for an extended membership of Poetry West, based in Colorado Springs.  I've only made it to one workshop, but I intend to attend more as time and motivation allows.  Recently I donated a Ben Franklin to a youth poetry project.

I've been writing since Mrs. Whidden introduced the poem Trees by Joyce Kilmer to my third-grade class.  No one ever encouraged me to write; poetry was presented as an obscure endeavor.  A code to be cracked.  Asking kids to decipher haikus and couplets did nothing to further my interest.  It was organic, though I didn't know that then.  It seems a natural fit for me to support youngsters and young adults to express themselves through word art.

My renewals for myriad artistic institutions came due this fall.  And since procrastination is my nature, I just tossed them aside to have a think about continuing to contribute.  I'm a word artist, literary lover and poetry appreciator.  Shouldn't my hard earned retirement dollars go to causes that are close to my heart?  Less obscure than the puzzle that (for me) is visual art?  Don't get me wrong, I love all art forms - including tattoos, though I don't sport any!

Since my granddaughter lives close to The Butterfly Pavilion it seemed a good fit to join there.  I've been twice with her already.  It is a lovely, mellow outing for J'ma and Miss P.  But that pleading pile of renewals is still on the desk, awaiting my checks.  I am opting out for now.

If I decide a trip to the DAM or DMNS or the Gardens is in order, I'll just fork over the daily fee.   But I suspect I'll skip the trip and stay home and write instead.

Time to Write,

Jane

Maybe it's me...

I am a frustrated poet.  Not because of so called writer's block.  Or an inability to conjure subject matter.  Contrarily, I am never at a loss for poetic ideas.  Just look at the world!  My grandchildren constantly provide great prompts.  Reading poetry and craft books are also muse worthy.   Listen to conversations.  By the way, that is not considered eavesdropping, it is research & development.

My angst is a bit external.  Circumstances beyond my control, but in my purview.  Specifically, it is the way my poetry is 'professionally' perceived.  I am a member of a statewide poetry society and they sponsor both member only and open contests.  When I first became a member of this society I was excited to enter a contest for a mere five dollar investment.  I looked forward to the judges comments as a way to better my work.  I grew wary when comments seemed generic - they used to be read aloud - and so many poets seemed to have glaringly similar critique.

It made me wonder who are these judges?  Anonymous academics?  Friends of friends of friends?  People looking to get rich by reading poetry at two bucks a pop?  Due to the nature of blind judging, I would not learn, nor did I want to know, the identity of these folks.  I wanted to know more about their credentials, their writerly life, their interest in being an invisible part of our contest process.

I even recommended a potential evaluator to one of our contest chairs.  This would lead me to the belief that becoming a member of our little club was actually more difficult than being chosen as a monthly decision maker of the best works submitted.  I can't recant the details here.  I want to remain a member in good standing and don't want to out the offender of my sensibilities.

Fast forward to this past Saturday.  I had a poetically filled day.  Beginning with my 'club's' monthly meeting and segueing to a joint venture between a local art club and poets.  I had taken a self-imposed hiatus from entering contests.  I am very good at silent, unseen protests and this seemed like a good opportunity to practice a character defect.  I'll show them!  They'll never get an Abe Lincoln from me again.  Of course only I knew this so it was a relatively ineffective opposition.

I had submitted a poem, a good one in my own never to be humble opinion, and had high hopes of procuring the prize money.  Instead my poem was returned to me with three terse judges comments.  The middle comment said my poem was more like prose than a poem.  OK.  This pissed me off.  A sestina is a relatively difficult poetic form with repeating end words.  Six stanzas of six lines each ending with an envoi, or send-off.  Perhaps by the nature of the format, sestinas read a bit like prose, but dammit!  I think a person judging poetry should be familiar with the various forms.  I handed the poem to a member who helps to find judges.  I asked her to ask the judge if he/she knew what a sestina was, and a few other questions I had based on the other comments.  I refused to bring the poem home with me, because I did not want to give the copy with outside comments any energy.  Let it go.

Then it was time to attend the joint ekphrastic venture of poets who wrote to artwork.  I had time to spare, so I arrived early to take a look at mine and other entrants poetry.  My first poem was in the beginning of the show and straight away I could see the poem had been centered down the middle of the page.  A deviance of how I formatted and submitted the work.  On to my other two submissions: one was just how I intended - perfect.  But my poem River looked completely askew.  In this poem I had played with formatting and punctuation.  I was pleased with the look and expected it would be printed in the manner presented.  Instead, it too was centered and boy!  Did it look odd.

I found an official looking artist, and she told me to find another woman.  But instead of searching for the person who took artistic license to alter my poems, I proceeded to the information desk at the front of the library.  The librarian assisted me in procuring a guest login and I paid for two B&W copies in advance.  I accessed my google account and printed my poems in the way I had intended.  adding the information that the art club had included - the artists name and name of the piece.  Was that a typo of the artist's work title?  Yes!  I made the correction to be as accurate as possible.

Now instead of finding the liaison to launch a complaint, I simply presented her with newly minted copies of my poetry in the way I intended the visual fields to be presented.  While not exactly impolite, she was miffed.  I had to endure the explanation of space allowed, and does it matter, and one of my new copies won't fit in the sleeve...  Not my problem.  I just smiled and said let's make this work.  I got fresh scotch tape from a different librarian.  I stood and watched as she switched out her altered copies for my accurate depictions.  I smiled and thanked her.  Was it obvious how annoyed I was?  Probably.

My fellow poets started filing in.  I was having that internal, eternal debate.  The angel in me wanted to keep quiet about the debacle.  The devil wanted me to bitch and moan.  No need to wonder what to do.  Others were not happy with the reformatting of their artwork - word art, if you will.  I announced that I too was upset about the alteration of my poetry - but I reprinted, re-presented and took care of my own business.  As a former event planner, this get it done and get it done right attitude is embedded in my DNA.

So - why don't I get any respect?  Judges don't recognize my poems as poetry.  Artists alter my work to fit an arbitrary format.  Is this a me issue or a them issue?  It is situations like this that rock my poetic serenity.  Am I on the right track?  Is poetry my dialect, as I like to tell people who ask about my way of speaking.  Should I be even remotely concerned about what other people think of me and/or my poetry?

Last night I participated in a Sober Sessions Open Mic at Free Spiritual Community.  I read two poems that were warmly received not just by attendees but by the fellow poets, who were awesome.  Maybe part of being an artist, and I do consider my poetry art, is finding the right audience.  I don't need to have my feathers fluffed, but I like to be respected.  I welcome constructive feedback that says more about my work than the person giving it.

I'm done with the contest aspect of the poetry society.  I'm a lover of using visual art as a prompt for my work, so even though the process was a bit bumpy, I'd work with this club again.  I'd just be more forthright in my expectations.  As an event planner I lived and died by two things; the clock and the contract.  I will utilize these skills to effectively communicate the expectation and implementation of how my work is to be presented.  Problem identified, solved, and moving on!

For Now?

Time to Write,

Jane

The Brush Off

I pride myself on being organized.  I used to be an event maven, and I know the value of planning, timelines and thinking ahead.  That is why I 'flipped' my closet from summer to winter almost two months ago.  Colorado is fickle and the weather is capable of catching one off guard.  But not this chicky.

I've lived at altitude long enough to know that capris and a tank top can be worn on warm January days and winter coats may be necessary in September.  Or on Mother's Day.  It's happened!  I always leave a pair of flip flops handy to don after an afternoon pedicure and a bathing suit is a year-round necessity for me.  Our sunshine is notoriously brilliant and even on days that never break past 25 degrees a sweater, scarf and hat may be all I need to stay comfy for running errands or a short jaunt to the mailbox.

We had an early, icy snow about two weeks ago.  My car spends evenings under a carport and I frequently don't need to de-ice or sweep snow.  It all depends on the wind and the type of precipitation.  I'm happy that scraping is not an every snow occurrence.  My hands don't like it - RA makes repetitive motions difficult and often painful.

In addition to switching my closet, I do a few other winterizing chores.  I make sure my tires are well-treaded, all fluids are full, my tank is topped off.  I don't enjoy pumping gas in the frigid wind, and it is always windy when I get gas!  I take the oil-filled electric heater out of the storage unit on my back deck.  I buy some cans of soup for days I don't want to make stock from scratch.  The tea stash is well supplied - decaf coffee is in the house!  I pride myself in being as ready as one can be in an unpredictable, high desert climate.

So how is it that I came to find myself sans snow brush a few days ago?  My trusty red handled snow brush on one end - ice scraper on the other was missing in action.  Last year my youngest daughter declared this ice scraper was a POS* and I needed a better tool.  That is because I had to park without benefit of overhead protection.  It was a good enough for me in most weather kind of implement.  I'll admit I am frugal.  Why buy something new if my old one still works well enough most times?  I'm not of the Amazon generation.  Think of something I need - turn to google or an app - press buy and wait a ridiculously short amount of time for said item to magically appear.

That is how I found myself using a gym towel to clear my windshield yesterday.  This came about because I went to the YMCA early and the storm was light when I left my house.  I wasn't thinking ahead.  I guess I am losing my touch as a self-proclaimed boy scout.  You know - be prepared.  I'm in the locker room recovering from a vigorous workout and a delightful steam and the  chatter is about the storm and how heavy it is snowing.  It dawns on me.  Shite!  I have no idea where my ice scraper is.

I've been in the storage closet and didn't even think to look.  I doubted it was in my car, because I am in my car all the time.  I forage in my trunk enough to doubt it is there either.  So where in the Sam Hill is it?  I'm considering the millennial solution - pick one on-line and get a replacement delivered.  I live in a large enough metro area that it might even qualify for a same day grey van appearance.  But the compassionate me thinks that I don't want to drive (anymore) today.  How could I expect someone else to indulge my lack of being ready for winter?

I trudge out my back door.  Wow - there is a hefty snowfall back there.  Lucky for me there is a dust pan on the porch.  It serves as a mini-shovel.  I clear enough snow to open the storage doors and take more than a cursory look.  I do not see the dang thing.  I'm perplexed.  Is this a sign that I am supposed to buy a newer, better mousetrap?  (I mean scraper)  Does it mean my days of bragging about preparedness and superior time management skills are definitively over?

Whenever I feel frustration building.  I practice the three P's.  Pause.  Ponder.  Progress.  A few deep breaths and a cup of hot tea are all I need to know that this is not a big deal.  I've already thrown the ice encrusted gym towel in the washer and it will surreptitiously makes its way back to the Y tomorrow.  No need to announce my faux-pas to the front desk staff and explain why I am bringing their property in through the front door.  I do the mature thing.  It is shoved in my gym bag, I will lay on it in the steam room and return it to the dirty towel bin.  No one the wiser.

This morning the scraper was still on my mind.  In single digit, snowy weather I find myself head deep in my trunk.  I have a red milk box that holds boots, a scarf, gloves and other winter gear.  It also holds a couple of bungee cords and a dog leash, which actually came in very hand when I rescued a pup running on Garden of the Gods Rd. a few years back, so don't laugh!  There are some respiratory masks in case of fire; I have personal experience with how handy these can be as well.  It did not take much rummaging to find my elusive snow brush.  Reunited in time to clear my front windshield of some ice.  Brush residual snow off the side windows.  I am giddy while I do this - I don't feel the frigidity of the morning through the too thin gloves I donned.

One more thing.  Where is my newspaper?  It too has been MIA for three mornings...

Time to Write,

Jane

*POS - Piece of Shit