Red Ribbon, Red Ribbon!

     When cheerleading became more than "Beat Magnolia's Team, Yamma-Yamma," when athleticism in the form on a cartwheel was required for try-outs, I retired my black and gold beanie and pom-poms. While I can talk a good game, I have reached the ultimate conclusion: I am not athletic. Not at all.  Not in the slightest.
      I can not ski, Not snow -not water. I can not run a marathon; I can barely roller skate.
      I can, however, walk. Not and chew gum at the same time, though.
      My first, ever-in-my-whole-life achievement ribbon came at the conclusion of the Helping Hands 5K in Rector over the Labor Day weekend. I won a red ribbon, second place in my age group, plus a personal best in time.
      I was so excited - still am.
      The corker, though, is that I slowed down my pace because my walking partner (hubby) was struggling and we had vowed to finish together.
      My goal for the 5K: I was not going to finish last, not going to let a woman with a baby carriage finish ahead of me. And not be beaten by a dog running along the side of the road.
      I had lengthened my stride and was moving right along. My super competitiveness had me actually contemplating walking off ahead of hubby, but I thought better of it. I mean how would it look for me to leave a husband in the dust while he was pushing through pain?
     We finished together, arms raised, hands clasped. A photo-op for sure!
       
When we picked up our ribbons the next week, (we did not think either of us received a ribbon at all), I got my beautiful red ribbon - suitable for a shadow box frame and portrait lighting. Thing is - he got a blue ribbon.
       Something about that is just not right!

Hollywood Bodies with Black Lagoon Brains

             Recently I read a fabulous tidbit through FB, something about being a “sixty-and counting teen-ager.” Words to the effect: “At last, I have a driver’s license, a car, and no curfew. I can do pretty much whatever I want to do. I’m In Charge of Myself.”

             That reminds me of the time my older son experienced a heaping serving of “teen-age angst.” He was at the mercy of his father who ran late most of the time and drove the vehicle we allowed son to operate. While I wanted to strangle hubby myself, I was giving solidarity my best shot. Son yelled, “I just want to be in charge of my own life!”

            “So do I,” was my thought.

              This morning’s ArkDemGaz carries an article about the teen-age brain. The brain that yearns to make repeatedly bad choices and the body that wants to dress like a cover-model gets up every morning to face another day where up is down and vice-versa. Yes, there is a brain under that mop of disheveled glory. The ArkDemGaz expose’ skims the surface of the issue.

              Years ago, Time magazine carried an entire section entitled The Brain. We, in education, studied that article and conducted primary research, living hour-by-hour with these so-called “young adults.” What we found was nothing akin to “adult” in the teen-age brain.

            These goof-balls sport around in bodies that betray them. The bodies are far more adult-like than the brain. When teachers and parents glance at these teens, they see an adult body in fine form, but what lurks inside is dangerous. These hunks and hunkettes are impulsive, taking risks that defy logic. They spout off at the mouth, drive too fast, stay up too late, and make bad decisions on a regular basis. In fact, what we learned, and what I emblazoned onto a sticky-note is this: “Adolescence is a stage of Childhood.”

                There it is – in a nutshell. Teens are still children. Some delightful youth-monsters do have a genetic pre-disposition for early-onset-adulthood, but they will fool you from time to time. They won’t be grown, really, until they are close to 25 years old.

               Blame it on GMO or Rio, Monsanto, beauty pageants, video games, or selfie sticks, our teenagers are not as mentally mature as we were at their age. Their bodies are straight out of Hollywood, but their brains are somewhere in the Black Lagoon. The young person’s stature is on fast-forward while the brain is still in slow-mo. That makes for a risky combination.

             The article in this morning’s paper is worth reading, but it only skims the surface. Conduct your own research and be grateful that you are a teenager with good sense. 

Captured Memories: High School Yearbooks

            High School Yearbooks – there’s just something about them that captures a memory and loads it into forever.

            This Labor Day, my husband’s class is celebrating the walk to pick up the coveted diploma. It’s been 50 years. His school’s colors were black and gold, like Camden’s colors, so I’ve felt a connection to the class since I met them ten years ago. Marvin saved his black basketball sweater and a gold wool coat the team wore for basketball road games. Their Senior ring was far more stylized than our black onyx center stone design.

            Last night I thumbed through a copy of The Cat’s Paw, 1965, and found quite a number of people I’ve met over these ten years. Jane Kennedy Huffman, classmate, let me borrow her treasure for a few days. I recognized these classmates by their eyes and their smiles. And, of course, the hair styles – we had the same flipped up, side part for the girls. Styles showed more crew cuts among the guys in Rector, but they dressed up for senior photos in sport coats accented with skinny black ties. The style had 1965 written throughout the section.

            Cheerleaders, Majorettes, Choir, Student Council, National Honor Society, all the queens and athletes were pictured. And the teachers. Their memories and my memories are somewhat the same because High School in the mid-1960's rocked to the same tunes.

            This graduating class was the largest ever at Rector, I’ve heard, with over 88 receiving the diploma in May of 1965. The class started out with close to 100 members. The basketball team packed the gym and came in runner-up at the State Tournament. Later, as adults, the two rival teams had a ‘rematch’ which Rector won going away. 

            I look forward to the Class of 1965 Reunion because I have learned much about this class and have real fondness for the classmates I’ve met. It was 10 years ago that I accompanied Marvin to Rector for their Reunion and returned for the Labor Day Picnic. The town and the people charmed me, indeed, and I married into the Rector family. I got a great guy in the bargain.

Lessons from the Nail Salon

While at the nail salon today, I learned about risky color choices from a lady rather advanced in age. She was at the salon to have her "pinking about pink" color refreshed.
Her daughter suggested that the lady consider a change in nail color.
She asked what color I had chosen because "it looks pretty."
I waggled my drying fingernails painted a snazzy, new OPI exotic color, "ready for red," or something close.(see photo)
"Oooh, that's really nice, but if I wear that, people will think I'm a hussy!"
We all laughed and I replied, "Well, if this color morphs me into a hussy, my status will probably change in two weeks!"

Lessons in color: I learned that "blondes have more fun" when I frosted my hair in high school.
But, I did not know my nail polish color could catapult me straight to "hussy."
Wonder what she would have thought of the "peaking at purple" I have on my toes?

Good-bye, Old Buddy; Hello, New Friend

Oh, My Goodness Gracious!
 I killed it. Too much exercise is certain to be the cause.
That, or I drowned it in Lake Wappapello.
The literature indicates the devise is "water resistant" but it did not resist the water.
Instead, it jumped right in with me and paddled around for a while.
It got out with me and sunned a bit.  No complaints.
Then, it just sorta...quit.

Yesterday, it must have been heaving a final hooray because it worked...registered...synced and acted alive and well.
Took a bit longer than normal to charge...just like me.
This morning, however, it had bitten the proverbial dust.

I tapped it.
I double tapped it.
I tapped it a bit harder and a dim light showed.
Eureka! Success!
No, It dimmed more until it faded away.
Rather sad, actually.
RIP: FitBit Flex

I found the box and the receipt (are you shocked?) and the poor little thing had not made it to Birthday one...August 14 would have been one calendar year that I've had Fitbit Flex.
Oh, how I loved earning my badges and getting the messages, "You're a Champ!" or "Hooray."
Never did it message me, though, those 3 beautiful words, "Eat Chocolate Today."

It was my constant companion, encouraging me, monitoring my activity level, reminding me by just being there, on my wrist in its turquoise band, that I should get out of the chair and turn off the computer. Get into the street or the gym. Move! Do Something Active!

The Fitbit Company (I did find a phone number and call to report the death.) said, "Good News! You are eligible for a replacement!"
Oh!  Wow!
That is good news - within 3-5 business days I'll have a new FitBit Flex and I'll be on the road to continued good exercise habits.

Good-bye, Old Buddy, Hello, New Friend!

BTW, I found the coolest charms (jewels!) for FitBit Flex on Esty: check it out -

Unintended Consequences

            Once, there was a young man…

He hooked up with some unsavory characters.

            As a young Army officer from Texas, the man’s ideology got him wrapped up in the politics of the day.

            On the wrong side of history, as it turned out.

            An impassioned idealist, he gave little thought to reality and “unintended consequences.”

            Arrested for his involvement in a dastardly plot against the United States government, he was tried and convicted. Upon hearing the guilty verdict, his mouth overran his brain. His outburst echoed the same rebellious nature and attitude that led to his predicament and his conviction.

            Ever know anyone like that? Ever read a newspaper article or hear a new report about a similar situation? Perhaps someone you know is guilty of exploding epithets when quiet would have been a better choice.

            Good stories transcend generations and provide opportunity for thought, conversation, and self-reflection.

            Who was this young officer? When did his betrayal occur? It might be a surprise to learn that the event which triggered the story took place during the campaign and election of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States.

            That long ago.  Over 150 years, to be exact.

            The writer of the story, Edward Everett Hale, based his fictional account on current events of the period, steeping it in the culture of the time, so much that it read as realism.

Even then, people disagreed over politics, their country’s direction; the difference lies only in the names attached to the sides they favored. The disputes seem altogether familiar.

 Phillip Nolan, the officer Hale imagined, ended up on the wrong side of national sentiment. When Hale’s character heard the verdict of the court, he retaliated with expletives and spoke his own sentence: “D..n the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!”

            And he didn’t.

            Even the uniform buttons on which U.S. was emblazoned were replaced with plain buttons, those words becoming his nickname. He was relegated to various ships in the naval fleet with the officers and enlisted men receiving strict orders as to young officer’s treatment. No harsh treatment. No offensive remarks. Nevertheless, conversation about home or politics must cease in his presence. His reading material was censored for all mention of the USA; any mention of his native land was cut from newsprint. Those naval personnel onboard the ships where he was a passenger came to dread his presence when the trade from one vessel to another transpired. His transfer to the next ship always happened at least 100 miles from the United States mainland.

            In his fifty-plus years aboard ships roaming the oceans of the world, Nolan did mellow. His patriotism created a poignant shrine in his final stateroom. Over time, his demeanor changed from a brash, impetuous hot shot to a humbled patriot. Nevertheless, he was granted no pardon, no clemency, no appeal hearing. His sentence had been absolute and final. His outburst sentenced him to life without a country.

            Did he receive a just sentence from the court?

The short story “The Man Without a Country” by Edward Everett Hale offers opportunity for conversation on a grand scale. Family conversations or neighborhood chats generate discussion about patriotism, divergent opinions, or politics of the day. Put down the cell phone. Don’t tweet. Read the short story. Talk among yourselves. 
          Reactionary verbiage seldom builds a bridge. 
          Speaking in the heat of the moment often brings regret. 
         The subjects for discussion are open.

         “The Man Without a Country” is available for download on Kindle or Nook for Free, perhaps also through your My Library account. Check with your favorite librarian. Revisit this little gem or meet Philip Nolan for the first time.

            Email your perceptions to ellajane.jg@gmail.com

             You are invited to join the conversation.
My column featuring this article was published in the Clay County Times-Democrat last week. I'm sharing it here for multiple reasons...a little test print, if you will. 

New Kid: You Just Never Know

You just never know.

When your front doorbell chimes on Sunday afternoon, who might be paying a visit?
The preacher?
Not this time.

When I opened the door, there stood a pretty young lady, with a fish.
A good sized, yellow goldfish.
In a baggie filled with water.
She held it out like an offering to an unknown god.

Pretty fish - more yellow than gold and a great size.
Seems her daughter had received the fish from a Romeo.
Alas, however, she had no place to keep it, seeing as to its size.
She has Beta, but no place for a 3" x 3" gold fish.

Since her mother had heard from a relative's fiance that we were planning on cleaning out our goldfish pond and were looking for a container to hold the fish while we drained and cleaned the pond, she came to us, bearing a gift.

What? Run that past me again.

We'd been at Adams' Nursery getting some pots to transfer my gigantic ferns and saw some containers in their back lot. We talked to the folks there about the upcoming goldfish pond project, and there you have it. Word was out.

Joining Dot, Dreamsicle, Big Daddy, Jasper, and GreenieWeenie, among others, we have a new gold fish among our menagerie of fantails, speckled orange and white beauties, and butterfly koi,.. I call it New Kid.

And there you have it. What a Serendipity!
You just never know.