A person needs to have some advice to lean upon, especially when times are tough.  What now seems to me to be “a long, long time ago,” I asked my students to write a theme about some good advice they received from some one they respected or admired.  Many wrote about bits of wisdom given them by their grandparents. Others wrote about coaches they had in various sports. I was amused, inspired, and humbled.  Is it possible that what we say, often inadvertently, is taken seriously by some person somewhere?  It seems so.

     My father had a little saying he always shared. It was “keep-a-going.”  He lived to be ninety-seven, so he certainly followed his heart.  I have a notebook/journal in which I jot down bits of sage wisdom or proverbs.  Some are delightfully silly—such as “Brother Ben shot the rooster and killed the hen”—and some speak to deeper matters such as the Chinese proverb, “If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrows.”  
 
     I was told once by someone in my family that I had inherited my father’s philosophic bent. Perhaps true. He was widely read, a fine thinker, having won medals on his college debate team, back in the last century.   I do believe that my teaching literature and writing did reflect more my interpretation of themes than rigorous rules about grammar or punctuation, although I did admonish my students the lesson my Florida writer friend shared with me. He said, “People who know, know.” He was talking about correct grammar and such.  So, yes, I did stress some of the rules, but I loved talking about the themes in the fiction and the classics we read.

     There are times when a person needs advice to lean upon, and if literature doesn’t give it to you, then you need to talk with a farmer. Farmers seem to know everything about nature, life and death, planting and harvesting, weather, and common sense applications.  I am amazed to know that this wonderful earth is being tended by people who appreciate dirt, water, seeds, and bees.  Recently a truck hauling crates of bees overturned in Canada, and there was a real buzz trying to get the queen bee corralled.  The world’s existence in some form or another depends upon those pollinators.  It’s a theme about life.
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     When considering themes, there are common ones, such as good vs. evil, love, redemption, loss of innocence, revenge, courage and perseverance, war, death, among others.  Having heard a friend talk about the end of the world recently, I began to feel pessimistic about our times. Then it came to me. The best advice ever:  “Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep; Do not be arrogant but associate with the lowly; Do not claim to be wiser than you are.” Paul wrote those words, and they will carry you through most situations.  But consider Brother Ben:  did Brother Ben shoot AT the rooster but killed the hen by mistake or did he shoot the rooster and by doing so, distressed the hen so much that she died?  It could be a theme worth exploring ---but only if you have idle time.
 

      Usually every spring we hear the wrens. They come, build their nests in the various birdhouses we have, and also in the most unlikely places in our garage.  Then, we listen to the chirps of the baby wrens, witness the feeding, weaning, and the learning how to fly. After they leave, we have a short quiet spell, then the wrens build a second nest. But not so this year.  We never got wrens this year.  Some friends tell us the late winter was one reason. Others say it was the odd spring. Several say it’s because of climate change. They   told us the birds would come, but they would be late.  But, the wrens didn’t come or if they did, not one graced our home. Yet, here in August, the other evening while on our deck, I heard a familiar chirp in a nearby tree.  It was a wren. It was alone. It was the only wren we’ve seen this season. I really would like to know why we didn’t get wrens.

      The other day, I went on a mini-trip to see a play in a historic building. The play was “Lend Me a Tenor” and it was performed in the Tibbits Opera House in Michigan. It was well cast, well performed, and well attended.    Our seats were in the center with a good view of the stage. A group of elderly citizens in a tour group was seated in front of us with a bit of their overflow in our row.  The gentleman from the tour group seated next to us turned out to be the uncle of one of our former employees. What a coincidence.  We got to talking and discovered the gentleman was 97 years old, dapper, and delightful.  I really would like to know how we were so lucky.

      Heading home from our trip, we decided to meander through the countryside, and explore “the road not taken.” Spread before us were beautiful fields, barns, horses, swamps, forests, and ever so often, a lone but determined bicyclist. It was Americana at its best. I felt renewed seeing such lush scenery. How could it be, I wondered, that amidst the current theater of the absurd where everyone seems to have their hair on fire, why more people, the media included, have not shared news about this wonderful country. In an odd way, however, maybe it’s a good thing it hasn’t been shared with the firebrands.  I would like to know.

       Driving home a deer jumped out at the car. I missed it, but it made me reconsider my feelings about deer. They are pretty, but there are too many of them. To quote a recent article [WSJ-July 29-30, 2023-Michelle Slatalla] “In the past century the deer population has exploded up from 500,000 white-tailed deer in the early 1900s to 15 million today.” The reason for this is their natural predator is the mountain lion. I really don’t want to know about mountain lions. 

     There was a little plaque in my parents’ home with Elizabeth Cheney’s verse that read like this:  “Said the Robin to the Sparrow, ‘I should really like to know, / Why these anxious human beings, /Rush about and worry so.’  /Said the Sparrow to the Robin, ‘Friend, I think that it must be, / That they have no Heavenly Father/ Such as cares for you and me.’”  The plaque had a drawing of the robin and the sparrow.  As a child, I liked thinking about the sparrow’s point of view. I still do. 

       Sometimes a person has to vent!  I nearly went into orbit the other day when I discovered my hosta plants, my tiger lilies, and my roses were shorn and mowed down by a herd of hungry deer. Oh yes, we live on a flood plain, and yes, we see animals of all sorts out there. We’ve got the proverbial raccoons, skunks, and opossums that nose into my potted plants and yard looking for grubs. We’ve got squirrels and rabbits. A family of foxes lives down near Cedar Creek, the little creek behind our property that’s a tributary of the St. Joseph River that flows into the city of Fort Wayne that meets up with the St. Mary’s River and the Maumee River. The three rivers run in a northeasterly direction and empty into Lake Erie.  Here behind my house it’s just a creek that once was home to 27 species of freshwater mussels Native American Indians – the Potawatomi --appreciated.  But I digress. 
       We also have deer. They are most visible in the winter, but during this time of year, they wander up the ravine into the yards and even down the street throughout the neighborhood.  I find them nibbling and chewing their way happily, their white-tails flashing as we shoo them away. The way our lot is arranged on this big earth is that the back side of our yard is officially in the country, and our front yard is officially in the city. Ah, so technically, hunting could occur in the back yard but not the front. Of course, we wouldn’t shoot deer or anything because we’re not that sort and we live in a pleasant neighborhood, but sometimes the thought crosses my mind especially when the flowers I so carefully tended are chomped down like an insult.  So, yes, sometimes a person has to vent!   
                And now that I have, I will move on to another topic which is much dearer to my heart, one I can accept with joy:  America the beautiful.  Although half the world seems aflame with violence, hatred, insults, and jeers, this is still a beautiful world. It’s the fourth of July, and our country is celebrating its 247th birthday.   In most towns thee are little festivals, community bands, churches, parks, schools, and hotdog stands.  Kids still play; theaters stage performances, and my husband plays his cornet.  In the mornings he stands by the back door and plays “Reveille” and in the evening, he plays “Taps.”  The deer look up and watch and listen.  What can I say? What can I do?   The answer is to plant marigolds!  Deer don’t seem to like marigolds.                                                          

     Last February after scanning the rules, I decided to submit a 10-min play in a competition.  Ten plays would be selected and performed on stage in late June (2023).  The deadline was February 28th. I had plenty of time. I submitted my play with high expectations. After all, I had two characters, one simple set, and my play fit the time limit. The overall theme was to occur in a waiting room. I selected a bus terminal. 
      The important thing was that something significant had to happen to each character or to the plot within those ten minutes.  Mine did.  My main problem was selecting a title of my play. It had to be a clue and hook people into wanting to know what was happening or going to happen.    
     Normally, when I submit something—a play, story, book, poem, essay, or an article--- I submit and forget about it and work on another project.  That’s the nature of a writer’s life. I have had many, many rejections and am accustomed to rejection letters and emails, but golly geez… for some reason I had a good feeling about this particular play.
      On a lark, I made motel reservations so that I could be there --- some 400 miles away from my home.  I figured the trip could qualify as a mini-vacation.  It certainly would surprise my husband since we weren’t able to take a regular vacation due to some health issues.  Also our dear cat had died a couple of years earlier, and we had not adopted a new pet. Even though we visited the local Humane Shelter several times, I refused to bring home a cat until “after” our mini-vacation. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about a pet care-taker. 
     When I shared with a friend who also writes plays that I’d made motel reservations, we both laughed hilariously.
      My play was not selected.   
     I picked up the phone and cancelled my reservations. A good thing too.  For every door that closes, another one opens.   Since then, I’ve tweaked my little play and made it better. I’ve shared it with some people, and they like it.  Thing is, I like it too. I’ve changed the title three times, and I’m fairly satisfied with my latest pick.  I’ve had the best time fooling with these ten pages. I’ve cut dialogue, changed a couple of lines that widened the plot, and I gave the ending a better resolution. 
      I’m still amused at myself, but I’m relieved I don’t have to drive 400 miles on a mini-vacation to a place I never considered visiting.  Instead, I’m lining up a mini-vacation to a destination I do want to see, and I’m going back to the Humane Shelter “after” this little trip.
       Yes, of course I’m still tweaking my play.  I’m going to submit it to another competition.  Its current title is “Apple Wine.”  I thought of using “Apple Cider” and/or “Apple Vinegar" but I like “Apple Wine” better.  Like all writers do, however, I still may change it. Unlike an architect or builder, I can change my work.  The builder’s solution, as I read in a humorous essay one time, is to grow ivy over his or her  mistake.
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     I am sharing a little message I received from a friend Karen N. I asked her if I could use it as a blog. I think it applies to many of us. It's a wonderful look into what was a golden time.  Here's what she shared. Enjoy.

      I grew up in Indiana and never once questioned my mom and dad’s income, it was never a discussion. We didn't eat a lot of fast food because it was considered a treat, not a food group. We drank Kool-Aid made from water that came from our kitchen sink with real sugar. We ate PB&J & grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs, but mostly homemade meals consisting of meat, potatoes, and vegetables .
 
       We grew up during a time when we mowed lawns, pulled weeds, babysat, helped neighbors with chores to be able to earn our own money. We by no means were given everything we wanted.

      We went outside a lot to play, ride bikes, run with friends, play hide and seek, or went swimming. We rarely just sat inside. We drank tap water from the water hose outside, bottled water was unheard of. If we had a coke, it was in a glass bottle, and we didn’t break the bottle when finished.

       We watched TV shows like Leave It To Beaver, Gilligan's Island, Happy Days, Bewitched, The Brady Bunch, Looney Tunes, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Sanford and Son, and Disney on Sunday night, McHales Navy, Andy Griffith, and I Love Lucy. Mom decided everything we watched or didn’t watch. After school, we came home and did homework and chores, before going outside or having friends over. We would ride our bikes for hours. I had to tell our parents where we were going, who we were going with, and be home when the street lights came on!
 
      You LEARNED from your parents instead of disrespecting them and treating them as if they knew absolutely nothing. What they said was LAW, and you did not question it, and you had better know it!

         We watched what we said around our elders because we knew if we DISRESPECTED any grown-up we would get our behinds whipped, it wasn't called abuse; it was called discipline! We held doors, carried groceries, and gave up our seat for an older person without being asked. You didn't hear curse words on the radio in songs or TV, and if you cursed and got caught you had a bar of soap stuck in your mouth.   

        “Please," "Thank you," "yes please," "no thank you," were part of our daily vocabulary!

     The world we live in now is just so full of crooked people, hate and disrespect for others. I will never forget where I came from and only wish children now days had half the chance at the fun and respect for real life we grew up with!
     
​        And we were never bored!

​                It is important to have friends. It is important to know people. It is important to have professionals who know how to take care of our safety, health, cars, insurance, legal, and banking needs, and most especially, the education of our children.  It’s also important to have a handyman who can come and help when little things occur such as a window screen that blows off during a high wind storm, change a fluorescent light bulb, repair a rail, or move a tree that fell into the yard.  I found that handyman, and I’ve told him several times how I appreciate his help. I also pay him.
                 One time the front lock on our door jammed and the entire lock system had to be changed. Another handyman came and fixed it. In fact, he had a card that read “Mr. Fixit.”  He was busy all the time. Trust me, there is nothing more satisfying than knowing there is someone a person can call upon for help.
                 There are also people who focus on and help us with our spiritual needs. It seems appropriate during this month of Eastertide to mention that spiritual needs speak to a range of needs—peace, a sense of awe, a sense of fulfillment, purpose, and a sense of feeling loved.  These feelings can come by means of music, literature, friendship, nature, family, and or course, one’s faith.  Listening to performances of Chopin’s “Ballades” gives that feeling to me. Reading a story or a poem that speaks to one’s inner needs is important nourishment.  A hike in the outdoors or simply sitting on one’s porch watching the sunset or sunrise can fulfill a need.
                I came across a little poem the other day that I think summarizes the appreciation that most people experience.  It was written by my father at some point in his life. (He died in 1980.)  At any rate, he was an accomplished man, very humble and very educated.   I will share it with you:
I’m thankful:
                For home, books, and friends,
                For forest, field, and flowers,
                For breezes that blow, and
                For gentle showers…
I’m thankful:
                For the glory of Fall
                For the inspiring Spring
                For birds that sing---
                Yes, I’m thankful for everything.
 
                It’s a simple poem but it speaks to what was important to not only him but also to poets and writers of every stripe and nation.  April is NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, so in spite of the chaos of national politics and international conflicts, disasters, and tragedies, if one truly examines  life,  it does seem to boil down to nature, home, friends, words,  and music.  Poets are handy with words, and sometimes their lines like Mr. Fixit help us adjust and express our feelings. Happy National Poetry Month!

 For many who’ve tuned into the news, it seems our world and culture is unraveling. Change is everywhere, and much of it is not good.  My daughter and I got to talking about the word “bad” versus “badly.”  I told her I read somewhere that one easy way to remember the difference between “bad” and “badly” is to think of “badly” as being able to feel some object or item with one’s hands.  If deep in one’s heart, someone senses sorrow, grief, or guilt, he feels “bad.” Bad is an adjective, meaning inferior or poor such as a bad check, a bad cold, bad news. Badly is an adverb, denoting “very much.”  If a person feels bad, he is not well.  If a person feels badly, that means he is not smoothly touching something.
               Of course I had some help from a columnist in our newspaper who writes about words, grammar, and usage and by checking an old handbook I  found stashed on my shelf. The Plain English HAND BOOK by Walsh was revised and published in 1959.  It states previous issues were in 1951, 1946, and 1939.  That’s WW II times!  The handbook went on to become a reliable reference throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, and now, here for me in 2023. Amazing! 
                I found it interesting that the opening line of the Preface reads as follows:  “This is the complete handbook containing all rules, definitions, and illustrations necessary to the mastery of functional grammar and usage.”   Those editors would never recognize words we use today.  I remember when words such as ‘cyber,” “modem,” and “nerd” were new. The dictionary recently added more than 300 words found in our daily usage, pop-culture, and politics. SCRABBLE players can vouch for many of them. Consider a few added in 2023: “rage farming,” “nearlywed,” “hellscape,” and “liminal space.”
                When I was in the 9th grade, I certainly didn’t know the difference between bad or badly, but I did know when something was “good.”  Children were taught to be “good.”  Bad was something nobody wanted to be.  When I look at the world today I ask, is our world and culture good or bad?  Is it unraveling? If so, what WAS it previously?  I’m sure it was bad back then and even before then.   Evil has existed since the beginning of time, otherwise, why would there be a need for a Redeemer?  But that’s another subject.  Evil is rampant, yes, as witnessed by headlines in newspapers about murders, pedophiles, and such. But that also is another subject.
                  “Blood leads” is a term for journalists.  It makes headlines. Think of the line at the grocery store and the magazines that feature scandals, mayhem, and blood. Today it may be the Murdaugh trial, some celebrity, or tragedy, but tomorrow there will be other deeds to cover.  In spite of all that happens, there is much good in this world, more than we can fathom.  People are basically good-hearted, sympathetic, helpful, and generous.  The definition of good is “having positive or desirable qualities” such as beneficial, helpful, excellent.  There is good news and bad news. I guarantee, if you look for what is good, you will find and experience it.  Really good books dwell on good, bad, and evil themes and characters.  They often become classics. And what makes a classic a classic?  That also is another subject.  

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Recently Peter Funk (of “Candid Camera”) had a piece in the Wall Street Journal bemoaning how companies building electric cars are no longer putting AM radio in their systems.  He reflected how in his youth youngsters couldn’t live without their transistor radios and how people listened to their favorite programs on AM radio.  How difficult it must be for youngsters today to realize there was a time when people didn’t have the computer, internet, or mobile phones.  Remember when a long-distance telephone call caused a person to almost quake with fear because getting a “long distance” call meant some sort of family emergency or death. 

When I was much younger, I sat for several dental students to take their final dental exams at the University of Pennsylvania (I was teaching in a Philadelphia suburb at the time).  In appreciation, the students got together and gave me a transistor radio.    I’ve still got it somewhere.     It is fun to watch old TV programs and note how characters answer or speak on the phone. The really old TV programs show the black square rotary phone. More modern ones show characters using wall phones, then wireless ones, and now the small ubiquitous “smart phones.”  Seems now that everyone has a cell phone and communicates, communicates, and communicates. Fact is, researchers from The U. of California, Irvine, and Microsoft Research, found that people on average check their inboxes 77 times a day. Some things go out of style as innovations occur. Graham Bell and Thomas Edison would not recognize this world. 

 Sometimes when I don’t sleep, I’ll turn on the radio in the middle of the night and listen to Coast to Coast with George Noory.  The other night, I listened to a noted astronomer who has a career making predictions based on his knowledge of astrology.  He explained the various alignments of the planets and predicted a stormy, difficult 2023 and 2024.  In fact, he said that in two years, America might not even exist or it might be a star rising like a phoenix from the ashes.  The predictions were dire.  It all came over AM radio, and I loved listening until I fell asleep.
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When waiting for some appointment, people often flip through magazine pages, appalled at some of the stories.  Others put the magazine down and watch people go by.  I recall someone telling another, “Let’s go to the Mall and watch people.”  That was long ago, when going to the Mall was an occasion. Writers are observant. They have to be in order to develop stories that interest or fascinate.   Truth is stranger than fiction, as the old saw goes.  To be honest, that is so. Truth is, we will have six more weeks of winter. Punxsutawney Phil told us so…. Whether we talk and tell stories via the modern phones, listen to them over Sirius Radio or AM stations, or make up tales about characters we see or imagine, there is a story to be told.  

     Confessions are good for the soul. Here’s one I will make.  Sheepishly, I’ll admit, I got hooked.  I got hooked watching the History Channel’s series, “The Curse of Oak Island.” Of course there is treasure buried on Oak Island, otherwise why would the Laguna brothers—Rick and Marty—and their team spend millions of dollars and dig through muck and stone searching for the money pit?   They have built a dam; they have bored holes; they have researched bits of wood; they have dynamited areas; they have used technology and heavy machinery; they have drained the swamp; and they have captivated millions of viewers who hope they will find buried treasure.  Actually I laugh thinking surely I cannot possibly be hooked, can I, watching people dig holes? 

     In teaching and critiquing manuscripts and writings, I tell students they must have a good hook at the beginning of their stories. In the Oak Island saga, the hook can be termed “the search,” which for some two hundred years has driven people to study the landscape and terrain of that small island off the shores of Nova Scotia. Will it be the Holy Grail? A chest full of gold?  Perhaps the lost manuscripts of Shakespeare’s works?  What I know is the search, the hook as it were, is the story, and in this case, it isn’t fiction.

     Speaking of adventures and holes.   Years ago the librarian in our town (now deceased) told me of an adventure I should take with my children. “Visit the Blue Hole,” she said. “It’s a wonderful short trip from here, and you’ll have a good time.”   So, on a summer day, the family packed up and we traveled east to Castalia, Ohio, where we were informed the “Blue Hole” was located. 

     When we arrived and asked where we should go to see the Blue Hole, the woman in the restaurant –I think it was a Dairy Queen, said she’d never heard of it. Another person, overhearing our conversation, said she knew about it, but that it was “nothing special.”  Off we went, not knowing what to expect. Truly, it was nothing special.  Except it is. From 1920 until it closed in 1990, the Blue Hole was a tourist spot, and some 165,000 visitors came annually to see it.  Alas, we never did see the Blue Hole. What we did see was a little park area, a couple of benches, and a hand pump. It wasn’t the Blue Hole. Later we learned the real Blue Hole, a fresh water pond fed by an artesian spring, had closed, and it was in the private domain of the Castalia Trout Club. We later also learned there are several blue holes in the area.

     Oak Island’s treasure, I understand, has been discovered. I’m still hooked. Like a good story, like a good book, there is intrigue, mystery, good characters, and a plot. Every writer should get hooked on his or her own story. Interestingly enough the Blue Hole is still the subject of articles and questions about its history.   When I talk about watching the digging on Oak Island, my husband likes to say, “Well, well, well --three holes in the ground and it rained.”  I note, however, he seems intrigued. 

I am late writing this blog. I try to get one written each month, but December has almost slipped away , and here I am trying to corral a couple of days left before the end of the year.  My wish for everyone who reads this is summed up in a line or so written by a former U. of Richmond (VA)  alumni who said:
             “My wish is simple: 
             Peace in every nation,
             Joy in every heart
              A mitten on every hand.”

I am going to try to find out her name, as she deserves the credit for putting so much into four lines.

This wish rests on a foundation of hope.  I’ll leave it there even though there are doubts that such successes can ever occur.  Even so, we can hope.  And so the year of 2022 ends.