K.C. Barked at Airplanes

A long time ago, there was a dog called K.C. who lived in a house in the place over which airplanes flew. K.C. noticed the airplanes, he barked at them, and they went away, so he taught all the other dogs to bark at them.

One of the dogs who learned it from K.C. was Ranger. Ranger came to live with me, along with his sister, Misty. (Misty just pretended to bark at airplanes; she was quite near-sighted). But Ranger barked at airplanes.

Then we ended up with Pippin, somebody else’s puppy. Pippin didn’t see all that well either, but his hearing was phenomenal. He learned to bark at airplanes.

Then the hound showed up. Now she could see. Lacey isn’t very bright on her own, but she was quick enough to copy the others, so she barked at the airplanes.

Then we moved, and we moved to a place where airplanes don’t fly over all that often.

A helicopter just went over. Lacey just taught Laddie to bark at airplanes.

K.C. passed at the very end of 1991. But we’re still barking at airplanes.

They Don’t Tell You About the Fingerprints

As the baby boomer generation is aging, we’re being told lots of things about the process. Menopause is no longer taboo; we’re educated about heart disease and osteoporosis; I know far more than I ever expected to know about prostates, given that I don’t have one.

There’s lots of information about the cumulative effects of sun exposure to our skin and to our eyes. In fact, there’s lots of information about the cumulative effects of just about everything.

What nobody talks about is fingerprints. They wear off! Really. Sure, they don’t go away completely, but have you noticed that the paper has gotten slipperier over the years? Does it seem as if tumblers need to be grasped more tightly? Do you catch yourself about to lick a finger to get traction?

I kept cleaning the trackball on my mouse because it didn’t seem to be rolling properly. The problem is not the trackball. It’s my thumb, which wants to slide over the surface instead of moving it. In fact, the prints are more worn on my right thumb than on my left.

Humph.

A Little Slapstick

I don’t sleep late on the weekends anymore, at least not often.  The older I get the harder I find it to force myself to try to live in violation of my body’s natural rhythms.  Those are not of the early bird persuasion, so giving in just makes it that much harder to come back.

On Saturday I got up about the usual time, came downstairs and started on the coffee and breakfast routine.  Because I am a slow starter I’d already been at it for awhile when my husband appeared.

As he headed for the coffee pot, I decided it was about time for my third cup.  Since I am a creature of habit, I knew where I was in the routine.  At least I thought I did.

I picked up my cup and, just for fun, decided to have a good stretch.

And dumped half a cup of lukewarm coffee on my own head.

We laughed even longer than it took to clean up the mess.

Child of the Cold War

I was born in 1956 and grew up near the port city of Philadelphia.

I had the good fortune to attend public schools where there was none of that nonsense about hiding under desks. We were taught what a first strike zone was, that we were in one, and what that meant. We were also taught to how to exercise a little dignity in preparation for the day when it would be needed.

What we weren’t taught was how to deal with a world in which the Cold War was over.

When it did end, I remember having a hard time visualizing a world in which I might live a full span of years. I also remember deciding that it was probably pointless to try to do so as something else was likely to come along which would foreshorten the time.

There were times when I would begin to wonder about that foreshortening, but then someone would come along and blow up part of New York and I’d slide back into my comfort zone.

Now, at 51, I’m no so sure.

I’ve reached an age I’m already not supposed to have lived to be, according to that early life script. I’m finding it quite uncomfortable.