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I went to bed too early, last night, and as usually happens, woke from a sound sleep about 2 AM.  Of course, I couldn’t get back to sleep.  Even with the radio on as “white noise.”  I began to think about all of the roles I have, living with family and in my community.  It has turned out to be a long list.

First, and foremost, I am a child of God.  Have been for as long as I can remember, and hope to be, forever.

I was a wife, now a widow (dear Lord, how I HATE that word).  I am a mother and grandmama, a mother-in-law, a sister (we are only two of the six children born to our mother that are still living), a sister-in-law, an aunt and great aunt to family members I don’t even know.

This is a letter that I e-mailed to the CEO of Office Depot.  Remember that said we need to let corporate know when something comes along to disturb and/or anger us.  So, here is one from me.

________________________________

Gerry Smith
CEO
Office Depot

Dear Mr. Smith:

The purpose of this letter is to provide information regarding the new fax set up in your stores.  I am assuming that every currently operating Office Depot store has the same set up.

Time was when to send a fax, the customer walked into the store, filled out a “send” sheet, faxed the information to the proper telephone number, received a confirmation sheet, paid for the process at the check out stand, and left.  Simple process.  Understandable process.  Short process.  Right!

 When is the last time you tried to read the instructions that come with your new medication?  Or, the instructions for putting together a shelving unit?  Or, the instructions for putting together a live trap to catch the new infestation of rats in the wood pile?  We always used to complain about the “fine print” in legal contracts.  You know – “always read the fine print.”  Now, it seems the “fine print” has crept into our daily lives.  The afore mentioned instructions.  The ingredient lists on packaged foods.  Names of addressees on packages.

After spending four weeks of travel to and from Wisconsin (three of them at my #3 daughter’s home), I arrived home to a yellow lawn because it had been rained on only once during my absence.  When I’m gone from home I shut off the water at the main valve.  Strange things can happen in my absence, and I have no wish to come home to a flooded basement.  With the water turned off, I could not ask anyone to water the yard while I was in Wisconsin.  And, so, even though there was a little (very little) rain during that time, the effect on the lawn was pretty devastating.

For years and years, I drove a 1997 Suburban.  Three seats.  Plenty of room to carry art equipment and materials to New Mexico.  Enough room to carry my family in one car to a destination.  Then came the time to trade the Suburban for another vehicle.

I’ve said before that my friends are a treasure of gold to me.  When it was time to get another car, Keith (HM) started looking for a new car.  He really knows where to look.  I made a list of what I wanted in the new car.  It included three seats, plenty of cargo space, four-wheel drive, working air conditioning, radio, CD player, adjustable seats.  “You don’t need three seats, any more,” he said.  He was right.  So, I adjusted the list to two seats, etc.

Years ago – and, I do mean YEARS AGO – Larry, Lee, and I went elk hunting every autumn.  Years before that, Larry and Lee would go, and I would buy something expensive “to get even.”  Even for what?  I don’t know, but I guess that I must have felt put-upon for some reason.  Then, after we started camping and motorcycle riding, I decided I’d join them for hunting.

Lee and Larry set up the camp (tent, porta-potty, etc.).  Larry and Lee made a shepherder’s stove.  It was a barrel with a stove pipe that went through the roof of the tent.  They welded a grate to separate the wood fire from the ashes.  It kept the tent toasty warm.  I cooked.  They did the dishes.

When I was forty years old, I decided that everything I had learned in the last fifteen or so years was academically oriented.  BA degree.  Master’s degree, with an intent to work on a doctorate.  So, I thought I would learn something non-academic.  Like horseback riding.  Or motorcycle riding.  It didn’t take too long to rule out horseback riding.  I could not keep a horse in my back yard.  A horse takes food every day.  And, clean up.  And, to ride a horse, one must have a saddle, and the horses head gear to direct it in the path you want to take.

A motorcycle,  on the other hand, is self contained.  It can sit in the garage, and eats only gasoline and a little oil, occasionally.  Of course, a helmet is advised.  The decision came in overwhelmingly for learning to ride a motorcycle.  The next thing was to beg someone to teach me.  A friend, Lee, had motorcycles, and he agreed to teach me to ride.

You may remember that I’ve described my neighborhood in glowing terms.  People help people.  It has a relatively quiet nature.  Albeit, one of our houses was used to cook meth, but that was taken care of by our local police, and after the house was gutted and cleaned, another family lives comfortably in the house.

Within the past six months, another of the houses has changed ownership.  The house is to my immediate east.  It is a corner house and faces the corner in a somewhat catewampus fashion.  Faces neither one of the streets nor the other.  Just faces the place where both streets meet.

“A hundred years ago” in 1959, I graduated in the summer from Western State College (college, then; university, now).  My BA degree came with certification as an elementary school teacher and, fortunately, the teacher in the Sargents School was retiring that year.  I would have eight grades with about twenty-eight children.  Usually a class with that number of children would be considered “normal,” but twenty-eight students in eight grades were a complicating factor.  The three-member school board was really taking a risk by hiring a fresh-out-of-college teacher to teach that many students in that many grades.  Of course, because the school was very rural – isolated, even – and not connected with any other school where the teacher could get assistance, as needed, may have influenced their decision to hire anyone who would take the job.  And, that turned out to be me.

Okay.  You all know that I really love this little creature who came to live with me in March.  I promise not to make every article about her.  But, there are some things that I can’t resist telling you about.  You also know that she is four years old. A four-year-old … puppy!  Her previous living situation did not allow for socializing, but she was a mom twice.

And, now, she lives in a home with no babies.  No collection of other schnauzers.  She doesn’t know how to chase a ball, fetch a stick, eat meals on a set schedule, or always “take care of business” outside.  She is definitely a four-year-old puppy.