PANNING FOR GOLD
By Therese M. Guy

“Aren’t you horrified?” My friend asked me the other day, referring to the state of the economy.
“ I’m a little nervous,” I said, “cause I run a leisure based business and that is sometimes the first to be let go when people are cutting back.”
“Only a little?” She replied, panic edging her voice. I guess when someone is panicked they fell better if they can spread that fear so she continued on that track.
“A friend of mine was laid off his job and lost his home the other day.”
Been there, I thought.
“Another friend lost his retirement and might have to declare bankruptcy!”
Done that, another silent reverie.
“We are going to have to cut back on our Christmas giving.”
“Horrors!” I thought sarcastically. Opps, I accidentally said that out loud. My friend took the rather obvious hint and changed the subject. Later that night I replayed our conversation in my head, and thought, why am I not as panicked?
One answer is I have already survived my husband’s disability and loss of income, loss of a home, and sparse holidays and survived. Some of my best memories were of Christmases that required very little to enjoy.
One Christmas I spent with my sister on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota.
Things were tight for my sister. We had no money for fancy decorations. Out comes the string and on goes the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop it was flying all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.
My other thought was that man has always been attracted to owning stuff. Maybe for those who believe in evolution we are really descended from the pack rat!
This summer at my family reunion the theme was western. We played all sorts of western competitions; wagon train races, stick horse races, fastest squirt gun draw, and panning for gold. During the panning for gold game we were divided into teams and had to run down to a pool filled with; water, sand, and rocks painted like gold nuggets. We picked up a sorting pan and sifted out the gold nuggets and ran back to our team to fill a jar waiting there. The first ones to fill their jar won. As I contemplated this game that emulated life with acquisitions, I realized how rich I really was. No, there were no real gold nuggets in the pool, but I had family that took time out of their lives to be together and play. Wow, I knew I had plenty of friends who were not that rich.
So how do you survive hard economic times? First look at the brighter side of hardship. I know if gas goes up again and I have to walk to work I might lose a few pounds and I don’t even have to go to an expensive gym. I know if I cannot afford to go out on the town I can invite a few friends over for a potluck, because all contributing to a nice dinner is cheaper. Finally, hugs are free and they make you feel so good!!!!!

YES, MOM I'M WEARING CLEAN UNDERWEAR!

“Yes Mom, I’m wearing clean underwear.”

There is a flaw in this protective memory ability given to mankind. Take for example the capability to forget the pain of labor. That is not just to relieve the poor mother of the trauma of childbirth, but also to dim the memory of pain so you do not take it out on your children. Some women’s memories are better then others and this causes them to yell things like, “You know how getting into heaven is like taking a camel through the eye of a needle? Well, bringing you into this world was like taking an elephant through that same needle! You sooooo owe me!”

Memory failure is an affliction that has no gender prejudice. Males too begin to forget things, as they grow older. For instance the other day my daughter returned home late from high school. The school is located directly across the street from our house. Her father began lecturing her on staying late to talk when she had homework. I reminded him later that when he was seventeen He was in the Marines and had a tattoo, had been drunk, and made a few other unwise decisions. Seems like he had forgotten his youthful hyjinks.

I guess I have forgotten a little what it was like to be a teenager also. My daughter says that I embarrass her. “Honey” I pleaded just the other day. “I just asked you if you were wearing clean underwear before the tournament in case you were knocked out and had to be taken to the hospital. I was trying to save you from the embarrassment of dirty skivvies.”

“Mom,” she replied agitated. “You were the announcer and you didn’t turn off the microphone!”

I had to admit, I had used that protective memory loss to get past all the distress my parents had caused by their loving but humiliating interference in my budding teen independence.

The road goes both ways though because teenagers also suffer from recollection deficits.
They forget that not so long ago they crawled in under the covers with you when they swore the boogey man was under their bed. They forget that they embarrassed you when they laid on the floor of the store screaming at the top of their three year old lungs, “My mommy is mean.” They forget that giving you a kiss and hug in public does not cause the world to implode.

Right this minute I’m having a moment of clarity. I remember what it was like to be young, but I also remember that I am a mom, so honey, I love you and I hope your wearing clean underwear (just in case).

OH MY GOSH i MARRIED MY DAD!

Oh My Gosh I Married My Dad!



When I got married twenty six years ago people teased, “You know women marry their dads,” I could not even image that my new spouse was remotely like my dad. My father was in his sixties and my strapping young husband his twenties. I loved my dad but did not see any similarities.

I remember my dad’s sometimes irritating sense of humor. One Christmas eve my mom sent my dad to Walgreens (one of the few stores open on Christmas eve) to get some light bulbs and water softener. My dad returned home but took awhile to come in from the garage. When he came in he was laden with several Christmas presents. As he laid them under the tree my mom quizzed, “ Sy, where is the stuff I sent you to the store for?”

My dad replied, “oh, well you know I always do my Christmas shopping the day before Christmas, I guess I forgot the other stuff.”

My mom sighed and mumbled, “typical male never brings back what I ask for.” She was miffed at dad for the rest of the evening.

The nest morning we opened presents. My mom had the stash with her name on them in front of her. She opened the first and it was a nice bottle of perfume from dad. The next two pristinely wrapped presents contained the light bulbs and water softener my dad had purchased the day before. He was grinning ear to ear; she on the other hand, was not amused.

Flash forward 26 years.

Our daughter has moved back in with us to have her baby while her husband is serving in Iraq. My husband has been teasing her about how much toilet paper she goes through. My daughter countering that the baby is sitting on her bladder and she cannot help it if she has to urinate a zillion times a day. It was her Birthday yesterday and she opened the envelope from me, a gift card for a pedicure. She unwrapped the present from her sister, a six-pack of Snickers. She then unwraps the present from her father, yes; you guessed it, a roll of toilet paper! He was grinning ear to ear and our daughter was not amused. It was then that it hit me, oh my gosh, I did marry my dad!

My dad was also the king of trivia and constantly corrected our English. If I asked, “dad how do you spell cow?” He would say it was the Latin derivative of mesey, misey, mosey, and half an hour later I would find out how to spell the word. We would stand corrected on all sorts of subjects that we considered not life altering information.

Again this trait is dominant in my husband. He is the king of little known facts. At least He claims them as facts, but I’m not quite sure of his sources. His need to pass on this information is a compulsion. In falls in the realm of OCD. If you cut yourself and were bleeding profusely he would explain the circulatory system and the chances of infection before handing you the damn Band-Aid.

I must admit though, if he owns these similar irritating characteristics he also owns the ones that endeared me to my dad. My dad was fiercely loyal to my mom and us children. We always knew we were loved and respected, and it is true with William too. So in this world were fidelity seems to be a lost concept, marrying a man like my dad seems to have been a great choice.

A Little Cheese With That Whine?

A Little Cheese With That Whine?


“The grass may be greener on the other side,
but it still has to be mowed. “

It’s been one of those weeks, the kind where you question God as to the misdeeds that deserved your current state of affairs. You know, not enough money for all the monthly bills, the shower door breaks, the sewer drain backs up, and your last good fitting bra tears.

A friend calls to find a sympathetic ear. I’m not in the mood. As she pours out her woes, I interrupt, “I’m out of gas, I had to walk to work.”
“You started walking to lose that fat?” she replied
She did not get it. I tried again, “The washing machine is not ringing the clothes dry enough and it takes three hours to get our clothes dry.”
She countered, “My daughter ran up 700 minutes of text messages.”
The contest was off. “My In-laws banned us from their premises”
“My daughter’s principal called and we have a meeting!”
“My husband is deaf.”
“My dog died!”
“Okay, you win,” I concede. She decides to call back when I’m in a better mood.

It is not that I have it worse then anyone else, I know plenty right now that are suffering maladies worse then mine. It’s just that these are my problems, and damn it; I deserve a little pity party. That is what I tell myself anyway. I decide to wallow in it and find the perfect mood music. I get out my one country western CD by singer, “Terri Clark.” I skip to the song, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me. I begin to sing along. My dog joins in the caterwauling. I look at the spoiled mutt and grumble, “ I should have your life.” The look in his eye’s say, “I’m not howling about my life, it’s your singing!” Everyone is a critic! This did nothing to lift my mood.

Later in the evening I try calling another friend. My friend teasingly asks me if I want a little cheese with my whine. Cheese and wine that sounds good. Eating is always my emotional fix and the wine would make me sleep. After the phone call I head to the refrigerator. Crap! Someone left the wrapper open on the cheese and it is all moldy. There is no wine, only grape juice. I pour myself a cup and head for bed. I decide a good nights sleep will help and I remember the last line in Gone With The Wind, “ Tomorrow is another day.”

CRACK ADDICTION

Crack Addiction


Have you ever noticed that people who gossip the most always start out with denial of that very fact?

“I don’t want to gossip, but….”

Every major religion has many proverbs about the wickedness of idle tongues. Since it is mentioned so much I figure people must have an overwhelming propensity for it.

Why? I gave that some thought also. I decided that intimate knowledge of other people’s business is very intoxicating, and gives a person a feeling of power. When we learn private information about someone and then share it with others, it gives us a false sense of clout.

I also noted, that the quest for this intimate knowledge brings about another frowned upon social and religious taboo. Eavesdropping! Have you ever noticed that other person you were not addressing inching closer to you and your confidant? By now you might be asking yourself what does this article have to do with the title, “Crack Addiction?”

Well, it brings us to an incident that happened to me in a local restaurant recently.

My daughter and I went out to dinner with some collogues of mine. While waiting for dinner to be served I was irritated by my daughter cracking her knuckles. Loud drill instructor voices run in my family, and I thunderously exclaimed,

“Ciara, I wish you would break that crack addiction!”

Not only did my table get quiet but our whole side of the restaurant. As my daughter’s eyes widened in horror I realized my fopaux. I corrected the intention of my earlier statement,

“You know, she cracks her knuckles and neck.”

Relieved audible sighs could be heard around the room, indicating just how many people were listening in. I believed the incident finished, that is, till I received an e-mail the next day offering solace on my burden of having a drug addict in the family!

I guess my title would have been apropos anyway since it seems gossip is almost as powerful as any drug.

P.S. My daughter wants me to mention she does not even take aspirin!

Where's my finger?

As fathers’ day approached this year I began to comptemplate the legacies my father handed down. My siblings and I were lucky; our father’s legacies were filled with love. He handed down such lessons as compassion, pride in work, independence, and a sense of humor. Recently, stress getting the better of me, I have had to draw upon the sense of humor. The following story is just one that helps me recall that lesson.




Where’s My Finger?
“What greater gift then a sense of humor to laugh at oneself and the little mishaps that happens along the way”


My father lost three of his fingers on his right hand in an accident at a manufacturing job. The accident happened when he was fairly young. It was before WWII. My dad was a bear of a man over six feet and around 250 pounds, but he was more like a teddy bear than a grizzly. He deplored violence and preached ethnic diversity and tolerance long before they were buzzwords. And he did not let an opportunity like missing digits go by without humor.

More than once I recall sitting in a restaurant with my dad and after being served his coffee, the waitress would return to take our order or ask if everything was okay. My father would be pretending to stir his coffee with his index finger. When the waitress would ask, "Is everything okay?"

Dad would reply, “Well I think the coffee is a bit strong!” He would then pull out his half a finger and gasp loudly. The reactions of the waitresses were predictable, they would shriek, jump back and sometimes drop an order pad. Then the realization that they had been pranked would come, and laughter erupted all around. It is a corny joke, but even now it brings a smile to my lips.

When he was older and in the nursing home, young grandchildren and great grandchildren would query, “Grandpa what happened to your fingers?”

He would conspiratorially say in a hushed tone, “Don’t ever pick your nose or the snot snail will get your finger like he got mine!”

Eyes would open wide on the little ones as they questioned further, “Really?”

“No" He would then laugh and exclaim, "but you really shouldn’t pick your nose.”

Sometimes his humor was irritating. I recall several times when I really wanted to be angry and he would say dumb things to make me laugh, but the message was loud and clear, "Life is hard enough, but without laughter its downright painful."

Tae Womb Do

TAE WOMB DO
By Therese M. Guy
May 6th 2008



The world has always been competitive. We are now reaching break neck speeds not only with modern vehicles, communication devices, and nano-second food preparations, but in early child development as well.

When I was a young you started sports in high school. Now, if you do not start soccer or cheerleading as a three year old, you have no chance of making the high school team.

I own and operate a martial arts studio. I did not start my Taekwondo training until I was an adult. My class had only other adults in it and I felt proud and confident in my abilities. I was blissfully ignorant! Those rose colored glasses I wore stayed on until this year.

What caused them to fall off? Maybe, it was the gray hairs gathering on my previously brown crown, or it could be the impending birth of my first grandchild?

Whatever the reason it was very obvious tonight at Taekwondo that I need a boost of adrenaline to keep up with the kids of today.

This evening I strolled on the training floor in all my fifth degree black belt grandness and demonstrated a technique to a group of five year olds.

One new little child jumped up and yelled with enthusiasm,

“You mean like this?” And executed the technique in perfect precision. (Did I mention it only took me four years to get it right.) Oh, and I forgot, he did it while texting on one of those darn cell phones I’m still trying to figure out.

Now people read or play music to their children in the womb. So they will come out spouting French literature, speaking Latin, or humming Mosart. Ahh! How do I contend with that?

Earlier in the day my daughter had an ultra sound. My soon to be grandchild was moving like crazy. The baby was kicking, flinging its arms, and doing back-flips.

“Great” my husband quipped, “It’s doing Tae womb do.”

Do they make black belts in newborn size?
I guess I should look on all this starting at a younger age with a different light. Maybe it means, since I will be replaced faster, I can retire earlier? What do you think?

What More God?

WHAT MORE GOD?
by Therese M. Guy




I was named after St. Therese the little flower. She lived a short life. She entered the Lisieux Carmel at the age of fifteen and died of TB by the age of twenty-four. She is known as the saint of the little way, content to live a life of quiet prayer. I on the other hand have never been considered quiet! But the idea of the,” little way” appealed to me, not that I desired to be a quiet example to the masses but because I thought I could bargain with the Lord for an easier path. I wanted to opt out of going out in the world to do great deeds, so during prayer at thirteen I struck a bargain with the Lord.

“Lord” I prayed. “Tell you what, I don’t think I was made to do big things, so I will just take care of anything you bring to my front door.”

“A loaded statement,” you might comment?

“ Naive” you might add.

“Absolutely” I would now agree.

As I grew older I still tried this bargaining process with God. I know now that not only is it foolish to try parleying with a deity, but that God has a great sense of humor when putting me in my place.

When I was nineteen I decided to leave the decadence of the city and move up to the more rustic setting of Northern Minnesota. I drove a very used lime-green Plymouth Voyager. The tires were bald and not very conducive to life in the icy northern winter.The locals joked that my name was on the tow truck chain because I had to be hauled out of the ditch so many times. The winter was a cold one and my troubles just kept coming. My heater core broke in the car and now I was not only in danger of careening off the road but in freezing to death too boot.

My brother-in-law stepped up and said he would try to see if he could fix it. As he lay across my front seat trying to work under the dash, I stood nearby bemoaning my luck. At first I was just mumbling, but as I contemplated my troubles my voice raised, and I ended my tirade by flinging my hands up and yelling,

“What more God?”

My brother-in-law heard me yell and jerked up off the seat, and while asking, “what?” He put his screwdriver through the drivers’ side window of my car!

There were no garages nearby, so replacement parts for the heater and window were ordered through the Sears catalog. It took four weeks to be shipped. During those four weeks, I drove down the road with the ice scraper in my hand reaching through the open window scrapping the ice from the front of my windshield. During those four weeks, I had plenty of time to reflect. During those four weeks, I came to the conclusion, never, ever, say, “What more God!”

Recently, while out to lunch with a girlfriend, we discussed the current world problems. We talked about the sagging economy, the health care crises, gas prices, and the upcoming elections. My friend became very agitated and blurted out those dangerous words,

“What more God?”

I gasped and spilled my soup in my haste to clamp my hand over her mouth. The soup spilled on my cell phone shorting it out. While still holding my hand across her mouth I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “never, ever, say, what more!” She pealed my hand off her mouth and looked at me like I was from outer space. She then quickly stood and said she forgot she had an appointment or something. I sat back and smiled. I think to my self, “that didn’t go so bad. I only lost a lunch, a cell phone, and possibly any future lunch dates with that friend, but I’m sure I avoided a much bigger disaster, all in all not a bad save.

Chuck The Bear

CHUCK THE BEAR
by Therese M. Guy



Pride, the bane of the human race. Too little and we are considered to suffer low self-esteem, too much and we are arrogant. Being all too human, I too struggle with this curse of mankind. I was not blessed with long golden tresses, or flashing green eyes, nor the grace of a gazelle. I was not gifted with the super intellect of the Mensa members. No, my pride has always been in the area of physical strength. I’ve always been a tomboy and chosen career paths that use to have been thought proper, only for the physically stronger male members of society. First joining the Army, and then owning an operating a martial arts studio.

My elder sister, when she was young was the opposite. She was a social butterfly and a cheerleader. To me a real city girl. I asked Santa for things like, cowboy guns and horse saddles, she asked for a sewing machine and hot curlers.

Although we were raised Christian I have to believe a little in the interference of the fairies. Like the poor characters beset by outside interference in Shakespeare’s, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” My sister’s path went down a rustic lifestyle. Although I felt admiration for her, I was plagued by another human blight, jealousy.

She wore proof of her strength literally around her neck, in the form of a bear claw necklace. The claws came from the bear she killed protecting her children in their north woods cabin.

I dreamt of such feats when I was young. I still remember my favorite after-school TV show, “Daniel Boone.” The tree in the introduction of the show revealed a carved inscription, “D. Boon Cilled a bar 1760” His feat of strength immortalized to this very day.

So, at nineteen I packed my bags and headed north to join my sister in this perceived idyllic lifestyle. I took a job at the local resort. No car horns or sirens assaulted your ears. No streetlights or neon signs shown through the windows late at night. It was quite serene.

What I failed to realize was that this bucolic setting meant that local entertainment choices consisted of reading, playing cards at a neighbors or watching the lent collect in between your toes. The nearest movie theater was 40 miles north into Canada. Although the Shoreline of Lake Superior was the view out my bedroom window, at my tender age I was missing the view from my city apartment window, of athletic, shirtless, basketball players in the courtyard below.

Staff housing for the resort workers was located just up a hill through a little patch of woods. A well-worn path wound through it and was easily traversed in the daylight. At night it was a little more difficult and most people used a flashlight. Since the resort was in this semi-wilderness area, bear sightings were not a rare occurrence. In fact these members of the Ursidae family often raided the resorts refuge bins.

Finally my opportunity to join in the elite group of infamous beast killers came.
I had heard that there was a play being put on at the lodge by a Canadian theatrical group.I did not want to miss this rare treat of outside entertainment and headed down to the resort. It was evening and in my haste I forgot my flashlight. I was not concerned because even though I could not see the path my feet had memorized the daily trek. No moon shown that night. As I walked through the inky blackness a loud, leaf-crunching sound came from in front of me.

“Oh crap, a bear!” Came the thought. A great surge of adrenaline and ferocity shot through my body. I cocked back my arm and balled up my fist and punched straight into the dark path ahead of me, hoping to connect with the invisible snout of the bear.

“Crack!” A satisfying noise rang out along with wet warmth that was felt across my knuckles. It was immediately followed by a thud on the ground in front of me.

Then I heard a low moan and the muffled words, “Therese .. Therese .. is that you?”

I recognized the voice of one of my co-workers. “Chuck .. Chuck .. is that you?”

“Yeah, why’da hit me?”

“I thought you were a bear.”

“Why would you hit a bear?”

He had me there. “I dunno.” I replied, as I bent down and felt for his arm to pull him up. Chuck and I traveled down to the lodge’s kitchen and found an ice bag for his sore bloody nose.

Later that night I contemplated Chuck's question, “Why would you punch a bear?” I realized the outcome could have been very different had it really been a bear. It was that darn curse of pride. That old proverb popped into my head,Pride goeth before the fall.
Yes, pride went before the fall, in this case not my fall, or the bears fall, but definitely before poor Chucks fall.