Winter's hand has come calling.
From the eaves--icicle fingers reach.
Their cold touch--like death
Into its grasp I'm falling.
What happened to earth's warm embrace?
Was it all a calumny?
Mother natures vile trick.
Does she mock me to my face?
As the bitter wind does blow,
I endeavor to resist.
To the snow Queen, I will not bow,
Even as the trees bend low.
How will frost's sharp bite I stave?
Indoor sports I will play.
With my lover--beneath the sheets,
I will find the heat I crave.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Hopscotch
By Therese M. Guy
Oct. 2009
Tough economic times are not new to my family. We seemed to have a proclivity toward the lower end of monetary wealth. Being impecunious (flat broke, for you who do not like big words) creates stress. Participating in vacations, sporting activities, and various other entertainment avenues relieves stress, by the average family. This presents our family with a conundrum, (I do like big words) we need to relieve the stress caused by the financial situation, but do not have the funds to participate in those recreational outlets.
Stress coupled with inactivity, and my genetic propensity for procrastination and sloth, could very well lead myself and other family members down that dark road of depression. On the other hand, our reaction to stress can lead us to creative ingenuity.
Most times we take the high road.
My husband William is very artistic. When our girls were younger he would grab sidewalk chalk and retreat to the driveway, girls in tow. They would spend a couple of hours drawing fantasy worlds on our cracked lined parkway. Sometimes William’s artistry combined with the manic side of his personality, and he became ingenious providing diversions from our bleak fiscal situation.
The best example of his ability to amuse on a budget came one balmy Sunday afternoon. Once again he took chalk in hand. He went to the sidewalk and created a hopscotch game that was a work of art. Each numbered square had a beautiful design in it. One was a dragon, another a butterfly. Then he returned inside. He gathered chairs and placed them in front of the big picture window of our living room. The window faced the sidewalk were the hopscotch game was. He indicated us to sit and brought snacks. At first we were puzzled, but it did not take long for the amusement to begin.
It started with an older couple, taking their daily stroll. They approached the hopscotch squares and halted. We could not hear what they were saying, but as they pointed and conversed, it was clear from their expressions that they were happily taking a walk down memory lane. It did not end there, next the sixty-some-year old lady hiked her skirt with a flourish and one leg came up behind. We all held our breaths as she balanced precariously on that one appendage. Then she was off hopping and skipping down the chalked sidewalk, her husband pursued, and his face sported a broad grin.
A short time later a young teen boy wearing faded, ripped blue jeans approached.
He walked with his head bent low, shuffling his duck taped, sneakers clad feet. He had one hand shoved in his jean pocket and the other held a smoldering cigarette. He too stopped at the edge of the colorful display. He studied the game for a couple of minutes. It seemed to me as if he was contemplating if any of the designs would make a good tattoo. He then raised his head and sheepishly looked up and down the street checking for onlookers, luckily he did not check our window. Once again a leg was raised, and off he went, one hop, two hop, two feet down and back to the one-foot hop. The disheveled youth did not seem so menacing at that point, not only were we enjoying the distraction to our daily worries, he too was transported for a moment to more simple times.
I can’t say I’m always so nonchalant about our money woes, but I think next time you are stressed you should remember this story, and take chalk in hand and let your creativity flow.
By Therese M. Guy
Oct. 2009
Tough economic times are not new to my family. We seemed to have a proclivity toward the lower end of monetary wealth. Being impecunious (flat broke, for you who do not like big words) creates stress. Participating in vacations, sporting activities, and various other entertainment avenues relieves stress, by the average family. This presents our family with a conundrum, (I do like big words) we need to relieve the stress caused by the financial situation, but do not have the funds to participate in those recreational outlets.
Stress coupled with inactivity, and my genetic propensity for procrastination and sloth, could very well lead myself and other family members down that dark road of depression. On the other hand, our reaction to stress can lead us to creative ingenuity.
Most times we take the high road.
My husband William is very artistic. When our girls were younger he would grab sidewalk chalk and retreat to the driveway, girls in tow. They would spend a couple of hours drawing fantasy worlds on our cracked lined parkway. Sometimes William’s artistry combined with the manic side of his personality, and he became ingenious providing diversions from our bleak fiscal situation.
The best example of his ability to amuse on a budget came one balmy Sunday afternoon. Once again he took chalk in hand. He went to the sidewalk and created a hopscotch game that was a work of art. Each numbered square had a beautiful design in it. One was a dragon, another a butterfly. Then he returned inside. He gathered chairs and placed them in front of the big picture window of our living room. The window faced the sidewalk were the hopscotch game was. He indicated us to sit and brought snacks. At first we were puzzled, but it did not take long for the amusement to begin.
It started with an older couple, taking their daily stroll. They approached the hopscotch squares and halted. We could not hear what they were saying, but as they pointed and conversed, it was clear from their expressions that they were happily taking a walk down memory lane. It did not end there, next the sixty-some-year old lady hiked her skirt with a flourish and one leg came up behind. We all held our breaths as she balanced precariously on that one appendage. Then she was off hopping and skipping down the chalked sidewalk, her husband pursued, and his face sported a broad grin.
A short time later a young teen boy wearing faded, ripped blue jeans approached.
He walked with his head bent low, shuffling his duck taped, sneakers clad feet. He had one hand shoved in his jean pocket and the other held a smoldering cigarette. He too stopped at the edge of the colorful display. He studied the game for a couple of minutes. It seemed to me as if he was contemplating if any of the designs would make a good tattoo. He then raised his head and sheepishly looked up and down the street checking for onlookers, luckily he did not check our window. Once again a leg was raised, and off he went, one hop, two hop, two feet down and back to the one-foot hop. The disheveled youth did not seem so menacing at that point, not only were we enjoying the distraction to our daily worries, he too was transported for a moment to more simple times.
I can’t say I’m always so nonchalant about our money woes, but I think next time you are stressed you should remember this story, and take chalk in hand and let your creativity flow.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Old Teabags
Old Teabags
By Therese Guy
August 2009
I just love the new commercials that show people trying to save money in this economy. One such commercial has a woman driving up to a gas station and while her car fills up, she uses the window squeegee to wash her entire car. Another one shows a woman refilling a catsup bottle with the little drive through packets.
My parents grew up in the depression, so I was taught frugality early on. But, thriftiness was never at the expense of decorum. For instance cleaning your plate was expected since there were others less fortunate. (I really, really, wanted to give my liver and onions to the less fortunate!) That said, a popular trend in my childhood neighborhood was to put newspapers up on your windows in the winter to keep the cold out. According to mom, that was tacky, if there was a draft you just put a sweater on.
If you were a boy you got a paper route by age twelve, if you were a girl you started babysitting. Pop bottles were collected from roadsides and redeemed for pennies at the store. The money we earned then went to the things we coveted like a transistor radio or the newest 45. (Record for you youngens, we did not have ipods.)
We did not eat out and soda pop was a rare treat. I did not feel deprived, ever. Our summers were filled with activities fueled by our imaginations. Tents were made from old sheets and clothespins tied to chain-link fences. Go-carts from lawn mower motors and wagon wheels found at the local dump. Make shift stages held circus acts to air guitar band performances. Fun did not require great wealth.
Well, as we grew up we were known as the boomers. That was because after WWII there was a great boom in the population growth. Also in the economy, so our standard of living increased. With that comes a skewered sense of needs.
We believe we cannot live without the newest x box game, or the Pampered Chef slicer dicer (Even though you can slice vegetables with a regular paring knife.)
Perhaps dad cannot watch the game on anything smaller then a 90-inch screen?
And of course don’t even expect your teen daughter to live without text messaging.
Well to keep the story short, economic stability comes and goes. Here we are back to the scrimp cycle. Here I am this evening enjoying my cup of tea. The tea bag has been used three times and the sugar pocketed from the last restaurant I went to, but, oh, it is still such a sweet treat at the end of a hard day. No cable, but I did get a great book at the Library earlier and my teen daughter actually sat down and told me about her day. Wonders never cease. Ut Oh my bra strap broke. Well for that sense of decorum my mom taught I guess in this case I will spring for a new one.
And everyone out there stressing about how to take your date out for a meal, relax just hit all the grand openings in your neighborhood this weekend, they serve free food! Last, but not least, have a sense of humor.
By Therese Guy
August 2009
I just love the new commercials that show people trying to save money in this economy. One such commercial has a woman driving up to a gas station and while her car fills up, she uses the window squeegee to wash her entire car. Another one shows a woman refilling a catsup bottle with the little drive through packets.
My parents grew up in the depression, so I was taught frugality early on. But, thriftiness was never at the expense of decorum. For instance cleaning your plate was expected since there were others less fortunate. (I really, really, wanted to give my liver and onions to the less fortunate!) That said, a popular trend in my childhood neighborhood was to put newspapers up on your windows in the winter to keep the cold out. According to mom, that was tacky, if there was a draft you just put a sweater on.
If you were a boy you got a paper route by age twelve, if you were a girl you started babysitting. Pop bottles were collected from roadsides and redeemed for pennies at the store. The money we earned then went to the things we coveted like a transistor radio or the newest 45. (Record for you youngens, we did not have ipods.)
We did not eat out and soda pop was a rare treat. I did not feel deprived, ever. Our summers were filled with activities fueled by our imaginations. Tents were made from old sheets and clothespins tied to chain-link fences. Go-carts from lawn mower motors and wagon wheels found at the local dump. Make shift stages held circus acts to air guitar band performances. Fun did not require great wealth.
Well, as we grew up we were known as the boomers. That was because after WWII there was a great boom in the population growth. Also in the economy, so our standard of living increased. With that comes a skewered sense of needs.
We believe we cannot live without the newest x box game, or the Pampered Chef slicer dicer (Even though you can slice vegetables with a regular paring knife.)
Perhaps dad cannot watch the game on anything smaller then a 90-inch screen?
And of course don’t even expect your teen daughter to live without text messaging.
Well to keep the story short, economic stability comes and goes. Here we are back to the scrimp cycle. Here I am this evening enjoying my cup of tea. The tea bag has been used three times and the sugar pocketed from the last restaurant I went to, but, oh, it is still such a sweet treat at the end of a hard day. No cable, but I did get a great book at the Library earlier and my teen daughter actually sat down and told me about her day. Wonders never cease. Ut Oh my bra strap broke. Well for that sense of decorum my mom taught I guess in this case I will spring for a new one.
And everyone out there stressing about how to take your date out for a meal, relax just hit all the grand openings in your neighborhood this weekend, they serve free food! Last, but not least, have a sense of humor.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
HELP WANTED
HELP WANTED
Interpreter Needed
Contact Therese Guy 2009
I remember my first experience with Acronyms as a second language.
I joined the Army in 1977 and soon found out that foreign languages did not just exist in different countries, but in career choices too. Confusion assailed me as I wove my way through the cryptic world of military talk. I was a scared kid out of my element trying to figure out meanings so I did not end up in what would be a familiar position for me. The Front leaning rest position, a push-up position on the ground held for long periods of time. This position was to encourage you to engage your brain more readily, and I must say it puzzles me to this day at how effective making ones back and arms hurt accomplished that task.
I soon learned that a CO was a Commanding Officer, that a TOC was a tactical command center and that when the IG (Inspecting General) was coming, the sh.. was about to hit the fan.
One thing I had trouble figuring out was why a lot of the acronyms would change every couple of years. I remember giving a briefing and mentioning the FEBA (forward edge of the battle area). An officer promptly corrected me, “No, no that has now been changed to FLOT.”
“FLOT?” I said raising my eyebrows.
“Yes, you know, front line our troops.”
I thought it was silly to change the acronym when it meant the same thing, but I changed my vernacular and went on with the briefing. Later that night, I became intrigued with the idea that it must be some person’s job to come up with this strange military world of acronyms, and I wondered how much it paid?
The trouble is now thirty-some years later I find myself in the same dilemma with the acronym world of Internet communication sites like Facebook. I could just stick my head in the sand and ignore the cyber universe all together, but I have a daughter who lives several states away, a nephew across several continents in Afghanistan, and I do just like to talk, so computer interface here I am.
But since it is very difficult for me to get up now from the front leaning rest position, I think I need to hire an interpreter.
The other day a friend wrote on my page that they thought I need PT. I was so perplexed, did she think I needed:
· A Personal Trainer (True, I am heavy)
· A Physical Therapist (I have bad knees)
· Personal Time (I do work a lot)
· Psychiatric Treatment (Hey, I’m just a little neurotic!)
I hope it was not all of those, if so, she should of just said, “OLP” overall life
plan.
I do try and be a good parent, so I limit my child’s computer time and check out her Facebook and My Space randomly. The other day when she was mad at me I saw line about me. She compared me to a Pita. I said to my friend beside me, “Oh that’s not so bad.” My friend knows me so well, she rolled her eyes and said,
“Therese, you nerd, she is not comparing you to a Mexican flat bread.
She is calling you a, Pain In The Ass!” Opps, maybe I did not want that one translated. Ignorance can be bliss.
For now I will try and struggle through, I at least figured out that LOL means Laugh Out Loud and not Lots Of Love. I would appreciate it if you would forgive my errors and if you are insulted by any acronyms I throw out do not be offended, look at it twice, you will probably be ROFL. (Rolling On The Floor Laughing.) TTFN (Tah Tah For Now) Therese
Interpreter Needed
Contact Therese Guy 2009
I remember my first experience with Acronyms as a second language.
I joined the Army in 1977 and soon found out that foreign languages did not just exist in different countries, but in career choices too. Confusion assailed me as I wove my way through the cryptic world of military talk. I was a scared kid out of my element trying to figure out meanings so I did not end up in what would be a familiar position for me. The Front leaning rest position, a push-up position on the ground held for long periods of time. This position was to encourage you to engage your brain more readily, and I must say it puzzles me to this day at how effective making ones back and arms hurt accomplished that task.
I soon learned that a CO was a Commanding Officer, that a TOC was a tactical command center and that when the IG (Inspecting General) was coming, the sh.. was about to hit the fan.
One thing I had trouble figuring out was why a lot of the acronyms would change every couple of years. I remember giving a briefing and mentioning the FEBA (forward edge of the battle area). An officer promptly corrected me, “No, no that has now been changed to FLOT.”
“FLOT?” I said raising my eyebrows.
“Yes, you know, front line our troops.”
I thought it was silly to change the acronym when it meant the same thing, but I changed my vernacular and went on with the briefing. Later that night, I became intrigued with the idea that it must be some person’s job to come up with this strange military world of acronyms, and I wondered how much it paid?
The trouble is now thirty-some years later I find myself in the same dilemma with the acronym world of Internet communication sites like Facebook. I could just stick my head in the sand and ignore the cyber universe all together, but I have a daughter who lives several states away, a nephew across several continents in Afghanistan, and I do just like to talk, so computer interface here I am.
But since it is very difficult for me to get up now from the front leaning rest position, I think I need to hire an interpreter.
The other day a friend wrote on my page that they thought I need PT. I was so perplexed, did she think I needed:
· A Personal Trainer (True, I am heavy)
· A Physical Therapist (I have bad knees)
· Personal Time (I do work a lot)
· Psychiatric Treatment (Hey, I’m just a little neurotic!)
I hope it was not all of those, if so, she should of just said, “OLP” overall life
plan.
I do try and be a good parent, so I limit my child’s computer time and check out her Facebook and My Space randomly. The other day when she was mad at me I saw line about me. She compared me to a Pita. I said to my friend beside me, “Oh that’s not so bad.” My friend knows me so well, she rolled her eyes and said,
“Therese, you nerd, she is not comparing you to a Mexican flat bread.
She is calling you a, Pain In The Ass!” Opps, maybe I did not want that one translated. Ignorance can be bliss.
For now I will try and struggle through, I at least figured out that LOL means Laugh Out Loud and not Lots Of Love. I would appreciate it if you would forgive my errors and if you are insulted by any acronyms I throw out do not be offended, look at it twice, you will probably be ROFL. (Rolling On The Floor Laughing.) TTFN (Tah Tah For Now) Therese
Friday, April 17, 2009
Where's The Lint Brush
WHERE’S THE LINT ROLLER
It’s that time of year again. Spring. I do not start cringing because it is allergy season, or it has been raining for five days straight, or even that my weekends are booked solid with weddings, graduations, and garage sales. I cringe because I cannot see my couch under the dog hair. I cannot walk through the house without a hair cloud forming at my feet. I cannot get the clothes from the basket to the drawer without them all looking like a cashmere sweater. (Cashmere underwear is not cool.)
I have two beautiful, hairy, Shelties. Nine months out of the year I love them dearly. Come Spring that love…well…shall I say, wanes. Two weeks ago I started vacuuming twice a day. Masking tape lint rollers became my best friend. I put a sign on the front door. “People in black clothing, enter at your own risk.”
My husband has tried to stay up with the brushing. Last time we collect enough to make a queen-size pillow, for a moment…just a moment…I gave credence to that idea
After brushing the youngest, Bella, I became concerned. “Oh my gosh, William, something is terribly wrong with Bella.”
“What are you talking about” William replied while shaking his head at the hysterical sound of my voice
“She’s emaciated. She must be sick. Quick get the phone and call the vet.”
“Honey,” he sighed. “Bella has always been that size, you just thought she was fatter because of all that fur.”
I jumped up and headed down the hall.
“Therese, were are you going?” William said, concerned he had hurt my feelings.
“To shave my head and body.”
“What?”
“Well…if losing hair makes Bella look skinner…maybe…”
The look on his face brought me back to reality. Oh well, it was a glimmer of hope for a moment.
I heard a gagging sound from the other room. I went to investigate. Blue, the older of our Shelties, just threw up a hairball. I thought only cats did that! Another bad assumption. As I cleaned it up and was rethinking dog ownership, I heard our daughter shouting from downstairs, “Mom, the dryer quit running.”
“What are you washing?” I shouted back.
“My bedspread”
The dogs sleep with her. “Check the lint trap, I bet it is clogged with dog hair.”
“Ew, its really gross.” She whined. “Oh, also, have you seen the lint roller?”
“I just bought a five pack, look a little harder, surely they can’t be gone already!”
Time for a nap, I think to myself. As I lay back in my lazy boy I wondered, can you donate dog hair to Locks for Love?
It’s that time of year again. Spring. I do not start cringing because it is allergy season, or it has been raining for five days straight, or even that my weekends are booked solid with weddings, graduations, and garage sales. I cringe because I cannot see my couch under the dog hair. I cannot walk through the house without a hair cloud forming at my feet. I cannot get the clothes from the basket to the drawer without them all looking like a cashmere sweater. (Cashmere underwear is not cool.)
I have two beautiful, hairy, Shelties. Nine months out of the year I love them dearly. Come Spring that love…well…shall I say, wanes. Two weeks ago I started vacuuming twice a day. Masking tape lint rollers became my best friend. I put a sign on the front door. “People in black clothing, enter at your own risk.”
My husband has tried to stay up with the brushing. Last time we collect enough to make a queen-size pillow, for a moment…just a moment…I gave credence to that idea
After brushing the youngest, Bella, I became concerned. “Oh my gosh, William, something is terribly wrong with Bella.”
“What are you talking about” William replied while shaking his head at the hysterical sound of my voice
“She’s emaciated. She must be sick. Quick get the phone and call the vet.”
“Honey,” he sighed. “Bella has always been that size, you just thought she was fatter because of all that fur.”
I jumped up and headed down the hall.
“Therese, were are you going?” William said, concerned he had hurt my feelings.
“To shave my head and body.”
“What?”
“Well…if losing hair makes Bella look skinner…maybe…”
The look on his face brought me back to reality. Oh well, it was a glimmer of hope for a moment.
I heard a gagging sound from the other room. I went to investigate. Blue, the older of our Shelties, just threw up a hairball. I thought only cats did that! Another bad assumption. As I cleaned it up and was rethinking dog ownership, I heard our daughter shouting from downstairs, “Mom, the dryer quit running.”
“What are you washing?” I shouted back.
“My bedspread”
The dogs sleep with her. “Check the lint trap, I bet it is clogged with dog hair.”
“Ew, its really gross.” She whined. “Oh, also, have you seen the lint roller?”
“I just bought a five pack, look a little harder, surely they can’t be gone already!”
Time for a nap, I think to myself. As I lay back in my lazy boy I wondered, can you donate dog hair to Locks for Love?
Friday, April 3, 2009
WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?
HAVING AN ARGUMENT WITH MY SIXTEEN YEAR OLD REMINDED ME OF THIS JOURNAL ENTRY I WROTE A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO. IT SEEMS A TIMELESS TRUTH.
What Would Jesus Do?
I’ve heard the term; What Would Jesus Do? In fact, it is a big market term these days for Christian entrepreneurs. It is sold on T-shirts, bracelets, and stickers, all in the hope of influencing our teenagers into better behavior. They supposedly hear this yelled at them by their parental unit, contemplate their actions and change them accordingly. However, when I tried this tactic, suddenly Jesus becomes the all to human man. The name dropping backfires on my intent to bring about the corrected behavior in my teen. Instead all too clever children, shoot back what they think Jesus would do, or has done. Here are a few of my favorites:
A friend of mine looked at her son’s disheveled appearance, hair unkempt and a hole in each knee of his jeans. She innocently asks him to walk a couple of feet behind her so no-one will no he is hers. He blurts out, “Jesus loves us just the way we are.” True, She thinks, but then he doesn’t have to put up with the stares of neighbors that know she drives a Porsche and can afford to dress her child properly. Is that sirens she hears? The child neglect unit maybe?
Another friend’s son came home with alcohol on his breath. She scolded, “How could you drink?” She then reminded him of his Sunday school teachings. “ What would Jesus do?”
“ Well,” he replied, “ Jesus drank, in fact mom, his first miracle involved alcohol. Remember, he turned water into wine! In fact he did it for his Mother!”
My best loved one was; as entering my teenage daughters room and discovering that it was very close to being the worlds third largest dump, I yelled out at her, “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”
She very quickly replied, “Jesus was born in a barn and he turned out okay didn’t he?”
I can envision it now, Mary, yelling at Jesus when she finally found him in the temple, “What were you thinking running off like that?”
Jesus rolling his young eyes at his earthly parental unit and responding, “Making sure future teens have an excuse.”
Aahhhhh! Wait, I think I have it. I tell my child, “ If you don’t straighten up, no i-pod, no cell phone, no computer, No Technology! JESUS had no technology.” That brings about complete silence.
Bless All, Therese M. Guy
What Would Jesus Do?
I’ve heard the term; What Would Jesus Do? In fact, it is a big market term these days for Christian entrepreneurs. It is sold on T-shirts, bracelets, and stickers, all in the hope of influencing our teenagers into better behavior. They supposedly hear this yelled at them by their parental unit, contemplate their actions and change them accordingly. However, when I tried this tactic, suddenly Jesus becomes the all to human man. The name dropping backfires on my intent to bring about the corrected behavior in my teen. Instead all too clever children, shoot back what they think Jesus would do, or has done. Here are a few of my favorites:
A friend of mine looked at her son’s disheveled appearance, hair unkempt and a hole in each knee of his jeans. She innocently asks him to walk a couple of feet behind her so no-one will no he is hers. He blurts out, “Jesus loves us just the way we are.” True, She thinks, but then he doesn’t have to put up with the stares of neighbors that know she drives a Porsche and can afford to dress her child properly. Is that sirens she hears? The child neglect unit maybe?
Another friend’s son came home with alcohol on his breath. She scolded, “How could you drink?” She then reminded him of his Sunday school teachings. “ What would Jesus do?”
“ Well,” he replied, “ Jesus drank, in fact mom, his first miracle involved alcohol. Remember, he turned water into wine! In fact he did it for his Mother!”
My best loved one was; as entering my teenage daughters room and discovering that it was very close to being the worlds third largest dump, I yelled out at her, “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”
She very quickly replied, “Jesus was born in a barn and he turned out okay didn’t he?”
I can envision it now, Mary, yelling at Jesus when she finally found him in the temple, “What were you thinking running off like that?”
Jesus rolling his young eyes at his earthly parental unit and responding, “Making sure future teens have an excuse.”
Aahhhhh! Wait, I think I have it. I tell my child, “ If you don’t straighten up, no i-pod, no cell phone, no computer, No Technology! JESUS had no technology.” That brings about complete silence.
Bless All, Therese M. Guy
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