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!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
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."
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."
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, May 2, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
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.
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.
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