DeLayed Reaction

First Snowfall

Copyright 2008

My friend Jodi moved to Chicago from the quaint, historic town of Charleston, South Carolina, a city with plenty of charming accents and hoop skirts in its colorful past. She moved in September, when the sun was still out and the grass was still green, but in her heart, she knew it was just a matter of time before she had to deal with snow and wind chills that would send her running for thermal socks.

Dive Bombing into December

Jodi’s time ran out on the first day of December. The Midwest transitioned from balmy November breezes by dive bombing directly into December, which for anyone in the Northern Hemisphere spells: Brace Yourself—Winter’s Coming.

Appropriately, on the first day of the month, the snow started coming down.  Coming down is one thing.  Sticking to the ground, piling up in the driveway, and turning into icy slush on the roads is quite another.   Since Jodi had to attend an early morning breakfast meeting on December 1, she wasn’t sure how long it would take her to get there. 

Just Slow Down

Assuming people might do the right thing and slow down, drive defensively, and be otherwise respectful of Mother Nature’s seasonal gift to mankind, Jodi allowed extra time.  What she didn’t know was that in winter people drive the same way they do the rest of the year—like James Bond in hot pursuit of Goldfinger. But they do keep their headlights on—at least as long as their wipers are scraping back and forth across the windshield. 

I attended the same breakfast meeting as Jodi and didn’t even know it had snowed until I backed my car out of the garage.  Had I paid more attention, I would have known to leave earlier so I could shovel the walk like a good neighbor and responsible, law-abiding citizen.  But, typical for a Monday morning, I was not prepared to add anything to my schedule. I headed into rush hour traffic leaving behind two tire tracks in the driveway that would no doubt be covered up by the time I got home that night.  With luck, the sun would come out and it would melt before the next morning and I could dodge the shoveling bullet—at least until the next time.

Don't Hide Your Feelings

Jodi arrived at the meeting a few minutes late—not bad for a first timer.  Wrapped in layers of fleece and down, she wore heavy gloves on her hands and a warm wool scarf over her head topped by a hood. All in black—so she wasn’t trying to hide her feelings.

Dashed were her romantic visions of bundling up and strolling through the neighborhood, catching snowflakes on her tongue. Admiring the gentle blanket of snow draped over the rooftops. Sitting in front of a warm, cozy fire, reading an engaging novel, and sipping a steaming mug of hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. Her idyllic winter dreams were replaced by the harsh reality of commuting. 

What About Lucy?

If you think Jodi was less than thrilled, you should hear about Lucy.  Lucy, Jodi’s half-Dachshund puppy with legs that are all of two inches long, was downright perplexed by the change in the weather.  She didn’t have to get behind the wheel of a car, but she had to wade barefoot out into the cold, wet snow where the grass used to be.

Lucy was exposed to an accumulation of precipitation for the first time in her life, which in dog years is pretty old. As she stepped into the strange white stuff, Lucy turned to look at Jodi as if to say, “What do you want me to do?”

Jodi’s response was a simple one—“I want you to HURRY.”

Good-bye Sandals

Jodi has put away her sandals in hopes that someday summer will return and she can wear them again. What she doesn’t realize is that the December 1 snowfall was a mere dusting.  It’s still a few weeks before winter, and the best is yet to come.

Brian’s Christmas Dream

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Brian Jones had his life all planned out.  He wanted to be a Naval aviator, just like his dad.  He graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis with a degree in aerospace engineering and headed off to flight school.  That’s where his best-laid plans fell apart.  Because his vision was not up to speed, his dream of being a pilot crashed and burned.  But Brian’s vision became bigger than his eyesight.

While trying to figure out what the next chapter of his life would look like, he received a package—a rather large one nailed in a crate marked FRAGILE.  Brian pried it open to find a gift from his parents, one they hoped would cheer him up.  It was a leg lamp. And not just any leg lamp, but a replica of the gaudy, one-legged, fishnet hose-wearing lamp made famous in the 1983 film A Christmas Story.

Pure Class in the Living Room

My brother has one of those lamps.  It looks nice in the living room next to the cat. Pure class. The lamp is a tribute to his family’s passion for the movie based on writer Jean Shepherd’s childhood. Every Thanksgiving, immediately after the pie has been polished off, David and his family gather in their living room, turn on television and watch A Christmas Story and let her run.  To say it airs 24/7 would be an exaggeration, but not by much. They, along with millions of others, have come to see the film as a symbol of Christmas. 20Forget Santa. Forget the Creche. On Thanksgiving, Christmas is all about Ralphie and what he wants for Christmas—an official “Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred shot model air rifle with a compass and a thing that tells time.”  (That’s from the script.)

A Christmas Story Turns 25

The movie celebrates its 25th anniversary this year.  The story is set in Hammond, Indiana in 1940. Movies being what they are, they are rarely filmed in the actual spot where the action takes place.  If they were, then Star Wars would have been filmed in a galaxy far, far away and the Wizard of Oz would have been shot in the Emerald City.

A Christmas Story was filmed in Cleveland and the house where nine-year-old Ralphie Parker went to great lengths to make sure he got his Red Ryder weapon, is located on=2 0the west side of Cleveland’s Tremont neighborhood. 

A House in Cleveland

Jones left the Navy and opened a little business called RedRiderLegLamps.com where people could go to his Web site and purchase the fishnet-covered leg lamps. A year after he opened his company, his wife, who was also in the military, learned from her Captain that the house in Cleveland had been listed on eBay. Brian, by now an entrepreneur of all things Christmas Story, jumped on it.  He contacted the seller, offered him $150,000, and a mere 24 hours later, the house was his.

And thanks to Brian Jones’ bad eyesight, serious Christmas Story fans can make a pilgrimage to Cleveland to see the site of the Parker Home, which is now a museum.

For a modest fee—less than the price of full-price admission to a feature film—visitors can tour the house that has been fixed up and remodeled so it’s identical to the soundstages used in the movie.

The museum, located across the street from the house, has props, costumes, photos from the film, and memorabilia.  Oh, and a gift shop.  (A museum without a gift shop is pretty much un-American.) Chances are you could pick up a leg lamp while you’re shopping. If you’re really an aficionado, you can purchase a piece of the original siding of the house that’s been autographed by Brian himself and comes with a certificate of authenticity. At $20 per piece, he’ll have that mortgage paid off in no time. Considering one-sixth of the country’s population tunes in each season to watch the movie, there are some definite fans out there.

Living the Dream

Brian Jones didn’t become a one-in-a-hundred-thousand pilot in the Navy; instead he’s living his new and improved dream. He’s the one-and-only proprietor of the Christmas Story House and Museum.   He loved the movie when he was still living at home with his parents, and chances are, the whole family gathered on Thanksgiving to watch it on television—just like my brother’s family.

These days, Brian hangs out in Cleveland soaking up A Christmas Story year round. The house and museum are open every day except Easter, Thanksgiving, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day.  Ironically, they’re closed on Christmas.

 

Knock, Knock

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay
 
Every once in awhile, I think I’ll be kind to my car’s engine and feed it with  premium gas. Advertisers would have us believe it keeps the engine clean and helps prevent knocking. But as prices at the pumps rose (on an hourly basis), I stuck with the cheap, lower-octane gas, cheap being a relative term.
 
A few months ago, when sticker shock at the pump gave me gas, I stopped filling up.  When the digital reader hit $50, I stopped.  Somehow pumping $80 into my car seemed wrong.  Oh sure, it made no difference in the amount gas I used up over the course of a week, and it certainly added time to my day considering I doubled my visits, but psychologically it allowed me to handle the trauma. Denial can be therapeutic.
 
Gas in U.S. Is Cheap?

Don’t think I haven’t heard that gas in America ranks among the world’s lowest.  I don’t care that in most of Europe, drivers pay over $8 a gallon. The U.S. may be the 45th least expensive gas in the world, but $4 per gallon seems high, especially when fuel costs approximately the same to produce no matter where it’s made. Apparently it’s all about g overnmental subsidies.  That explains why motorists in Aruba shell out over $12 a gallon, while 15 miles away in Venezuela, they pay a paltry 12 cents. Well, it sort of explains it.
 
This morning, I passed the local gas emporium, where they know me by name because I’m there so often, and I discovered that something amazing has happened. Prices have gone down.  And they continue to decline because this evening, they’d gone down another 11 cents.
 
So here I am excited about the fact that I spent only $2.29 for a gallon of unleaded. Of course it was regular unleaded.  The gas with a mere 87% octane rating.  
 
Anti-Knock Index

Now I hear I have misunderstood that octane rating thing. It definitely figures into the AKI or Anti-Knock Index, and it has nothing to do with knock-knock jokes.

People who pour premium into their tanks don’t experience that annoying knocking that goes on during pre-ignition.  If your engine has ever gone knocking, you know it sounds like someone tossed a few pebbles into a Maxwell House coffee can and planted it under the hood. 
 
Meet Mr. White

My mechanic is Mr. White.  I know, I know.  Most people think mechanics should have their first names stitched on an oval badge and sewn above the breast pocket of their shirts.  But cons idering how important a good mechanic is, I want to bestow as much respect as possible, so I call him Mr.  I also take him cookies on occasion.  Not mine, of course, but cookies fresh from the bakery.  I want to honor him, not poison him.
 
All these years, I have labored under the mistaken notion that putting premium gas with a 93 percent octane rating was one of the nicer things I could do for my aging auto. Excessive knocking puts stress on certain engine parts and that can cause damage to the engine. Gas with a higher octane rating burns more slowly than my regular unleaded, thus preventing the knocking.  But Mr. White explained that I needed premium only if my owner’s manual suggested it. Since he explained it like I was a two-year-old, I didn’t dare pretend I had no clue what he was talking about.  I just nodded and said, “Ohhhh” like I understood.  I figured if I really wanted to know more about the finer points of the AKI, I’d look it up later. 
 
A Budget Saver

The most valuable piece of information I gathered was that I could save money by using the least expensive gas because to pay extra for premium was like buying a pricey cut of meat, then letting it turn green in the fridge and throwing it out.  It’s a big, fat waste of money.
 
Now, if I lived in Venezuela, I could afford to waste a few cents on premium gas. But if I lived in Sierra Leone, where people pay over $18 a gallon, I’d not be buying any gasoline at all. I’d be riding a mountain bike.  And that’s no joke.
 

Doughnuts for Doughboys

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Police officers aren’t the only ones with a connection to doughnuts. In fact, long before cops took breaks at donut shops, there were hundreds of thousands of uniformed soldiers who found comfort in the doughnut.  They were the doughboys.  And a couple of Salvation Army ensigns made it possible.

Salvation Army Goes to War

When I think of Salvation Army, I think of bell ringers stationed outside department stores at Christmas time encouraging shoppers to drop a few coins into a bucket before they rush home with their treasures. Prior to America’s entry into World War I, the Salvation Army was a place where a hungry soul with no resources could go for a hot meal and a little preachin’ on the side. 

But when war broke out in Europe, the Salvation Army sent troops. Committed to serving the soldiers, Commander Evangeline Booth rounded up young Army women and ordered them to the frontlines in France.  They were nicknamed Sallies because they were from the SALvation Army.

Sallies helped the doughboys write letters, fetched snacks, played games, and engaged in conversation that helped them talk about their feelings—something men do oh, so well.  Or maybe they were there to converse about anything that didn’t have to do with trench warfare, mustard gas, and emotions.

One Sallie did even more.  Ensign Helen Purviance, a young woman from Indiana, headed to France in 1917 with a dream to make doughnuts for the boys. It wasn’t an easy task because there were no Ronco donut makers or Waring deep fryers.  She used her hands and a wine bottle to pat and roll the dough.  If there’s anything that’s readily available in France, it’s wine bottles. Rolling the dough into strips, she twisted them into shape, dropped them into hot oil, and voila: donuts.

Got to Make the Doughnuts

Helen had to stoke a wood fire in a cast iron stove to keep the heat even. Then she dropped the creations one-by-one into a small frying pan that held only seven doughnuts at a time. It was hard work, but what’s an eight-hour shift over a pan of hot grease if it lifts the spirits of the boys?

Drive within a half mile of a bakery and you know the smells are tempting enough to distract you from the worst problem on your mind—even if the distraction lasts only a few seconds.  Helen must have known the power of scent because before long, the aroma of fresh, hot doughnuts had attracted the soldiers’ attention.  They lined up waited for hours (in all kinds of lousy weather) for a doughnut. It was just like the grand opening of a Krispy Kreme, without the drive-thru window.

Frying doughnuts seven at a time made it difficult for Helen to keep up with the demand. By the end of Day One, she’d managed to hand out only 150 pastries, so many disappointed boys were sent away empty handed. That only increased the demand. Over time, she geared up for full production by increasing supplies and the number of fry cooks.  (All of them women, since back then, laboring over a hot stove was women’s work.) Eventually, Ensign Helen and a long list of other Sallies were cranking out up to 9,000 doughnuts a day—all on the front lines of the fighting.

From Sallies to Dollies

The women traded in the “sallies” moniker for the name Doughnut Dollies. There had been plenty of variations of doughnuts prior to 1917, but the Great War was the impetus behind the rise of the Dunkin’ Donuts and Krispy Kremes of the world.

Thanks to one enterprising ensign, the Salvation Army seized an opportunity to extend compassion to men in uniform in the form of hot, sweet doughnuts.  And for the two years the U.S. military battled the Kaiser, hundreds of unnamed women awoke day after day with four words on their minds: Gotta Make the Doughnuts—for the Doughboys.

No one knows for sure, but these WWI doughnuts could have influenced countless numbers of veterans to become police officers after the war.

Fighting Words

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Am I the only person in the U.S. who is sick of hearing news about the election? Some candidates have resorted to infomercials to enhance their campaigns, and while I am usually intrigued by 30-minute commercials presented in a news format, I’m changing the channel on electo-mercials. I still don’t know whether the candidates are pro or anti-biotic.

I drove past a home that had peppered their lawn with so many campaign posters that it looked like a graveyard.  Interestingly, the homeowners displayed signs for candidates from both parties, so either they can’t make up their minds or family members with opposing views are living under the same roof.  Or someone figured no one would notice, so under dark of night, they’re pounding extra posters into the ground while the family sleeps.

Begging for my Vote

What’s the world coming to?  I received a TXT message on my phone from a candidate who was begging for my vote.  Every evening, my voice mail has messages from various candidates, also begging for my vote. Clearly candidates running for office are exempt from the Do Not Call list. 
As annoying (and tiresome) as campaigning becomes, the election process is downright tame compared to what our forebears endured.  In some cases, it was so verbally pugilistic, that it’s possible campaigning was a spectator sport.

We’ve been barraged with nice, positive slogans: Country First (McCain), Change We Need (Obama), and the innocuous Nader for President. None of these would influence my vote, but it keeps PR minions employed.

There was a time when candidates focused their energy on personal assaults—in other words, ugly mudslinging.  It all started with the third Presidential election when two friends and colleagues, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, went head-to-head for the Presidency in 1800. Adams, the incumbent found himself (for the first time) on opposite side of the fence from his Vice-President, Thomas Jefferson. Let the mudslinging begin.

Talk about Mudslinging

Jefferson hired a hatchet man. (Today they are called campaign managers.) James Callendar, the hatchet man, accused then President Adams of having a "hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman."
Mudslinging is no fun unless it’s reciprocated. So, Adams, who considered himself above hiring someone to do his dirty work, called Jefferson "a mean-spirited, low-lived fellow, the son of a half-breed Indian squaw, sired by a Virginia mulatto father."

With the ball back in his court, Jefferson lashed out at Adams, calling him “a fool, a hypocrite, a criminal, and a tyrant.”

Back to Jefferson.  He accused Adams of being a weakling, an atheist, a libertine, and a coward.
Match point.  Jefferson won because his campaign managed to persuade people that Adams wanted to take them into war with France. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true.  People believed it and, sadly, people tend to believe bad stuff.  This explains why the National Enquirer is still in business.  Jefferson became our third President and Callendar did a year behind bars for slander.

Fortunately the candidates understood the power of forgiveness because 12 years later, they renewed their friendship. In an odd twist of solidarity, both passed away on July 4, 1826—50 years to the day after they had signed the Declaration of Independence. 

Do Not Call

Elections bring their fair share of heated debates and hotly contested issues, but the 2008 campaign doesn’t seem hateful. And I’ve yet to see the words hermaphrodite or libertine on any posters.
When I get a call from a representative of any candidate for office, I handle my frustration by telling them I haven’t decided whether to cast my ballot for John Quincy Adams or Andrew Jackson. One marketer took an impatient breath and in her most condescending tone, informed me that both of those men are dead. 

Well, I was prepared for that.  Immediately I gasped, then began to sob, well, not really sob, but fake sob, and ask her how it happened.  Was it an accident? Were both of them struck dead for unfair campaign practices?  Would the job of President fall to Henry Clay?  She hung up.  Mission accomplished.  Who knows? They might move me to a Do Not Call list of their own free will.

 

Oh, Shucks

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

I’d like to say I was born a dog lover, but that wouldn’t be quite true.  I was terrified of furry things—shag carpeting, stuffed animals, real animals—you name it. So, for some reason, my parents thought it would be a good idea to give me a puppy for my first Christmas. I was about 10 months old, and, did I mention I was terrified of furry things? 

Imagine my surprise when I opened my gift (probably with a little help) and a black Cocker Spaniel with long floppy ears stumbled across my path. While I couldn’t verbalize it, my worst nightmare had come true. Chrissy (because she was a Christmas present) was a furry gift that would be with us for 17 years. And I’m sure she was a big part of the reason I got over my fear of fur. (I suppose I should be grateful I hadn’t yet expressed a fear of snakes or my present might have slithered out to greet me on Christmas morning.) 
 
Most of my friends like dogs, but I do have one who is frightened of canines. She claims it goes back to her childhood when a dog charged her. Granted, not every dog is as long-suffering and lovable as Chrissy. There are attack dogs and skittish dogs that yip and nip and bark and bite. There’s Cujo. (I wouldn’t’ want to unwrap him on December 25.) Then there are the hounds of the Baskervilles made famous by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
 
It’s quite possible Doyle based his hounds of doom on a dog named Shuck.  Shuck is the original shaggy dog around which a legend was born. A ghost dog who roams the coastline of England near Norfolk, Shuck terrifies his victims. Legend has it that there are times Shuck appears headless. Inhabitants of Norfolk, Essex, and Suffolk counties claim he prefers haunting cemeteries, back roads, and deep, dark forests.  But that only proves his prowess as an apparition.  Most ghosts prefer to prowl dark, lesser-travelled areas.
 
Shuck is also referred to as Old Shuck.  Thought to be part of Viking folklore, the dog has earned the “old” part of his moniker since it’s been awhile since Vikings pillaged the countryside of England. And if you count how old Shuck is in dog years…well, you do the math.
 
While Shuck sightings are famous, one of the most prominent occurred in 1577 in a church in the village of Blythburgh.  Shuck ran through the back of the church past the ushers and greeters, who did a lousy job of keeping him out.  On his way down the center aisle, he killed two people kneeling in prayer, and his presence brought down the church tower. When Shuck took off, he left scorch marks that can still be seen on the door to this day.
 
Words like “to this day” contribute to his legend as a Doom Dog. Remember the Headless Horseman?  “To this day” he rides his horse through the forests. (Forests are good for legends, too).  And how about the Bermuda Triangle? To this day, ships and planes that disappeared there have never been found. And to this day in Rozwell, New Mexico, aliens reside in captivity, sheltered inside a secret government fortress.
 
Want to be a legend?  Start throwing around terms like “To this day.”
 
Legend has it that Shuck is the size of a pony, a calf, or an oversized St. Bernard. His eyes blaze red and when he stalks his unsuspecting prey, his enormous paws make a foreboding padding noise. Anyone who looks into his eyes doesn’t need to worry much about his 401K because a face-to-snout sighting with Shuck pretty much guarantees a lifespan that lasts no more than another 12 months.
 
Shuck is as famous in England as the Loch Ness Monster is in Scotland and Big Foot here in the U.S. At Halloween, children wanting to go Trick or Treating as something scary, go for the ghost costume or they dress up as Shuck.
 
But Shuck might just be the original shaggy dog. Shaggy dog stories generally mean they’re made up.  Exaggerated.  Lies.  Figment of the imagination.  In one Anglo-Saxon dialect, the word shucky means shaggy. Too bad he’s not real. Or should I say, “Oh Shucks.”

The Agony of Defeat

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Nobody wants to be a failure. The skier falling down a mountain slope is famous for that one tumble. Who cares that he probably swooshed down the death trails hundreds of times before? No one will remember him for anything besides his defeat, which had to be agony if only because The Wide World of Sports aired it week after week, year after year.
 
Remember Bill Riegels?  Probably not, unless I refer to him as “the guy who ran 65 yards down the field in the wrong direction and stopped one yard short of scoring a touchdown for the opposing team.” That happened in 1929 during a Rose Bowl game.  He was known as Wr ong Way for the rest of his life.
 
Dan Quayle is more famous for how he misspelled potato (or is it potatoe?) than he is for being Vice-President.
 
The guy who built the Titanic reached failure of titanic proportions, but no one really remembers his name and besides, he went down with the ship. 
 
Not everyone who goes down stays down.  It’s thinking about the people who kept getting back on their feet that should keep us going when we have to stand on tip toes and reach up to touch ground.
 
Most know that J.K. Rowling, who authored the Harry Potter books, wasn’t always the twelfth richest woman in England. For years she lived in a cramped, mouse-infested apartment and relied on food stamps to help her make ends meet.  She wrote longhand because she didn’t have a computer. And editors at twelve different publishers turned her down.  Hmmm.  Would that be considered failure or just bad judgment? I can’t help but wonder what those editors are doing now. Seven books later, Rowling is richer than the Queen and in the field of entertainment, only Oprah is wealthier, I want to fail like J.K. did!
 
Who hasn’t heard of Walt Disney?  He, too, failed. An editor fired Disney from his job at a newspaper because he lacked imagination and had no original ideas. Isn’t that a bit like firing Billy Graham because he lacks a personal relationship with Jesus and he doesn’t know how to pray?
 
Albert Einstein, clearly at the top of the intelligence food chain, couldn’t pass the entrance exams to the Swiss Polytechnic Institute in Zurich. And the institute specializes in chemistry, math, science, more science, oh, and science. Even political science.  If Einstein, the most famous scientist in the history of the universe, couldn’t get in, how is they have ever had any students? I suppose it’s all relative.
 
Sharon Stone couldn’t get a date to her prom. (If she couldn’t get a date, then the school’s mascot must have been a seeing-eye dog.)
 
Poor Tommy.  He had two strike s against him. He didn’t speak until he was four and then he didn’t really say much until he was in third grade. When he was in grade school, a teacher told him he was too stupid to learn anything. An advisor suggested he become a high school drop out because his teachers didn’t believe he’d ever amount to much.  Later on, he was known as The Wizard of Menlo Park. Thomas Edison held 1,093 patents for his inventions—including the light bulb.  Let’s hope those teachers all took advantage of that invention since apparently they were all in the dark before.

Steven Spielberg was a two-time high school drop out.  (Not that dropping out of school guarantees a brilliant career in the movies.) He couldn’t hack it, so after his sophomore year, he phoned home and said, “Come and get me.  I’m blowing this pop stand.” When he was persuaded to return, teachers placed him in a class for the learning disabled.  A month later, he quit again.

Even Bill Gates knows about failure.  His first business was a company called Traf-O-Data, designed to analyze the flow of traffic.  Lucky for him (and for us), it bombed.   He went on to start Microsoft and now he has more money than J.K., Oprah, and the Queen put together. 

Maybe what Napoleon Hill said about failure is true:  Failure is nature’s plan to prepare you for great responsibility. 

Marmalade Sandwiches and Reading Glasses

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

Anytime someone reaches the half-century mark, it’s a pretty big deal. Maturity has set in (for most) along with knees that snap, crackle, and pop. Retirement is not something that’s way out there in the future; it’s just around the corner. Not only do 50-year-olds need reading glasses, they also need good light—at least if they’re going to be able to read the tiny print (that seems to get tinier all the time)..

Guess who is turning 50? Paddington Bear. Born on October 13, 1958, the gracious bear from deepest, darkest Peru, arrived in Paddington Station in central London, with a beat-up suitcase, a bush hat, marmalade sandwiches, and a sign pinned to his duffle coat that read: "Please look after this bear. Thank you.” I think it’s nice when the abandoner is polite.

Discovered by the Brown family, Paddington was a stowaway sent to London on a lifeboat by his Aunt Lucy. So, Paddington was not only abandoned—he was put on a slow boat to England.  Although stowing away on a lifeboat seems improbable.  Where would one hide? A luxury liner maybe, but a lifeboat?  And one that came all the way from Peru to England?  Okay. It’s fiction, so I guess anything can happen.
 
Paddington Bear’s Aunt Lucy was preparing to enter a retirement home for bears. So she sent her little nephew away.  Far, far away.  Over 6300 miles. Bolivia would have been closer, and Paddington could have returned home for Christmas, so I can only assume Lucy never wanted to see her nephew again. On the bright side, had Paddington stayed in Peru, he never would have developed his charming British accent. 
 
Since no one could understand his Peruvian name, the Browns named him Paddington because he was found in that particular railway station. Naming someone after the depot in which he is found displays a frightening lack of creativity. If they’d discovered him in London’s Tube, they might have called him Tuber . Or perhaps Mr. Potato Head.
 
The Browns took the little lost bear to their home at 32 Windsor gardens near Nottinghill.  And that’s how Paddington began the adventures (and misadventures) that have captivated kids for 50 years. He started out as the central character in books and, cottage industries being what they are, he eventually became a soft, cuddly toy—complete with hat and coat, and accessories to match every imaginable occasion.

I never had a Paddington Bear, but I definitely had a Teddy Bear.  My parents brought bears home for my sister and me after a trip they’d made to Cincinnati and I’ve had mine ever since. (And I didn’t name him Cincinnati.)
He’s half blind because our Cocker Spaniel chewed off one of his button eyes.  Today, the FDA, the FTC, and the CSPC would never allow a child to own a toy with button eyes because=2 0it could cause choking.  And the ASPCA wouldn’t be too happy either. A dog choking on a bear’s eye is clearly cruelty to animals.  But that was in the day before we worried about such things as buttons on bears and the Heimlich maneuver.

I mostly remember how much I loved that bear.  He’s still around, but now he wiles away his days on a shelf instead of listening to all my dreams for the future, the fears that gave me bad dreams, my longings to see the neighborhood bully get caught red-handed in a flagrant act of bullying, and ways I would celebrate when that happened.

My Teddy Bear’s fur has been loved off with a lifetime of hugs, his eyes have dropped out, and he’s very shabby. But, like the Velveteen Rabbit, that only makes him real.

Real bears rarely live past the age of 10. Some can live to the ripe old age of 30—as they’re not hunted down and turned into bearskin rugs.  For a bear to reach 50 is quite a feat. Had Aunt Lucy not sent Paddington packing from darkest Peru, who knows what would have happened?

Life in jolly olde England has been good—and safe.  Paddington may be 50, but he hasn’t aged a day. Although rumor has it he’s in the market for a good pair of reading glasses.

A Wink and a Road Trip

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

When I answered the phone, my friend had two words for me:  Road Trip.  Road trips can be planned in excruciating detail, including pre-determined pit stops in designated rest areas. (A McDonald’s always works because few road side rests offer upsized cola beverages and almost none offer decent fries). Road trips can last weeks, days, or sometimes hours.  And the best ones are spontaneous. When you’re taking a road trip that leads to no where in particular, you don’t need a navigational system.  In fact, the most you need is a suitcase full of cash (to pay for your unleaded) and a vehicle.  Maybe a Rambler. 

But an intentional road trip with a destination is different. In addition to your cash, you might need a cooler and a GPS.

The roadie in charge of transporting us on our trip has one of those navigational systems attached to the windshield—just so we wouldn’t get lost. It’s amazing that these devices can direct you not only to your final destination, but also to offer it in your voice of preference. If you’re from England, you can choose a proper gent’s voice with an accent worthy of an audience with the Queen, (although he sounded a lot like John Cleese). If you’re from Australia, then you choose a voice from Down Under, like Crocodile Dundee.  If you’re from Kentucky, you choose, well, there’s no option for that one. 

Navigation software allows the selection of a male or female voice. We decided on the voice of an American male with, clear, bold, and authoritative—one that we were confident could lead us to our adventure du jour and safely home again. At least that was the consensus. To me, he sounded like a game show host and I don’t know if I would trust a game show host to keep me on course.  But I wasn’t driving. As everyone knows, the driver rules the radio, the rest stops, the temperature, and now, apparently, the navigation system voice selection.

Directed by satellite, automotive navigation systems usually rely on a GPS device (global positioning system) that pinpoints the user on the system’s map.  From there, it’s a snap to provide directions.  The easily lost love it.  Fugitives don’t.  Tip:  if you’re fleeing from justice, from the mob, or from bad guys, don’t get into a vehicle with GPS.  You can run, but you can’t hide.
As we started out on our trip, our navigator, who I nicknamed Wink because of the game show connection, advised us to proceed 30 feet and turn left.  I’m pretty good at judging a mile’s distance when I’m driving, but feet? Yards?  Unless I’m steering my car down the sidelines of a football field, I struggle.  But Wink got us out of the neighborhood, past the corner gas station and onto the tollway, where we were instructed to have the correct change ready.  That Wink guy is pretty helpful.  I suspected he’d want a tip at the end of the day.

The only time Wink messed up was when we drove through a congested construction area.  “In 30 feet, take a left. In 90 feet, take a right. At the next intersection take a left."  Unfortunately, that had us steering directly into a road block with orange barrels and signs that said, “Actung! Halt! Do Not Enter! Trespassers will be Shot!”  Or something like that. We made a U-turn, which frustrated Wink. When he realized we had not done what he said, he drove around the block only to try to persuade us to go through the roadblock again.  What’s it to him if we take a bullet or two?

These navigation systems work—most of the time anyway.  There was that one occasion when a woman followed the instructions and her car was hit by a train roaring down railroad tracks that weren’t on her system.  That did not turn out well for anyone, but I can’t help but wonder how she missed the RR crossing signs.  Did she have to crash through the barriers to hit the train?

Some people never learn obvious lessons.
Look both ways before crossing the street (or the tracks.)
Reduce speed at intersections.
And game show hosts are not to be trusted.

Going Green

Copyright 2008, Susan DeLay

I realize the only topic getting more press these days than going green is the 700 billion dollar economic bail out and the on-going debate about whether Britney Spears is fit to be a mother.

To be honest, the first time I heard about efforts to go green, my mind wandered to Green Acres.  Even if being green is the place to be, Green Acres is not what they meant. Trust me. 

Going green is all about sustaining our planet’s resources, and it implies a lot of “R” words:  reusing, recyclin g, and rethinking renewable resources.

A typical Saturday morning for me starts with coffee, then pulling out the vacuum and cleaning (or at least thinking about it), doing a few loads of laundry, and any number of other exciting activities I like to reserve for a day off.

But if I were prone to responding to highly leveraged guilt from those truly committed to green-dom, things would look much different.  I would spend my Saturday mornings as follows: Wake up, take a water-saving shower with a bucket of rainwater that I collected on my back porch, pull on a tee shirt woven from organically grown cotton (harvested by workers in a Fair Trade organization), slip into (ugly) earth shoes and go into my garden where I would harvest my own vegetables nourished by compost I created myself from used coffee grounds, egg shells, dryer lint, and wet leaves. (Although why I would want to eat anything nourished by coffee grounds, egg shells, dryer lint, and wet leaves is a mystery.)

The fact is that that the closest things I have to a garden are a friend named Jim Garden and a couple of silk plants. Lacking a gar den, on Saturday, I would hop on a mountain bike, and pedal to the nearest farmers’ market for organic tofu and free-range, all-natural, kind-heartedly nurtured eggs from chickens who will eventually be compassionately processed into cutlets that will end up as chicken parmesan.

Going green means limiting your gas, well, everywhere but at Taco Bell where if you don’t get gas, why bother. My morning commute includes an occasional trip through the McDonald’s drive-thru, where I idle behind other gas-guzzlers all waiting for non-Fair Trade coffee and some kind of McMuffin. Then, I cover 40+ miles in a fossil-fuel-burning Toyota. Tree hugging Mr. Greenjeans types might wag a finger in my face, but I’m not up for a trip through the drive-thru and 40+ miles on a bicycle.

Green experts suggest using only one paper towel to dry your hands in public facilities, but only if there isn’t a hand dryer.  A true environmentalist would suggest doing away with cushiony soft toilet paper and going back to using pages from the Sears catalog.
Other green suggesti ons include using half as much laundry detergent as the instructions call for and selling used books to a dealer of previously read books.  You could also ask the order-taker at the fast food drive-thru to “hold the bag.”  Just slap the burger right into your hands, or better, get the person at the window to feed it to you.

If you really want to be green, you can choose a dry cleaning establishment that converts carbon dioxide into a liquid using a high pressure process. This is in place of a petroleum-based neurotoxin that irritates the eyes and the skin. Or you could go down to the river and beat your clothes with a rock.

I recycle and I’m proud of it.  Every Monday, I drag two bins to the curb with my trash and each bin is filled with products that can go back to a haven where they are reused. Old magazines wind up in paper coffee cups. Empty aluminum cans of Diet Coke get recycled into Dr. Pepper cans. But only after someone has picked through the bin, removed all the cans, and sold them to a recycling company for 25 cents per ton.

I’ve rediscovered the library. (When it comes to recycling, nobody does it better!) I return wire hangers to the drycleaner and I return Styrofoam packing materials to UPS.  Al Gore would be proud.

Occasionally I wash and reuse plastic forks.  But if I were really serious, I would just eat out of the can. With my fingers.

Face it, it ain’t easy being green. If you don’t believe me, just ask Kermit.