"A person with a new idea is a crank until the idea succeeds." ~Mark Twain
I'm self-sufficient, and often (well...sometimes) independent. And yes, I've even painted a few fences in my day...scalloped, straight edged, dog-eared, flat top, French Gothic, wrought iron, and even the simpler traditional white picket variety.
In the event that you've never had the thrill of doing so yourself, it goes something like this -- in the blazing sun you stand at one end with a bucket of paint in one hand and a brush in the other, sighing, dipping your brush in the paint, sighing some more, dripping paint here and there, swiping the paint-filled brush up and down said fence, wiping the sweat from your brow, only to repeat this over and over, again and again, interminably from one boring end to the other -- wishing you were anywhere else, doing anything else.
Independent thinking is a rarity these days, but it's a bare necessity when hoping to see and act clearly. And clearly the independent and fast-thinking Tom Sawyer, the smart-aleck kid whose adventures were brought to life in the book by Mark Twain, made whitewashing his fence look like such a blast that he was able to dupe all his friends into doing the tedious job for him while he kicked-back, soaked in the sun and simply watched -- thereby delegating and declaring his independence from fence painting.
Independence Day, also known as The 4th of July, commemorates the 1776 event when our nation's founding fathers signed The Declaration of Independence -- a watershed of clarity in the history of democracy. So what better way to celebrate our nation's birthday than by pulling out all the stops with parades, patriotic displays, picnics, pyrotechnics and just about anything red, white and/or blue...including paint for fences.
"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. " ~Anne Sexton
From years of gentle rolling waves, the waters of Lake Michigan deposited piles of powder-white sun-bleached sand into monolithic climbable dunes. Along with the sound of the water, it's slathered sunbathers, bristly tall beach grass, tangles of driftwood being tossed back and forth and small clams leaving trails of bubbles through the sand as the water retreated from the roll of the latest wave - being so near to one of the Great Lakes was like having an ocean nearby.
As kids at the beach, we would walk its length until we sensed it would be an equally long walk back, and while doing so collected stones and shells that had been transformed by the constant unnoticeable grind of the sand and water. And as the day would dwindle away and as our heads, forearms and shoulders would become pink from a day at the shore, the citrus glow of the sun would move to a place behind the dunes and we would collect our stuff, load up our car, and head home.
The beach around Lake Michigan was nearby and our family would begin our day there with my dad making pancakes in the campgrounds' barbecue pits. In a metal bowl, the eggs, milk and instant batter from a box would be fluffed with a large spoon while the coals of the fire would be nursed to a glowing red-hot perfection. The appearance of his large blackened cast iron pan would mean that in a minute, the butter would be hot enough and we'd hear the much-anticipated sizzle and crackle of almost burned pancakes, which he quickly plated up for the next hungry mouth.
To some, my dad, Floyd, might have been a dismissible man -- quiet, soft spoken and shy. But to each of his three kids he was the world. Each winter he turned our driveway into an ice-rink, in the spring he'd bring us all fishing, during the school year he quietly sat through our torturous music lessons and every fall he painfully but proudly sat though our concerts. While shuttling us from point to point, he quietly watched, listened and guided. And although he worked the midnight shifts at the steel mill, had only a grade school education, and spoke English as his second language, he did so many wonderful things that I've only come to appreciate as an adult -- including teaching me how to clean that heavy cast iron skillet at the beach.
"Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are." ~Mason Cooley
Yeah -- you do it -- go ahead and fess up. Many folks, both men and women, immerse themselves into their favorite literature while making their bladder gladder.
If you're a bathroom reader, there's no reason for shame -- you're not alone. Surveys tell us that roughly two-thirds of North Americans admit to reading in the bathroom.
It's not just a "dude" thing either (unless those piles of Vogue, Mademoiselle and Marie Claire are for men who are attempting to tap into the freshest fashion trends), and it's not just an American thing. If you really think about it, why not read? The "loo" is often the coolest and the lightest room in most homes, and for some, the restroom is often an island of calm in an otherwise topsy-turvy world. (Hmmm...I wonder if the porcelain-palace was the inspiration for "A Clean, Well Lighted Place" by Ernest Hemingway?)
And you can always learn something new, novel and exciting while you're...ummm...waiting. For instance, the Scott Paper Co. conducted a survey revealing that two-thirds of people who read in the bathroom have either masters or doctorate degrees.
By reading too, you're not just multi-tasking, you're enriching your mind, and come to think of it - you're also promoting literacy. And although he wasn't publicly an advocate of reading, W.C. Fields considered his bathroom his library. And much like him, while "loitering" perhaps you'll consider enjoying one of the classics like Gone with the Wind, Lord of the Flies, A Raisin in the Sun, Watership Down, or maybe even Great Expectations...you get my drift.
And while personally, I'm not an advocate of paging through poems on the potty, jones-ing for journalism on the john, craving copy on the can, or even thumbing the thesaurus on the throne -- someone I'm most near and dear to (...and you know who you are) is. I've been assured, however, that reading in the bathroom isn't as nasty as it appears, and that other areas of most homes are probably less hygienic.
"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." ~Helen Keller
There are folks who dare to go bare, those that challenge others with the dreaded double or triple-dog dare, goof-balls that gamble with the laws of nature and gravity by becoming stuntmen or daredevils, and yet even more who risk their dignity by playing the ever-embarrassing "Truth-or-Dare."
I'm sure everyone has played the well-known game at some time or another. But in the event that you haven't: the challenger begins by asking another player "Truth or Dare?" If the player answers, "Truth," then the challenger gets to ask the opponent an embarrassing question that's then answered truthfully in front of the other players. If, however, the questioned player answers, "Dare," then the challenging player gets to "dare" the opponent to do something ridiculous, stupid, embarrassing, or dangerous -- sort of the at-home version of the TV show "Jackass."
On Dare Day (always June 1) -- an annual occasion to be audacious -- take the initiative to confront your family, friends and colleagues with pranks, challenges, and silly antics to make this holiday especially daring. You might begin by daring a friend to draw a moustache on someone while they're sleeping, taunt the mailman to brush your teeth for you, provoke your cousin to lick the armpits of an acquaintance, defy your neighbor to drink tequila out of someone else's navel, urge your housekeeper to sport a toilet paper turban, goad your accountant to wear his underpants inside-out, or challenge your secretary to yodel.
Of course, "Truth of Dare" is only a game and should be done in the spirit of good fun. But in a more serious way, whether dared or daring or both, over the course of history/her-story, there have been individuals who have exhibited mind-blowing courage and true grit toward a variety of challenges. Luckily for us, their daring made a significant difference to society.
Memorial Day commemorates U.S. men and women who have died on distant shores, drowned in far away seas, seared on hot desert sands or have battled in desolate jungles all while performing their military service to our country.
When Memorial Day began, the casualties of the American Civil War were the center of remembrance with its original name being Decoration Day -- a day when many still leave flowers at cemeteries. Today Memorial Day is acknowledged in the United States as a Federal Holiday on the last Monday of May and as a time to remember those who have passed on, whether in war or otherwise.
Many people thoughtfully observe the importance of this day by participating in a national moment of remembrance, by flying the U.S. flag at half-staff from dawn until noon, by visiting burial grounds such as the Arlington National Cemetery where volunteers place an American flag on each gravesite or by visiting monuments of remembrance such as the minimal yet moving Vietnam War Memorial by sculptor and architect Maya Lin in Washington, DC.
Beyond all of the solemnity -- if sunny, warm and lovely -- it's also a day committed to ball games, picnics, side-walk sales, veterans selling poppies, small town parades, barbecues, department store sales, and the formal "kick-off" of summer.
Having grown up in the small town of Lansing on the south side of Chicago, I enjoyed all of the hokey things that life there had to offer. The traditional Memorial Day parade, an extravaganza that involved Girl Scouts, the Little League, the local high school band accompanied by a bevy of buxom ladies from the pep-squad, fezz-ed' shriners in their little cars, the local fire and police departments, the representatives from the Knights of Columbus and of course our local veterans -- almost two thirds of the town watching the other one-third march.
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