I Flew! I Really Flew!

By Argentum Vulgaris

http://avarchives.blogspot.com

http://netherregionoftheearthii.blogspot.com/

http://tomusarcanum.blogspot.com/

http://itsnotthecoffin.blogspot.com/

http://theysayitsinthegenes.blogspot.com/

(RBU join date 04/07/2010)

When I was a kid, I flew in various aircraft. During the school holidays Mum would pack us up and we'd fly off to Auckland. It was a chance for her to catch up with old friends who had moved north and for us to play on the beaches. More than that, it was a chance for us to fly! While in the late 50s, early 60s flying wasn't unusual, not many of our school chums did, so we were lucky in that respect. The hour and a half flights were usually in a Vickers Viscount or a Lockheed Electra. It was this that made aviation a big part of my life; model airplanes, magazines, etc.

But it was my first flight in a small aircraft, which made most impression on me. That took place at cadets. I flew in an RNZAF Harvard, NZ1015 to be exact, I still remember the registration number; these planes were designated T-6 Texans by the Americans. A ten minute "air experience" flight for each cadet; we each anxiously awaited our turn as a group in front of the hanger.

Eventually, I was scrambling over the back of the wing, clambering to sit nervously in the front, helmet complete with earphones strangely heavy on my head, the pilot sat in the rear. I could hear him talking to the control tower, he gunned the engine, it growled briefly in defiance and we swung away from the hanger and taxied out to the runway, the pilot explaining that I could talk to him by clicking the button on the wire. We swung onto the runway, suddenly the radial engine howled loudly and I was thrust back into the seat as we accelerated, the runway became a blur beneath us and then began to drop away as we were airborne. No more runway, green grass; "thud" the wheels were up. Over the barbed wire fence surrounding the airfield, the sheep in the next field all took on a storybook appearance, like farmyard toys, Up and up, over the city he put the plane through some simple maneuvers talking all the time explaining, getting me to watch the instruments we had learned about in parade night lectures; my hands gingerly holding the controls as instructed to feel the plane's gyrations. It was wonderful, it was better than a flying carpet, it was just as magic.

Toward the end of the flight, the pilot asked if I had any questions, as we were near the domestic airport and had to fly across the city to Wigram, I asked if I could find my house. With directions, we circled over my house. My father was in the garden, hoeing the weeds, he looked up at the noisy Harvard, I had often heard complain about the noisy things. A full circuit over the house pivoting on a wing tip the world and time seemed to stand still, then back to Wigram joining the finals, "thud" the wheels were down. The ground raced up as we dropped over the fence the wheels rumbling as we hit the runway. We taxied to the tarmac where one of my buddies was taking his turn with the batons to marshal the plane to a standstill with the orange paddles crossed over his head, the next cadet running out to take my place. The pilot gave me a thumbs-up as I clambered out onto the wing, quivering with excitement.

I had had the longest flight of the day, nearly twice the other lads because of the detour over my house, but no one was complaining, least of all me.

I had flown, yes I had flown before, but this was really flying.

I got home. "Didya see me Dad?" as soon as I rushed in the door. My father's usually dry, "Oh was that you?" couldn't dampen my spirits that day.

I was thirteen and I had ridden the magic carpet!

My Greatest Treasure

By “A More Interesting Life”

www.thisnewlifeofmind.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 03/18/2010)

I was sitting in front of my computer, looking at all of my stuff, scanning my apartment for some clue as to what hidden treasure is staring me in the face on my nearby bookshelf or lying beneath the dirty clothes cramped into my closet.

Nothing was really coming to mind until I looked down next to my computer screen at the face of Juliette Binoche smiling at me from the plastic case of my new DVD called "Paris", a film by Cedric Klapisch. In just over two hours, I took a trip to Paris and fell in love once more with this city I have never been to and this language I am struggling to teach myself. Suddenly my answer was only too clear. Of all the treasures in the world, my greatest treasure is my Reawakening Imagination!

Below is my Thank you letter to this treasured friend.


Dear "Mr I",

Thank you for being a part of my life.

Back in the day, I was a closet dreamer disguised as the quiet, studious, good boy who never caused any trouble. I always tried to just fit in. Be normal. Not the easiest thing when you are just discovering you are gay, feeling alone and the neighborhood bullies have targeted you as the kid to humiliate and torment for "sport".

Fortunately, that is when you entered my life and helped me make it through some of the darkest days of my youth. Had it not been for "you", I would not have found a world of creativity that balanced the "dark" with some much needed "light." Because of you, I taught myself to draw, write poetry and short stories and develop magical worlds, for the few friends I had other than "you", to explore in the fantasy game of Dungeons and Dragons.  

"Mr. I", you allowed me to escape and find joy! You helped me live in the richness of movies, teaching me to dream that life could be so much more than my current experiences were showing me.  I was no longer a freak suffering in silence. I was a hero on an epic journey facing monsters and villains with unmatched courage!! I could survive anything and become anything I wanted to be.  

No surprise, you even led me inevitably to the path of acting and a belief I could leave my immigrant family in Philadelphia, reinvent myself and set out on my own California adventure. You gave me the courage, when no one else believed in me, to audition for only ONE graduate theater program and miraculously get accepted against all odds! And only You could help me see my "first apartment" off Sunset and Fairfax blvds. as a fabulous bachelor pad instead of the tiny "Efficiency"  my friends saw it to be. You ROCK! 

When I met my first true love, you helped to make it one of those movie moments where I saw my Johnny enter a crowded room and a voice inside me said I need to get to know this person. Of course that was you whispering in my painfully shy ear and forcing me to make moves and say things I never knew I could say or do all so I could have one of the most  life-altering growth experiences ever -REAL TRUE LOVE. I will confess, when Johnny died, you and I had a bit of a falling out. I wanted nothing to do with you. Unfortunately in the "divorce" you took with you my desire to act or draw or write much of anything that mattered to me.

In your absence, I quickly decided to get a real job and work my 9to5.  I worked hard, made money and for a decade I survived but I was not really living. Then one fine afternoon, when my boss was working me to the point of exhaustion, I went out on the stairwell of my office.  My daily nicotine fix was my lame comfort in an otherwise stressful day. Out of the blue a co-worker said, "We need to get outta this place."  Like a long lost friend, you  appeared out of nowhere.  I found myself thinking,

"What the hell am I doing with my life? Get it together, man!"

Lucky for me, when you came back to stay, like any good guest, you did not come empty-handed. My buried dreams resurfaced and the urge to follow them wherever they may lead, gave me that "hero's courage" of my youth to leave the 9to 5 and re-set my life back to the adventure of LIVING it was meant to be!!!!

Now I know that you have been my savior, my friend and the driving force of every good thing I have experienced in my life. To not give you "props" for all you have so generously given to me would just be rude. We have a long and exciting road ahead. I am glad you are once again traveling with me. 

The Cock and the Pearl

By Ran Fuchs

http://ranfuchs-grainofsand.blogspot.com/

(RBU join date 04/14/2010)

A cock strutting in the yard
Found a pearl in the hay
It’s only mine, he called the hens 
Everyone here away!

He pecked it once, he pecked it twice
Before taking into beak
He tasted, chewed and then spat out
It’s not a thing to eat.

It’s stupid, useless piece of junk! 
He called in great dismay
Why does man adore it much? 
It’s not as good as hay.

While some would claim ignorant cock
Missed treasure he could have
What value is a pearl to you
If hay is what you crave?
 
A free interpretation of a Aesop’s fable with the same name

My Greatest Treasure

By Cheryl Hughes

http://www.the-ocm.com

(RBU join date 04/10/2010)

I treasure my oldest child Jamie. What I treasure most about him is what his arrival taught me about life and how that nothing must ever be taken for granted and that even the most learned among us can be wrong. This is that story (posted previously on my blog)…

Wow, this is harder than I thought. They say it’s best to begin at the beginning so I’ll start there. Jamie is my first born son. He came into this world at 4:44am on February 9th 1997. I still remember ever minute of that first day in perfect clarity. When he was born it was apparent from the first moment that something was terribly wrong. The doctors whisked him out of the room without a word, they took the baby and my husband and they were gone. I was alone 5 minutes after giving birth and scared out of my mind. A nurse came back in and told me they were moving me to a private room, I thought wow, that’s nice I don’t have that kind of coverage but I’ll take it. The nurse then stepped out the door and spoke in a voice I can only assume was louder than she expected and told another nurse that they did not want to put me in the same room with the mother of a live child. I thought my first born child had died. My entire world felt like it collapsed at that moment.

I was moved, in a state of shock to my room. The doctors then sent my husband in to face me alone with news of our child. My husband just looked at me with the saddest expression I had ever seen and said “Honey there’s something wrong with the baby”. I was overjoyed and terrified in the space of a heartbeat. On one hand, my child was alive, on the other something was wrong. “they don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl” was all my husband could choke out. I didn’t say anything, my mind was screaming but I could not manage a single sound. One hour later my newborn was airlifted to Sick Children’s Hospital in Toronto.

I’m going to summarize the next couple of days, as if I go into all the detail I remember I’ll a) be a blubbering mess; and, b) this blog post will be huge. 

It took 3 days and endocrine testing to find out we had a boy. That was surreal, as what is the first thing people ask when they find out you had a child “What did you have?”  By the middle of the second day I was snapping back with “A duck, I had a baby you moron, what did you think I was going to have?” I stunned more than one person to silence with that. 

After that the test results started coming in to give us the laundry list of “issues & complications”. It turned out that Jamie has a rare chromosome disorder called 13q deletion. Then it was explained to me that chromosomes are the blueprints of the human body and he was missing part of them. So imagine if a builder was asked to construct a multi story house on a tight deadline and then once it was started he realized some of the blueprints were missing and couldn’t be replaced. The builder would do what he could and hope for the best. That is what happened with Jamie.

Here is the list encompassing all that is my boy. He is blind, deaf, non-ambulatory, he has a gross brain malformation called holoprosenchephaly, his hypotonic, has a heart defect, seizures, malformed genitalia, is fed through a tube in his stomach and there other little issues. But he has a great smile and a laugh that can’t be beat. They told us he would only live 3 months at the outside and that we should be prepared. That was 13 years ago. Doctors, it turns out, can’t see the future and are not infallible. They do the best they can, just like the rest of us. 

So that is my treasure.

The Most Important Treasure in My World

By Paul Wilson

http://magicdartsblog.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 04/09/2010)

I'm a fairly sentimental sort of chap.   

I have box files full of old scrap books and journals, cupboards brimming with souvenirs, memorabilia and keepsakes. I really find it hard to throw away special things that invoke such important memories and moments from my life.  

But then when I really thought about what I truly treasure the most -it was really quite simple.  

As the picture shows, everything that I hold dearest in my life is represented by objects that I can hold in a single hand…

1) An old Kodakchrome colour slide photograph  

This is a picture of me as a new born baby being cradled in the arms of my brother as my mum and little sister look on. Before he reached his 6th birthday, he was taken from this world after spending most of his young life fighting a cancerous brain tumor.  

As I was less than 2 years old at the time, I have no memories of him.    

All I have are a few very precious pictures like this one.   

2) A steel bar  

This is part of an award given to my late father by his work colleagues at the steelworks he worked at until the early 1980s. My Dad was a strong, silent sort of character. He worked all around the world to earn the "pennies" for his family.   

He encouraged us kids to "give it your best shot" and work hard for whatever we do in life. 

In late 2002, he finally succumbed to lung cancer.   

I miss him dearly.  

3) A gold ring  

I've been married to my best friend for nearly 12 years now and still every day I can barely believe how lucky I am to have her in my life  

She has been an absolute rock through some incredibly emotional and difficult times over those years.   

I look forward to sharing the rest of my life's journey with her, with all my heart and soul.   

4) A hand  

My left hand that first gently cradled the tiny head of our first born son.   

After many years of trying, I finally got to hold our little miracle.  

5) A spirit  

My Mum was cruelly taken from us in 1993 by a tragic accident.   

Deep down in my soul I know that her indomitable determination, her will, her sheer enthusiasm for life, her compassion for others, must and will always live on in me.  

She is forever in my heart.  

Thank you for reading.

New Understanding: The Moment

By Kristin Ramsey

http://www.kristinlately.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 03/29/2010)

There are moments in your life where you just "get it". You suddenly understand life and all it has to offer--all you have to offer. The light bulb in your soul clicks on for a second and leaves just the same. Here is my account of when I experienced one such moment.

The time of my moment was in the late morning, somewhere between 10:30 and 11:30. The place of my moment was in my counselor's office.

The appointment begins as usual; me making small talk to delay the seriousness of why I'm here, to brighten up the darkness that my childhood and years of mistakes and regrets have placed upon me. I wish this small talk could go on forever, but my counselor and I have business to attend to, business of the heart and of the mind. Continuing the small talk would serve me no good but to hide from the truths of my soul, something I have done my entire life and what led me to where I sit on this day: in front of a therapist.

I sit here twice a month, on Mondays. Talking with my counselor feels like meeting with a friend for coffee, but without the coffee or the deceit, and with a new-found bravery and readiness to open up emotionally and spiritually. I sit here transparent, partly by choice, mostly by sheer force of my counselor's insight and intuition. I could continue hiding beneath the grit and the grime that has become my life, but it wouldn't matter. She sees right through me; a notion that is both frightening and freeing.

The conversation moves from small talk to my small self. The cleansing has begun. The topics of conversation are the usual: my mother, my depression, and my mistakes. But mostly we talk about my mother. What isn't in the norm is the effect that my counselor's words have on me. Don't get me wrong, I always receive great insight from her, but today was different. There was just something about...this moment.

I cannot repeat back her exact words in the exact order that they were spoken. It's not because I have forgotten, but rather, because I have internalized her words into the deepest corners of my soul. Her words have become a part of me, a part of my thinking and my feeling and my acting, my blueprint for what I am becoming.

The moment begins to take shape as I relay to her information about a conflict at work that happened yesterday, one in which I took what interpersonal skills I could muster up and did the best I could with what was presented to me. She tells me I handled this conflict with humility and maturity. I handled a conflict with humility and maturity. The flattering nature of her words aren't what struck me; but rather, the cause of her words, my actions, which up until now, in my eyes, have been anything but humble and mature.

Set-up, fail, run. Set-up, fail, run. I take any responsibility, activity, relationship, etc. and I make a list of 100 things that I must do in order to be successful, happy, self-sufficient, etc. I can only do the first 10 or 20 things before exhaustion and impossibilities hit. Since I could not complete the list, I am a failure. As a failure, I get depressed and run and hide from these relationships, jobs, activities...never to return again. Years and years I did this, ending friendships, relationships, jobs, college courses, etc. all because I couldn't measure up to my own perfect standards. Until yesterday.

You see, it wasn't the moment of getting it that lit up my soul, it was the moment in which I realized I had already gotten it, when I realized I was behaving appropriately in a new light, in light of years of subconsciously reenacting the rotten lifestyle I had become accustomed to throughout the course of my twenty-seven years.

The experience of this moment granted me the realization that thousands of moments--every single high and low that my past, my present, and my future had, has, and will have to offer--will all one day condense into a simple, manageable contentment. But, the final product is not the moment. The journey is the moment--the journey is what I must relish in, what I must hold close to my soul, what I must never let go. The journey provides the light, not the darkness.

Mile Hoarder

By Jeff Lorow

another-mile.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 03/40/2010)

 I'm a Mile Hoarder.

My wife is a fan of the show Hoarders.  Also, Hoarders: Buried Alive - I'm not sure if there's any real difference in these shows, but one is on A&E and the other is on TLC.   

A hoarder is someone who is addicted to stuff.  They fill up their house with junk, often to the detriment of their family, friends and even their own health.  They get attached to the simplest objects, often connecting them with memories and can't throw anything away.  

The other day I realized I'm a hoarder.  Not of stuff, but of miles.  Either on my bike or on my own two feet, I collect miles like they're gold and as the high from the last mile wears off, I start jonesing for the next one.  

The thing is, every mile is different.  When I ran the Pittsburgh Marathon, the miles were special because of the spectators that lined the streets to cheer on the runners.  There were small children reaching out for high-fives from runners who were two hours behind the race winners.  

The miles on the Appalachian Trail are special because of the views from the tops of mountains, the challenge of the rocky trails and the occasional critter running (or in some cases slithering) across the trail in front of me.  Those are the miles that I collect so that I can do more miles on other trails with people whose mile hoarding tendencies are as bad, or in many cases, even worse than mine.  

 Ultramarathon miles are great because of those people.  Those are the miles where you hear stories of lost toenails, sprained ankles and acute renal failure.  Wiley ultra vets are often "toppers" - if you have a story they can top it, or at the very least relate. When I had lamented to another runner about the miserable conditions of the 2008 Erie Marathon, he told me about how his fingernails all turned black at the same race several years earlier.  Those are miles you don't soon forget.  

 Bike miles are the miles that you've seen a thousand times before, but never in this way.  When you drive down a road at 45 miles per hour, you don't see the gentle hills, the grooves in the pavement or the scenery like you do when riding at 15 miles per hour.  Besides, rarely are you able to take the time to moo at a cow from your car window (not that I do that).  

 And sometimes miles are just ways to collect more miles; "if I run this mile, I will be more ready to collect more miles another time."  This is a great excuse to run 3 miles of hot asphalt on my lunch break.  The more boring miles I put in now, the more fun miles I can take on later.  

 The nice thing about miles is that I have plenty of room in my house for them.  I bring them home and all the space they need is an inch or two in my training log, sometimes a little photo space from the memory of my cell phone, and the occasional blog post.  So I don't think I'm going to call Oprah just yet.  I can gather up miles and never worry about not being able to have people over.  

As for all those shoes in the hall closet, that's another story...

CSI: Chronically Sentimental Individual

By

http://thefallenmonkey.com

RBU join date 03/06/2010

Confession:  I am a sentimental schmuck by nature.

Exhibit A:  Bag of wallpaper shavings that has resided in my parents’ garage for well over two decades.

Motive:  My change-fearing child-self cried so hard when my mom hung new wallpaper in our kitchen. 

Defense Plea: 

I do not recall how old I was at that time, but I assert that I was too young to know better.  And if that defense is ineffectual, I’d like to call in a medical witness who can diagnose me with terminal sentimentality, as I continue to be prone to such attacks to this day (it’s genetic—my parents will testify on my behalf if subpoenaed).  Regardless, I did not act alone.  I believe that hanging from my arm at the scene of the crime were undoubtedly one of the two usual suspects.

Accomplice #1:  Yammy Pie 

Alias:  Yammy 

Species: Lamb 

Present Location:  Chicago, IL

Identifying Characteristics:  Orange fur.  Missing one ear and outright chunks of matted fur, leaving behind distinctive threadbare markings.

Profile: 

The intent was to call her “Lamby,” but for some unknown reason I would not pronounce the “L” sound at the age of three.  Once, my grandma attempted speech therapy in trying to get me to repeat after her, “Luh-Luh-Lamby.”  For every failed attempt, I responded, “Luh-Luh-Yammy.” 

Another time I overheard my dad and older brothers yelling at a game on TV, “Go Miami!” I looked at them with brows furrowed territorially and insisted, “No, MY Yammy.” (My inner selfish bitch blossomed at an early age, as you can see, but that is irrelevant to the case and should be struck from the record.)

Yammy was a friend and confidante for two blissful years until Accomplice #2 arrived on the scene to usurp my affections.

Accomplice #2:  Amanda the Panda

Alias:  Mander (pronounced ‘mahn-der’)

Species:  Panda Bear

Present Location:  London, UK

Identifying Characteristics:  Course, pebbly fur, matted down and hardened from decades of hugging.  Scratched eye surface (resembles cataracts).  Pronounced indentation around the waistline caused by wearing a doll’s skirt that was too small for six months.  [Note:  Amanda grew one inch taller on our family growth chart during the early 1980s due to compression of aforementioned hugging.  Therefore, be advised that she may now appear even taller.]

Profile: 

Amanda the Panda was a Christmas gift from my parents when I was five. She has an “official” birth certificate that I scribed by hand with a blue ballpoint pen on a sheet of notebook paper.  The document can presently be found in my photo album archives in Chicago.

Two years ago, I transported Amanda over the Atlantic in my carry-on so she could reside with me in London.  On the occasional night when I’m sunken into a mode of regression, I will fall asleep hugging her, much to my husband’s dismay when he ends up having to spoon us both.  I have been known to still sniff the bear now and then to find the comfort of my own scent like I did as a kid.

Amanda has survived soakings, hangings, and kidnappings.  There was one occasion when my father took her and me to a Teddy Bear clinic so her arm could be stitched and wrapped in gauze. 

No injury was sustained during one said kidnapping, however.  Indeed, my older siblings had only staged her murder when they shoved her in the microwave.  After I ran away wailing to the sound of them setting the timer, they replaced her with a pile of black and white soil from a potted plant and brought me back to see what I believed were her charred ashes.  No charges were pressed against the offenders; however, this is why Amanda has remained in my sole custody after all these years. 

Closing Statement:

As much as I try not to rely on material objects for meaning, I think it is only natural that those of us who suffer from terminal sentimentality will assign immense intangible value to the tangible things we can physically carry with us as time fleets away.  With their appeal to the visual and tactile senses, our personal treasures are perhaps the closest we will ever come to a time machine for the speed with which they transport us back to our cherished past and integrate it into our ongoing existence.  Is it the fur, stuffing, and curling shards of wallpaper that bear intrinsic value for me?  Of course not.  But the value I attach to them could never be appraised nor ever depreciate, and for that reason, I hold on.

I rest my case.

TICK-TOCK

By Rebecca Hoffman

http://heresagem.blogspot.com/

(RBU join date 02/23/2010)

When I think about what I treasure most, what comes to mind are not things, but memories, experiences, knowledge and relationships. I treasure legacy. I want to leave behind a footprint someday. Something that tells the world, or at least my great-grandkids, that I was here. Something more than pictures or my engagement ring, because those are just things. Right?

Or are they?

As I ponder this topic I look around my home and consider what I would grab in a fire… after the kids and the dogs, of course. Photos. Birth certificates. Jewelry. What in this house am I really attached to? No one wants to consider themselves a materialistic person, and I take comfort in the thought that if the whole house burned, but the family was together and safe, I would be OK.

My gaze settles on the tallest piece of furniture in the house, looking down at me as I sit on the living room couch contemplating my freedom from material things. I think about its cousin down the hall, resting against the wall between the kids rooms. My Grandfather’s clocks.

My Grandfather loved clocks.

He collected clocks, and when he retired he set out to make grandfather clocks for each of his three daughters and all of his eleven grandchildren. He built bigger, more custom grandfather clocks for his daughters, and a basic clock for the grandkids. We got to choose the wood and stain. After he finished clocks for his daughters, he started on clocks for the grandkids, oldest kid first. My Mom was the youngest daughter, so the four kids in our family were pretty much the youngest. As the oldest of four, I was the only one in our family to get a finished clock. My Grandfather finished 10 clocks before he died of cancer in 1991.

I chose a golden oak stain for my clock, which is made from oak. I would choose something darker if given the choice now. It was my nicest piece of furniture for many years. I still take great pride in opening the door on the body of the clock to show people the shiny brass plate engraved with his dedication to me. I love the sound of the tick-tock, tick-tock, the gears pulling the hands to the next minute, the chimes on each quarter hour. The chimes can be annoying if it’s not something you’re used to, but once you grow accustomed to the sounds they are quite soothing. I grew up with those chimes. They are sounds of my childhood. Regal, solid, confident, authoritative chimes declaring the time of day. The gears churning to move the hands, the click as it hits each quarter hour and the chime begins. Each quarter hour, a unique chime, growing longer as the new hour approaches and finally, the long chime counting the new hour. Each clock has its own unique voice, its own personality.

 I haven’t heard those chimes in years. My clock has been silent. Each time I’ve moved homes, I’ve had to remove the weights and pendulum to avoid any damage. I moved a lot when I was younger. Sometimes, the chains which hold the weights would slip out and I would struggle to replace them. Then came the time when I was unable to. Unable to replace the chain, unable to reattach the weights, unable to wind the clock and set the pendulum in motion… my clock sits silent.

 My brother, second born in our family, received an unfinished clock. The shell of the clock is assembled, the movement still in a box. This was the clock Grandfather was unable to finish. It was hoped my brother would finish it someday, but he hasn’t. I don’t know if he ever thinks about it, I don’t know if he has any plans to do it someday. He is a thirtysomething bachelor pursuing the perfect wave, perfect powder… his thoughts are more focused on surfing and snowboarding than clocks and legacies to pass down.

 My sister, third in our family, has been promised the “French clock”. A beautiful antique table clock with bronze carvings of women on each side of the clock itself. My Grandmother (still living) could not part with the bronze women. She needs to have them nearby, to see every day. She gave the clock to my sister and told her she could get the women when she passes. The bronze women are one of her treasures.

My youngest brother received my Grandfather’s Grandfather clock. Grandfather’s pride and joy. It was given to him by his father. It sat in the same spot in my Grandparents house for nearly sixty years. A place of honor, positioned so that it was the first thing you would see when you walked into their home. Every important event my Mom and Aunts dressed for in their youth, a photo was taken of them in front of the clock. Easter dresses, proms dates, engagements. I don’t know how old it is, but it is beautiful. It is much larger than my clock, but is a similar, classic style. I believe it is made from ebony, it is stained nearly black. The brass face is exquisite, the moon faces more expressive than any of the other clocks. This clock has the most beautiful voice of them all. This is Grandfather’s clock.

It sits in my house, silent. It looks down on us from its place of honor in our living room, it is the first thing you see when you enter our home. My youngest brother is also a bachelor and moves around, he has not committed himself to one job, one town, one home. It was decided that I would hold on to the clock until he settles down. I’m the only child in my family with a family of my own, a semi-stable home. I say semi-stable because we do not own the home we live in, and to me, there is something un-stable about renting. We sold our home years ago and used the profits to help start our first business. That was in the very beginning of the housing boom, and we haven’t been in a position to dedicate ourselves to a mortgage since. We’ve been in a constant state of flux, pursuing one goal after another and never knowing if we will be uprooted. We’ve learned the value of cash and cling to ours like a lifejacket. A mortgage represents a burden, a risk. A savings account represents freedom, stability. Such is the life of entrepreneurs. Someday we’ll have both.

Until then, I haven’t been willing to dedicate myself to the cost of having a professional get the clocks running again. Why make that investment now? What if we have to move next year and I have to take the clocks apart again? So they have sat, silent, for years now. It seems silly, when I think about it. I don’t think it would cost that much to get them going again. I don’t think we’ll be moving any time soon. It’s become a symbol of the fact that I am not settled. It’s a reminder that we have not yet achieved our goals. It just seems like when they come back to life they should be in a permanent spot, a permanent home. I don’t ever want to silence their voices again.

I know that these things, these large, stately, chiming wooden boxes are my treasures. They represent stability, family, history, legacy. They remind me of my Grandfather, but they also remind me that I am creating a legacy of my own. They remind me to continue to pursue my goal of living a life my grandchildren will be proud to talk about. They remind me to be the type of person my grandchildren would want to emulate. They remind me to continue to build a home where my children, and someday grandchildren, can feel comfort, stability, love, acceptance and happiness. And that… is the greatest treasure of all.

It Will Never Happen To Me!

By Pierre le Roux

http://gaywarfare.blogspot.com/

(RBU join date 02/01/2010)

Many of us live our lives largely unaffected by news events or by the turmoil of others. We are bombarded with atrocious events in the print and news media and think to ourselves “It will never happen to me”. We have empathy for those affected by war, disease, violence and poverty, but it rarely extends past our comfort zone. This week I was forced out of my comfort zone. Media reports had a direct impact on my life and the plight of someone conjured up painful memories.

Last week, news broke that the final death blow had been delivered to the organization I work for. Legislation fashioned in an undemocratic manner was adopted and signed thereby blighting the future careers of all of us who are affected. A somber mood followed. Having to face the challenge of integrating with another organization, not having a clear sense of direction and being confused by the process that is to follow is daunting to say the least.

For the first time decisions made by government will have a direct impact on my life. It’s easy to slip into depression and become muted or even passive aggressive due to a sense of powerlessness. Reading the news articles I wonder how many other people read about their fate in the news and whether the feeling of obscurity I had is the same. As the initial impact passed and the shockwaves grew slighter, I realized how resilient one must be to survive. I adopted an attitude of liability towards my own future; no matter what will be thrown at me I will be prepared to face the challenge. It may be easier said than done, but being negative and anticipating that which I don’t know will only hinder the successful negotiation of my future. This holds true for most trials in life.

During the same week a colleague was diagnosed with cancer and a famous actress, I admired, died from the disease. My colleague is a young vibrant woman who has always been in great health and good spirit. The news of her illness visibly destroyed her. Having an oncologist tell you to make sure your affairs are in order is the worst words anyone can hear. The same words fell on my mother’s ears just over 4 years ago. She learned that she had terminal cancer and had less than 18 months to live. We all know that we are going to die, how ominous it must be to know your specific deadline

I saw my mother go through all the phases from denial, anger, bargaining and depression. Acceptance was tough for all of us but most arduous for my mother. I saw the strong woman that raised me wither away as the disease ravaged her body and at times stripped her of her dignity. The morning she died I felt relieved that her suffering was over. It took a long time to eliminate the visual memory of my dying mother and surrogate it with a memory of her at her prime - therapy helped. We were fortunate, we had time to prepare and had time to say good bye. Time that was more precious than gold.  I am not sure I understand how difficult it must have been for her during the last 9 months of her life, but she remained strong willed until sheer will and faith was not enough.  On that fateful Wednesday morning at 11:15 a precious soul was taken away but her legacy lives on in my memory

Cancer is an inhumane and indiscriminate disease. Saying good bye to my colleague as she sets off on the battle of her life, the memory of my mother prevented me from saying phrases like “Stay strong”, “You can beat this” and “Everything is going to be ok” - those words are futile. She will not stay strong, she may die and things are not going to be ok: She will be sick from treatments; her body will be scarred from surgery; emotionally she will go to the darkest places she has ever been and if she survives the memory of her illness will haunt her every time she falls ill, discovers a lump or see her scars. The only words of encouragement I could muster was “Laugh every opportunity you get, cry when you must, take it a day at a time and never lose your will to live”.  Life is precious and deserves to be fought for!

The past week helped me get perspective. As I said before, there are no certainties in life and that which is unexpected in all probability could happen to you. I realized that I should be grateful for what I have in my life and embrace adversities as it can only devastate me if I allow it to. The challenges that I face seem insignificant compared to that of others, and I will always remember that all people’s experiences are inherently egoistic. Your own problems, at the end of the day, are more important to you than those of others.  I challenge everyone who read this to take a “tea break” from your own life and have a good look around you, seek out that which is precious to you and savor the moment. Don’t let an opportunity to laugh  go by. Don’t be afraid to cry. Life is too short.

Till next time.

Four-Leafed Clover

By Anne Marie Segal

www.aupairwithflair.com

http://bagelonatree.com

(RBU join date 01/27/2010)

“Mommy, look! I found a four-leaf clover!” My son beamed as he burst through the door from the backyard. He handed over a short, stubby plant with four tiny little leaves.

"Are you sure it's a clover?" I asked sweetly. "I've never seen a clover like that."

"Yes, I'm sure! It is!"

I knew it wasn’t a clover, even if it had four leaves. It was a common weed. They were all over the yard and easy to spot. But what was the point of robbing him of his joy?

“That’s great, honey,” I said, “Would you like to put it in your treasure box with the other things you’ve collected? We can press it in some paper first.”

“No, mommy, it’s for you!” he shouted, wrapping his arms around my legs. “You’re my best mommy in the whole world.”

Even four-leafed weeds can bring you luck, if only you let them.

My Rare Diamonds

By Luchismiles

http://www.luchysmiles.com

(RBU join date 01/22/2010)

There were things I valued so much in the past; a few possessions I thought were my treasures, like one black plastic comb I got from my mum, which I used from childhood until today. Although I love it, I don't see it as a treasure (maybe not yet), it's a pending treasure.

There is a piece of jewelry that I value highly, a pair of round gold earrings, a gift from me to me. I treasured it. A few months ago, I unfortunately lost one of them. Now, it's an incomplete treasure.

I had a pearl necklace, a wedding present from my father. I cherished it so much, I wanted it to be something that would go from generation to generation. But then the pearl travelled with me to London and never came back with me. It was probably ripped off my neck without my notice, on the busy streets of Central London. It was like magic, I can't figure out how it disappeared until today. It's a lost treasure.

After taking a trip down memory lane, after I have searched my world, I have come to accept the fact that, what is most valuable is not what I have in my life, but who I have in my life. There are some people in my life that I love and cherish, but none so much as I do my two greatest treasures, - my two little boys!, they are my rare diamonds.

They are my bundles of joy, happiness, and pleasures.

I am thankful to God for my precious treasures.

They are gifts from God that make me feel bold.

Gifts that I will ever cherish and hold.

My boys are my treasures, more precious than gold.

The love I have for them will never grow old.

The Treasure of the modern world

By Glen Staples

RBU Group Blog Managing Editor

www.glens-life.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 01/22/2010)

The Internet was built and then they came!

And didn’t we just? I’m told that hundreds of people use the Internet every week. I did mean to research this statistic properly before writing it here, but the man in the pub who told me it, was drinking Guinness so who am I to argue?

I have a lot of faith in the ‘man in the pub’ system of information gathering. It’s been around for thousands of years (The ancient Greeks would sit around listening to Socrates telling them all his theories while sat in a pub, the flowing wine eventually causing Plato to start a fight with Aristotle about one handed clapping).

Wikipedia cannot compete with the tried and tested ‘drunken man facts’ as far as I am concerned. Guinness drinkers are one step up from ale & lager drinkers too. There is something special about a man who is prepared to drink something so foul that you have to drink it for a year to “acquire the taste”, before you actually start enjoying it. It shows a real grit and determination that the rest of us don’t have, so I tend to put a lot of faith in their word.

I have digressed…

The Internet is a truly awesome bit of kit, a true giant among man toys. Possibly, the Internet is the ultimate gadget, and surely the real treasure of the modern world?

Maybe I should take a moment to stride vaguely towards the point.

TREASURE FOUND:

What can be more exciting than opening those little packets that come through your door, a couple of days after a visit to Amazonia? I love the little buzz you get when you realize that your new ‘thing’ has arrived. It is even more exciting if your mouse was clicking after you had invaded the wrong side of the lager Maginot line, and therefore couldn’t actually remember what you had ordered.

I should point out that there are other online shopping outlets other than Amazon, in fact according to Bob (Guinness drinker and member of the winning team in my local pub quiz three times last year), around the world there are 8 different shops that you can order shopping from online (I think he uses Wikipedia, to research his facts). 

Sitting at home, doing any shopping that you could ever need, has to be the best thing invented since the Travelator. You don’t have to spend 20 minutes trying to park, you don’t have to walk about in crowds of sweaty strangers and best of all the coffee is much cheaper.

Once finished, you can go back to trying to Google the most innocent looking images you can, that will still find porn without arousing suspicion in your history (try ‘outdoors’)

A couple of days later your treasure arrives, as soon as you see it your heart starts pumping. Is it going to be what you thought it was, and let you easily make potato wedges or have you ordered a Kiwi fruit peeler – again? Will it work? Are the speakers going to be fit behind your TV, or are you going to have to remove your sofa in order to fit them in your lounge? You shake as you open your package, and then there it is in front of you. Shining like an ancient gold coin, your brand new extendable stealth finger looks up at you. This device is going to revolutionize your evenings.

Ever since those pesky suffragettes started chaining themselves to fences, men’s quality of life has been eroded beyond recognition. In my house, even the last bastion of manhood has been taken from me. Since their invention in 1979 (Bob’s certain on this one) TV remote controls, have been absolutely the man’s responsibility. The control sits firmly on the armrest of the dad’s seat in any household. Should any channel changing or volume adjustment be required, then this change must be approved and carried out by the only person in the house qualified to do it.

Recently, my wife has been asserting herself with the remote. Selfishly, she will grab the control and sit with it in her hand, recklessly wasting the battery by skimming endlessly through the TV guide. Jo will look for programmes about people trying to blag their way into becoming a top chef by going on TV, rather than spending years training to be one. Later, she will restart this process for a bunch of housewives that are apparently desperate?

The extendable stealth finger will resolve this problem perfectly, according to the description on the Web. I can sit back and allow my wife the remote control power, thus keeping the peace in the house. I can even show her how much I treasure her channel choices by cuddling up to her on the sofa. Once lulled into a false sense of wellbeing, Jo will not notice as I extend the finger behind her back and change the channel. I will become the remote master once more!

TREASURE LOST:

Any man from my generation or earlier will remember the thrill and excitement of being a 14 year old boy out in the local woods with his mates, when someone discovers treasure. Chances are it would be a bin bag covered up with leaves, or stashed behind some branches, and inside would be the greatest treasure of all. Granted the magazines would be a little used, let’s say well read, but that didn’t matter.

Discovering a hoard of discarded (or cached) porn was a monumental moment in our young lives, something that you never forget. The world of opportunity and wonder that it opens up for you is truly inspirational. Right then and there in my local woods with my mates, I decided exactly what I wanted to do when I got older. Sadly I failed to get good enough exam results at school to qualify as a gynecologist, so that dream was lost, but I’ve enjoyed practicing as an amateur.

Just as enjoyable was seeing the difference in reactions between you and your mates.

Spellbound:  Goes very quiet, doesn’t offer any opinion or advice, but cannot take his eyes off the treasure.

Nervous:  Giggles uncontrollably, keeps walking away and looking around in case his dad walks by.

Over Confident:  This happens to him all the time and is quite boring, says something that only somebody with no clue whatsoever would ever say, like “Once you have seen one you’ve seen them all”, and covertly stashes the best magazine down the back of his trousers while overtly making a point of not looking.

Upset:  Cries, and then violently tries to destroy the stash, because he has seen a picture of his mum in the reader’s wives section.

I was most definitely a ‘Spellbound’.

The Internet may well have destroyed this treasure forever. Does anyone buy magazines anymore? The woods are now barren of this kind of cache and even if they weren’t, the 14 year olds aren’t bothering to go out and find them. They can find much better at home.

The new computer kings of the playgrounds are no longer the kids who have worked out how to copy new games onto a floppy, or can distribute all the access codes for the later levels of Galaxian. The School hero these days is the one who can come round to your house and show you how to beat your parent’s family safety software.

So there you are, the Internet is here and it has changed the world. I may even have to start using it for researching new facts; perhaps Bing will be more useful than Bob.

Hedgehogs, Foxes and Four-Leaf Clovers

By “Jackrabbit”

http://www.jackrabbit-blog.blogspot.com

(RBU join date 1/21/2010)

In an attempt to explain different approaches to the world, the Greek poet Archilochus once said that "the fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing."  The fox, that is, is wily, and it has many different strategies for escape from hunters; the hedgehog only knows how to turn himself into a snarling little pincushion, but that one trick works every time.  Just because we admire the fox’s grace and adaptability doesn’t mean that the hedgehog is any less effective. 

The literary critic Isaiah Berlin, an inveterate hedgehog himself, picked up on this idea in his essay The Hedgehog and the Fox as he attempted to explain views of history in the Russian masters.  Some view the world through a single, unifying lens, he claimed, like the hedgehog’s one “big thing”; others use a variety of things, or a variety of approaches or talents, to understand the world.   These are your foxes, those without a single big idea driving them forward.  In Berlin’s distinction, Plato was a hedgehog; Goethe, however, was a fox.   Both of them changed the world in their own way. 

In my kit-fox days in the western badlands, my parents trained me to be a good vulpine, and I learned a variety of tricks of nature which suited me well.  I learned how to call coyotes and rabbits, scratch under logs to find bugs and snakes, how to find the skeleton of a dormouse in an owl’s pellet.  I learned how to find licorice root and asparagus in the plains, and thimble-berries and camas in the mountains.  From my father I learned how to track a deer, skin a rabbit, identify a cougar’s track. A cougar’s front paw print, if you’ve never seen one, is perfectly round, like a saucer, and it will make the hairs on your neck stand on end. 

 One of the most important things I learned from my fox-father was how to find fossils and four-leaf clovers.  “You’re still looking for things,” papa Fox would constantly tell me, “and you need to look for patterns.  Your eyes are getting exhausted before you find anything.  Get used to the texture of the rock, the pattern on the leaves of the clover.  Only look at things that break the pattern or have a different texture.  Those things are the treasures, those things that don’t fit in with the pattern.”  Then he’d pick up a perfect arrowhead from the turf, press it in my hand, and my mouth would gape in awe.   I followed that advice and found a T-Rex tooth as big as my thumb, half-buried in a washout when I was just five years old (and had little thumbs).   And while I have never had much luck finding arrowheads, I have found a few four-leaf clovers in my time—many little approaches, different searches leading to many wonderful little things. 

 As much as my fox-training fit in perfectly in the Rockies, after I grew up, moved and went to graduate school, I realized that I was now in a world of hedgehogs.  When my husband and I would go to the beach when we lived in South Carolina, he’d go playing in the waves and marvel at the vastness of the ocean.  I would be beachcombing, which made the beach bunnies around me giggle when I returned with hands full of sand dollars and conches.  When we hiked in the Appalachians for the first time, my husband was awestruck at the view.  I was looking for tree-snails and salamanders. 

 In grad school, the most valued scholars are usually the hedgehogs, those who have a grand unifying vision or approach they can write a monograph about.  (Just take a look at Sigmund Freud: he built the entire school of modern psychology on the discovery that women—gasp— don’t have a penis.)   My professors didn’t always know what to do with someone who possessed a good interpretive mind but couldn’t get past the minutiae or stick to one approach.  I have ended up in Appalachia with a brilliant professor for a dissertation director who is trying his darnedest to develop my inner hedgehog, and regrettably, I just keep frustrating him.  “Could you just stop looking at the trees for five seconds and take a stab at describing the forest?” He blurted at me once.  I just shrugged, too fascinated with individual words and phrases to back out to see the larger picture. 

 So, what’s a foxy girl supposed to do in hedgehog-land?  Do I need to scrap my vulpine sensibilities, turn my snout up to look for my One Big Thing?   And if I do, will my eyes tire of the search before I find whatever it is?   Can there be a place in academia for a Jack of all trades, for somebody who prefers to mix her methodologies, her interests, and her research on the little matters instead of the big questions? 

 Well, I doubt if it will help me write my dissertation, but I’d just like to declare that this unrepentant fox has found seven four-leaf clovers in the last two weeks.  Five of them were less than a yard from the main sidewalk between the dorms and the library, where thousands of students walk every day.  One of them, actually, has five leaves.   These are my little treasures that didn’t fit the pattern. 

Beat that, hedgehogs.