People in My Path

One of my key beliefs is that God puts people in our paths when we need them to be there. We may think we know why, but often the reason has more to do with others than it has to do with ourselves.

Age is a great leveler of personal worth because it does not matter what is inside: today, it’s all about packaging, not product. Today’s society is a veneer, a thin coating of what passes for the real thing, but which leaves nothing of substance when it is peeled away and the truth that lies beneath is exposed to critical examination. And while some people actually value antiques, far too many more purchase them simply as possessions that demonstrate their fiscal assets, not treasures with intrinsic value in the workmanship that allows the piece to exist sometimes for centuries, an authenticity that cannot be replicated by the “faux antiques” market.

Yesterday, my antique value was validated when God put people in my path not once, not twice, but three separate times. One encounter was with a family member; the second with a student with whom I’ve tussled; and the third was with a complete stranger, a person who wandered into the building last night seeking a chaplain, but who then asked me if I would talk to him as he was having a tough time.

I took time right then to listen, invited him to share the classroom until class was finished, and then took him for tacos at a local fast-food restaurant. He needed people in his path as he was feeling isolated, alone, and not sure what he would do next. He talked, and I listened; and when I talked, he listened. When it was time for me to leave, I invited him to come back next week, to bring a book and sit in the class while we do our thing. He needs people; he needs something to look forward to; he needs to know within himself that he’s going through a rough patch, but this, too, will pass. He agreed, but not before requesting that we talk again next week, after class.

I reminded him that it’s one day at a time, and sometimes, just one step at a time. He doesn’t need to solve all of his issues right now because tomorrow, they may look different to him or they may be replaced with other issues that need his attention. I told him I’ll look forward to seeing him again next week—and I hope that he will, too.

Each of the people yesterday thanked me for sharing my wisdom, complimenting my age, rather than denegrating it as old-fashioned and worthless. You know, the "that's so yesterday" comment that young people glibly toss off when they don't want to hear what you have to say to them.

My mother always said that "You can't put an old head on young shoulders," but I hope that yesterday, the young shoulders were helped by my old head.

Vocabulary 101

Many of the tidbits forwarded to my in-box land in the delete pile: I'm not really into astounding information that has the potential to rock someone's world -- but not mine. Same with cute: that's a subjective decision and I'm an objective kind of person.

But, once in a while, along comes the one email that makes the endless stream of FWD MSGs worthwhile:

A worker calls the boss one morning and tells him, "I'm staying home because I'm not feeling well."

"What's the matter?" asks the concerned boss

"I have a case of anal glaucoma," comes the reply, delivered in a convincingly weak voice.

"What the hell is anal glaucoma ?" demands the boss, worried that this may be a new disease requiring yet another visit to his proctologist.

"I can't see my ass coming into work today! "

Brain Bifurcation

If anyone knows where my spare pair of glasses is hiding, or the case for my cell phone, or the grade record for the comp class, please let me know ASAP!

As I was working on the computer this morning, I felt something lightly brush my face. Reaching up to flick it away, I felt it fall onto my chest, so reaching down, I picked up … the earpiece for the glasses. Normally, this would not be a big issue (replace the screw yadayadayada), but these are rimless glasses, so the earpiece is embedded in the lens. Because I cannot wear my glasses and see what caused the earpiece to fall off the frames, I had to have professional assistance to assess the situation and let me know how/when/how much to have them fixed.

Now, we have a new issue. I did not opt for continuing eye care insurance as it would have added an additional $480 annually to my already high COBRA payment plan. Rather than returning to the shop from which the now useless glasses were purchased, I went to the nearby optical shop. For $225, I can purchase a new pair of glasses, titanium rims, bifocals, transitions lenses—and they’ll be ready Thursday (or Friday). Hurrah. They may not be the most au courant frames I’ve ever owned, but I have to teach a class tonight while balancing the broken frames on my nose, which should add an element of suspense to the proceedings and an additional layer of stress to my already high maintenance life.

I had the cell phone in the case last Thursday (for sure), and think I remember having it at b’fast Friday, but haven’t been able to find it since then. I’ve check both vehicles (under, over, around and through), as well as lifted couch cushions, looked under furniture, and stormed my way through every nook and cranny I can think to check. No cell phone case—and no spare glasses. Perhaps they ran off together? I tried the “this isn’t funny, guys” approach, but got no response from the missing items nor the dog, who tried her best to look sympathetically at me while I ransacked the house.

I’ve also been grading papers, lots of papers, using the couch as a workstation, so I figured the grade sheet would be in that general vicinity, too. Not so, nor is it on the official desk in the office, where the other two grade sheets are located. With all the paper still overwhelming my life, it could be mixed in with any one of several piles of papers, but I have to keep looking … and hope that I find it before the end of the semester. I have been shredding, but I think I would be tuned in to THIS IS A GRADE SHEET and not shred it while on autopilot, wouldn’t I?

This is nuts! I am usually so well-organized and can put my hands on anything at any time without stopping to think about it. However, I’ve been cleaning, reorganizing, shredding and discarding, which means I’ve moved things from one spot to another, usually with great logic involved in the relocation, and the end result is who knows where anything is? I certainly can’t find anything—unless you are looking for 2 vintage negligees in a size 10 that haven’t been worn since the 60s. Those I stubbornly refuse to donate to someone who may wear them in this lifetime. If anyone’s going to get lucky and need those negligees, it’s going to be an overweight, over-the-hill, graying senior citizen: me!

I caved into the “retirement” peer pressure, that expectation that now that I’m retired, I have lots of time to clean my house and (finally) get organized. However, I ran out of places to put things long before I ran out of things, so now the back of my truck is filled with boxes of teaching materials with which I don’t know what to do! I can throw out life materials, but teaching materials? Give me a break: I MAY NEED THEM SOMEDAY!

On the good news front, however, is that the student who wrote “tiddlers” in her essay about the importance of early educational intervention, changed it to “tettlers” after I noted a “sp” correction was needed in her quest for a recognized way to identify those little tykes who advance from rug rats to “toddlers.” With such cute nomenclature, she’ll be such a terrific highly qualified elementary school teacher!

Desert Delicious

Today is a gorgeous day. The lingering residue from the nearby fires has dissipated and the sky is a clear, pure blue. It's been quite warm the past couple of days, but without humidity, it just adds to the sparkle. This is what the desert is known for, this is what brings in the tourists and their dollars. This is what keeps our economy rolling right along.

This is desert delicious.

It's hard to imagine that there are still fires raging through the nearby landscapes to the west and to the southwest. There are evacuees still waiting to return to their homes, still waiting to learn whether they have a home or rubble waiting for them. There are still evacuees wearing the clothes they had on when they fled for their lives ...

It's amazing how quickly the media moved on. I guess the attention span for fires burning in SoCal is shorter than the scope of the fire. It's not a perky, upbeat story or salacious gossip, so fires still threatening thousands of homes puts too much pall on the national news to continue to report on them. It's sad, but all the top politicos have been here, done that, and moved on--so let's go find something more upbeat!

Think of the ratings, people.

Definitive Diagnosis

Today, I made up my rescheduled dr. appt. for a check-up on the situation that put me into the hospital for 3 days in July. It’s really hard to get an appt with my dr, but every time I’ve been in the office, I’ve been one of perhaps a total of three patients in the waiting room. The soonest I could be seen after canceling the Sept 5 appt was Oct 25, although I indicated that the dr wanted a more timely follow-up. Busy, busy, busy.

Whatever.

So, how’s it going today?
Today, I’m just fine, thank you.

Well, how have you been since the last time I saw you?
Oh, well, that’s a bit different as I’m still having symptoms, such as a weird heartbeat, sudden shortness of breath, and a swimming dizziness in my head.

Did the Prilosec help?
Help what? I don’t have acid reflux and I’m not sure what else it was supposed to do, so I’m not sure I can answer that question.

Hm. We’ve pretty much ruled out a heart problem, so it can be either the diabetes (faintness) or the asthma (shortness of breath), so we’re going to continue to monitor the diabetes, although you have done a good job with controlling it through diet and exercise, and I’ll up the inhaler while all the smoke is in the air. You probably should use the Advair daily, rather than just during the difficult times, such as when the grass is being scaled, the pollens are in the air, or it’s smoky.

Okay.

By the way, I’m going to burn that skin cancer off your chest. Only about 10% of them are ever malignant, so we’ll do this today, check it in 4-6 weeks, and then see how it looks. See you then!

Uh, what?

Mental Meanderings

Is SoCal going to be littered with FEMA trailers? The local media touted FEMA’s donation of 1,000 cots for the QualCom stadium in San Diego; however, there are more than 10,000 people on the premises, so perhaps a rotation for sleeping will be designed so the people who don’t have a cot can share with those who do?

It’s a nice gesture, and I’m sure FEMA will continue to provide more and more amenities for the displaced San Diego residents, but, at this point in time, thank God for the thousands of San Diegans who are taking care of their neighbors, bringing literally tons of donations to the people who are out of their homes and waiting to learn whether they have a home to return to when the fires are out.

The military base up the hill is taking in people from Camp Pendleton, Fallbrook, and surrounding desert communities, including the Big Bear area. They are being temporarily housed throughout the base facilities. When you have no place to call home, even a tent doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. They are being provided with food and sanitation facilities, so what more could anyone want?

What happens as the dominos begin to fall? Is the economy able to absorb this kind of disaster, or is SoCal going to be another Louisiana?

Where does all the debris go? Is there a designated place to discard the charred remnants of thousands of homes and businesses safely? Who pays to pick it up, cart it off, and dump it in an environmentally safe manner?

The utility companies suffer when thousands of accounts are closed simultaneously: gas, water, electric, cable TV, telephone, trash collection. The thousands of gardeners are suddenly unemployed, as well as the housekeepers and the shop owners who find themselves without customers to buy their goods.

Retail trades suffer as people who were spending money on clothing, recreation, electronics and other non-essentials now have to hold onto every dollar they have because not only do they have a home to rebuild, but they have to repurchase their lives. Restaurants should have a steady stream of customers: those displaced from their homes and those with no homes left.

Think of all the outstanding credit card bills for items in ashes. Think of all the mortgages, the balances due on loans for automobiles that are no longer, home equity loans on a property that is no more.

The economy will boom soon as the homes are rebuilt, the residents begin to refurnish their lives, and new cars are purchased, but for some of the victims of this disaster, it’s not just what they’ve lost, but what they have to pay for that no longer exists. Those loans and credit card bills don’t go away just because what they were used to buy no longer exists. The debt was incurred, and the person who signed the credit card receipt is going to have to pay off the debt, as well as the new debt incurred to rebuild their lives.

If everyone not affected by the fire donated $5 to a common fund, and everyone who loses a home in the fires signed up for an equal share of the pot, I wonder how much cash could be given to the victims to help them with part of the process?

The people who stood there and watched their homes go up in flames may not know it yet, but their lives were just destroyed, too.

Where There's Smoke ...

Tonight, on my way up the hill to teach a class, I was astounded at the amount of traffic heading up the hill with me. At the stoplight at the bottom of the first grade, the traffic was backed up for perhaps a half mile, and much of the traffic was 18-wheelers, which is unusual.

As I continued toward my destination, I came to a "major" intersection that turns off the highway I was on and becomes another "major" route across the desert to the base of the mountain where "Big Bear" is located. At the intersection of these two "major" arteries, the traffic was backed up another good half mile, again totally unusual, especially since the bulk of the traffic was turning onto OWS Road and heading across the desert.

Finally, an "ah ha" moment as the news cast began: the access from the other side of the "Big Bear" mountain was closed due to fires, so traffic was rerouting the L-O-N-G way around the mountain so people who lived on "this side" of the mountain could get home! The traffic was heavy, and I can just imagine all those cars and 18-wheelers forming a parade across the desert, which is one lane in each direction, creating a course for collisions from tired, impatient, and worried drivers trying to get home before the fire gets there.

At 8 pm, just as I was launching into the grand finale of the night's class, I smelled smoke: lots of strong-smelling smoke. Because we've already been through a major fire incident not too long ago, I sent a student to sniff out the source of the smoke to be sure that we wouldn't find ourselves in a difficult situation by the time class let out.

He returned and told the class that someone had left a burning cigarette on the ground and it had started a small fire at the end of the building. Several people were there handling the situation, but that's all it takes for another out-of-control fire to challenge the Santa Ana wind conditions and wipe out acreage, homes, and ecosystems.

I'm glad that people were right there to deal with the situation because it takes just a moment for one person's carelessness to become another person's catastrophe.

The Hostess with the Mostest (Noise)

Last night, a friend joined me to christen the completion of the new garden. I, ever the good hostess, brought Aunt Clara, my favorite wine, to the event, and surrounded her with peanuts and cheese sticks: do not let it be said that I don’t know how to stick to a high-protein, carb-balanced meal plan!

We sat on a (newly-linseeded) bench and talked about the landscaping, savoring the peaceful serenity of the design, accompanied by a live band playing Mexican music at a party on the block behind me. Had we been at the party, the volume would have been unbearable, but a block away? It was merely too loud. We shared the same bench, so we were able to continue to visit, highlighting recent personal experiences, as well as swapping life stories that seem appropriate half-way through a bottle of Aunt Clara.

About an hour into our little celebration, the new neighbors across the street came home, bringing along several friends. The party was all-male, featured a strobe-light show, a siren, lots of male posturing, and, evidently, alcohol. About an hour into their party, they briefly left for the nearby convenience store, and came back even more ramped up, not waiting to get back inside to continue the festivities.

Their music clashed with the live band’s Mexican renditions, and the stereo combination effectively cut off the conversation I was sharing with my friend. It didn’t take me too long to give up and go inside, where my own stereo was playing the kind of music I like to hear—but could not hear, even with my door open and the volume turned up a bit.

I haven’t seen adults at the house across the street, but maybe the males who live there are old enough to rent a house and live independently. However, I’m not sure about their maturity when it comes to partying, drinking, and driving. And, when young males get liquored up, they often turn to mischief in the name of fun—with my new landscaping a handy target. I’m hoping that they stay put, drink ‘til they pass out, and leave me alone, but somewhere inside, I don’t see that happening. It is just as likely than one of the quick trips to buy more booze will result in a car embedding its front end into my new wall, judging by the speed of the departure last night and the screeching, two-wheel return to the driveway a short time later!

There well may be a season when my neighbors stay inside on the weekends, but I haven’t experienced it yet. My goal, to be able to enjoy my home and use my property for my benefit, may be thwarted by my consideration for others: I would find it almost impossible to infringe on my neighbors’ lifestyles by imposing mine on them vis a vis the live band; loud, alcohol-fueled male bonding; drunk, out-of-control guests; illegal fireworks; and dangerous driving.

Sure, I can go to the house and ask that the music be turned down, but why would I put myself into jeopardy? Sure, I can call the police, but what’s the advantage to that strategy? I don’t want to be any larger as a target than I already am, so I stay inside, shut the door, and wait for the calm, quiet morning, when I can go outside, drink my coffee, and enjoy the serenity of my new garden.

Half a loaf is better than none.

Public Speaking

Today, while waiting for the machinery that operates the electric window in the driver's door to be replaced, a man came into the waiting area and opened conversation. Generally, he was griping about his (very) expensive Chevy truck that is covered with a 3-year, 30,000 mile warranty, which he exceeded 2 years into ownership of the vehicle. This visit, it's 2 dead batteries, which work in tandem to operate the diesel engine system.

As he (I'll admit, I joined in) went on and on and on, into my mind popped a word I must have learned 2 lifetimes ago: bloviate. At first, I thought, "Is that right?", but as my mind mulled the meaning and the man continued to fill the air with personal pontification, I began to think that yeah, my brain had stored that word for this occasion!

When I returned home, I did a quick search to verify that yep, I had it right: excessive, pompous speaking.

Of course, it helped that he was the right age to educate the "little lady" about diesel engines and double batteries--another characteristic of an older male bloviate!

Cue the Music

A memorable scene in the film Pretty Woman occurs when Julia Roberts’ character goes to Rodeo Drive to purchase a party frock so she can accompany her employer, Richard Gere’s character, to a social event. Because her appearance screams “hooker” to the sales staff, they refuse to wait on her. When Julia returns with a fistful of dollars and a platinum credit card, she asks the saleslady who snubbed her if she remembers her. When the woman finally admits that she does, Julia tells her she made a “big mistake” when she refused to sell her clothing from her pricey boutique.

“Big mistake” applies with the same fervor to the pretentious woman co-owner of the business that allowed Ellen to adopt a dog, pay $3k to neuter it and train it, and then took it back when the dog adoption didn’t work and Ellen found the animal another home. The children to whom she gave the dog aren’t old enough to fit the criteria the business owners have determined for loving a dog.

“Big mistake.” Their business survives on public support; Ellen’s business is influencing the public. Not one word has to be spoken to deliver the message: you don’t mess around with kids, dogs, or major TV celebrities.

The business owner says she won’t be “bullied by the Ellens of the world.” Okay, you go, girl, but may I repeat: BIG MISTAKE.

Jennifer Seinfeld was on Oprah’s show last week, touting her new cookbook. This week it’s sold out and well into its huge second printing: the free publicity sells more books than any costly ad campaign.

The business owner won’t back down and return the dog to the adoptive family Ellen personally selected to take the dog which she bought. The free publicity the business is receiving cannot be countered with all the paid publicity in the world. They are screwed, but too egocentric to realize it. Yet.

Jim Croce sang you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, but this business owner has probably never heard the song. Too bad. Big mistake.

Erosion

“But that’s not the way I do my essays” was the chorus from the class last night. I had already given a specific assignment, revision of opening paragraphs, following a full hour of using their opening paragraphs to point out the weaknesses in their own writing, using the computer as an interactive tool to make changes on the overhead screen as we discussed each of the writing samples. When the demonstration was completed, I directed the students to apply the instruction and revise those same opening paragraphs on the annotated draft I returned to them: to change the content of their opening paragraphs to improve the quality of both the writing and the communication with the reader.

“REVISE THE PARAGRAPHS YOU’VE ALREADY WRITTEN; DO NOT REWRITE THE ESSAYS” were my instructions.

As I began making my way around the class, checking for understanding and offering help, student after student had picked up a new sheet of paper and was rewriting the essay. I stopped the class, explained again that the assignment was to revise the existing draft, and told them to continue. Unfortunately, they continued with the new sheet of paper.

“NO!” I shouted. “Which part of this process do you NOT understand?”

Again, using their opening paragraphs and the extensive demonstration I had just finished using the LCD projector, the computer, and my flash drive, I showed them that I took their opening paragraphs and revised what was already written. That is the assignment; that is what you are to do; do NOT start yet another draft that includes all the problems of the current draft! You must change what you have already written, not merely rewrite it!

I started around the class again, and the students were furiously continuing to write an entirely new draft on a pristine piece of paper. I stopped them again, told them again what the assignment was, and then went one-by-one to the students, stopping them and telling them specifically: I am NOT going to read a new draft; the assignment is to revise an existing draft! I picked up their drafts, the ones covered in my ink, and demonstrated one-on-one revision of what was there; I rattled the papers, pounded on the papers, took away the lined sheets with the new drafts. I wracked my brains for a way to trigger a break-through moment, but it did not seem to matter.

No matter what I said, the students went about doing it their way. Finally, both totally frustrated and thoroughly pissed, I again directed them to stop and told them: you will NOT earn any credit for what you are doing because you are NOT DOING WHAT I HAVE ASSIGNED YOU TO DO.

That’s when one brave soul proudly informed me “that’s not the way I do my essays,” as if that explanation would earn him a medal for world peace.

Okay, I told the class, you continue to do it your way and you fail the class. I’ve taken several hours to make the point that what you are doing IS NOT WORKING, but if you cannot understand that at the college level it’s the professor’s way or the highway, literally, I give up. I have repeated the instructions, directed you to read the textbook, provided examples of your own work to demonstrate the error of your ways, individually demonstrated how to complete this assignment, but it seems that you know better than I how to accomplish this task—so have at it.

Repeating the word “fail” seemed to do the trick; one guy had a light-bulb moment, picked up the draft I had returned to them for this assignment, and said, “You want us to write on this???”

Ta-da! He got it; he really got it. Once I smiled at him, acknowledged his stunning break-through, and offered personal praise for his mental acuity, others jumped on the train and left the station: they picked up their drafts and started revising them.

The chorus of “Oh, I get it” was music to my ears. Of course, I know that they only “get it” for the time it took for me to write “okay” on that piece of paper so they could leave the classroom—which took some of them a full half-hour past the end of class to accomplish. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that what I receive next week is brand-new rough drafts with nary a revision on them … and the same content, the same errors, and the same issues that were present in the first draft!

It’s the erosion theory of education that students live with, the theory that they will wear me down by acting dumb and not doing what they are directed to do. If they do not follow a basic instruction for long enough, I give up and move on, marking an “I tried to teach them” grade in the book, the infamous “effort grade” that allows so many students to graduate from high school ill-prepared for the college classroom and/or the workplace.

For thirty years, I had to accept that reality; however, at the college level, no can do. A student who cannot or will not do the work does not move past me. Sure, (s)he can take the class again with an easier, nicer teacher and, perhaps, pass the class, but (s)he won’t move past me! It’s easier for both the students and the teachers to take the path of least resistance, to give up, give in, and move on, but I want the nurse in charge of my treatment to know what (s)he is doing, not barely earn a nursing degree. Ditto with every other facet of my dependency on skilled individuals who are a vital part of my life, such as electricians, plumbers, accountants, airplane and automobile mechanics, x-ray techs, bank tellers, customer service reps who total my bill: the list is endless.

I don’t want their positions to be a result of erosion; I want their positions to be earned by knowing how to do the job thoroughly and correctly in every single phase of it. When a supervisor/instructor provides a specific process/procedure to be followed, that’s my expectation: not a courtesy pass because the individual tries really hard!

Don’t try: do. If you cannot do, find something else that you can do! A college education may be a right for every individual, but that does not mean that a college education is right for every individual.

Finishing Touches

Perhaps this will be the last photo of the yard as I finished it today! Yep, the landscaping helpers were supposed to be here, but they didn't show and I wanted this project off the to-do list, so I did it myself.

Yesterday, I was scheduled to take the car in and have the driver side window fixed: if I put it down, it does not come back up. When the mechanic opened the parts box, he found a used motor, instead of the new one that was ordered for the job. If I wanted to have a used motor, I'd keep the one I have ... so I said reschedule for Monday and get the new part before I bring the card back for service.

On the way home, I stopped at the local home project store and picked up a few items, such as a new hoe (my old trusty hoe no longer hangs from its peg in the garage, but I'm not sure how/when it disappeared), the linseed oil for the benches, and the black paint to redo the window frame that faces the garden. Before checking out, however, I decided to look at edging again, this time stopping at the bricks.

Bottom line: for the same cost as the crappy stuff I didn't want, I could buy bricks and do it myself. I bought one each of the two sizes, brought them home just to be sure they were perfect, measured how much distance I could cover with each set of two, measured the perimeter, figured out how many bricks I needed and how much it would cost--the same as the crappy artificial edging I didn't like--and went back to the store.

It took me a couple of hours to install the edging, but it's perfect. It fit exactly to the brick, is a nice random shape, blends in with the colors in the garden and the perimeter wall, and is the perfect finish to the project.

This morning, the guys were supposed to be here to remove the little, round, river rocks from the serpentine garden and replace it with desert gold ground cover, but when they weren't here, I just kept working without them and finished up at 11:30 am. I am good and tired, but pleased with how good it all looks! I cannot do the watering system myself, so have that left to finish, but everything else is done, done, and done.

And I ain't paying no mo money for people who don't show up to work!

Now, it's time to finish the office redo, which is mostly shredding old records, then finish the dresser refinishing project I began last summer! I have everything I need to finish that project, I just haven't done so, probably because once that stage is completed, I have to purchase wall-hung cabinets to finish the project.

And, one of these days, I'm going to have to deal with the boxes in the garage, aren't I.

The Fat Lady is Singing

The big yard and the Friendship Cactus Garden

One of my favorite hymns is "In the Garden," which says, "I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, And the sound I hear falling on my ear The Son of God discloses." This hymn was sung at my father's funeral, and I sang it in his honor the spring I directed the church choir. Whenever my mother came to stay with me, I played this hymn and sang it for her, which I also did the Sunday before she died. Although there are no roses in my new garden, perhaps, some day, someone will sing this hymn in my honor--maybe while standing in my new garden!

Although it may not be completely finished, the landscape is close enough to call it. Although it may not be professionally landscaped, it’s just what I had in mind and I’m satisfied with the end product. Although it may not look like the pictures in the landscaping books, it looks like my yard—not someone else’s yard replicated a thousand times, but my yard.

The Friendship Cactus Garden is totally hands-off as far as upkeep goes. There are little drippers throughout the garden where they need to be, set on a timer that takes care of the right amount of water at the right rate and at the right time. Using the big pots to anchor the concept and keeping it simple adds to the effectiveness of the environment. I’m considering some mild night lighting, such as solar lights, in key places, but am going to continue to think about that before doing it.

The big yard is peaceful. At each of the viewing spots, the landscape looks different, but it’s quiet, simple, and more natural than artificial. The birdbath adds a touch of water, but not too much, which is what the desert is all about. Big Rock rests in a hole just a bit too deep to be a bench, but it’s perfect for children to either climb or sprawl across. The benches are going to be coated with linseed oil and then left natural as they look just right as they are. With the fairy lights on in the entry area, the whole yard takes on a special glow at night. Again, one solar light by the birdbath may be the one accent that’s missing.

The only change I would make to the garden areas is a few larger rocks. My design featured one large rock in each garden, and that’s not there. We tried to get the big rock for the big yard, but 3 large, strong men could not get it into the truck, so we went to Plan B. We left room to add the big rock to the Cactus Garden, if and when I can make that happen. I may add a few other rocks here and there as it occurs to me, but the design needs to stay simple and uncluttered to work.

Because we chose young plants, the total concept will continue to develop as the plants mature and grow into their spaces. It looks a bit bare now, but by next year, the plants will have established and filled their space and look perfect. There are touches of color, but nothing that will jump out and grab the attention away from the total garden areas.

We began the project at 7 AM and the guys left at 7 PM, so there was a lot of work completed in 12 hours of steady, intense labor. We need to add more of the rock coating to the big yard, fix a bug with the watering system, and slightly redo the first area I created to match the rest of the environment we’ve created. If the city would do its part and add curbs and sidewalks, my home would look finished, but that won’t come for another couple of years. Now, there is bare sand between the wall and the asphalt: ugly, at best.

The fat lady is sitting on her bench and singing!

Hot, Hotter, Hottest

Many years ago, when I was a runner, I had a heat stroke. I suddenly became very hot, an accelerated heating that began in my core and spread rapidly throughout my body. My head began to throb mercilessly, and I was sure I was going to pass out and not wake up.

Today, I was outside working in my hobby yard when it happened again, suddenly, without any warning. One minute I was raking sand and the next I was SICK and thought I was going to faint. It took me a bit to figure out I was really, really hot--and put the hot with the faintness and the pounding headache, but when I did, I dropped the rake and made my way as quickly as I could into the garage and into the house, where I went directly into the shower, turned on the water, and began cooling my core.

That helped, but so did the cool water I drank straight from the shower head. I was nauseous, faint, and holding my head against the pounding pain. It took about 5 minutes before I felt cooled off enough to wrap up in a towel and hit the sheets. Within an hour, I was cooler and calmer, but still did not feel well.

I was meeting a friend for lunch and seemed well enough 2 hours later to go to the restaurant, but when I walked inside, the room was really warm--and I started getting sick again! We picked up our place settings and went outside, where the combination of shade and a slight breeze were much more comfortable than the closed-in room. I took an Aleve for the headache that returned with a vengeance, but could not order a meal as my stomach was heaving. Even the wheat toast didn't sit well, so I only ate 1/2 slice, but drank a lot of liquid.

I turned down the air conditioning when I came back home, stayed inside, and drank fluids until it was time to teach my night class. It went well and I feel okay now, but ugh!

I'll stay inside tomorrow, even though it wasn't that warm today and I didn't feel at all uncomfortable or hot before the heat stroke hit. Perhaps I had depleted my electrolytes and just didn't know it.

Believe me, it's nothing something anyone in their right mind would do deliberately because heat stroke can be not just dangerous, but deadly. I'll heed the warning and not put myself into a situation for a repeat performance.