tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76174398497811892612024-03-13T22:35:56.849-07:00So What's Next?A place to sound off, discuss the world, and stand atop my soapbox.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-32172412341485978622013-06-14T16:15:00.000-07:002013-06-14T16:16:29.292-07:00The Truth<style>
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THAT SWINE!</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
(from Twisted But
Half True Lore’s And Tales)</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">By</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Robin Hilsinger-Christensen</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Pig Brother One, studied his blueprints.</div>
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The wire and mortar enough for a new fence.</div>
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Surround the home, humble, but strong as an ox,</div>
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Safety assured, more than Fort Knox.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Pig Brother Two, he patted his snout,</div>
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Pig Brother Three, said, “One; what a lout!”</div>
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Fumbling, peculiar, tapping his ear, </div>
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Was Brother One serious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Was there something to fear?</div>
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<br /></div>
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It happened one Tuesday when lounging around, </div>
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That Samuel B. Wolf, came ambling, no sound. </div>
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Sam sleeked ‘round corners and slunk to and fro, </div>
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His stomach was growling and churning like dough.</div>
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The only solution kept haunting his mind,</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pig Brothers, all <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">four</b>, what a marvelous find</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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With one chomp on Four, he drug him away, </div>
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And never again, would Four’s voice have a say.</div>
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Brothers' Three, all we’ve heard and only we've known,</div>
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Since Four, he was murdered, with nary a groan.</div>
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His hide it was skinned, and his bones were fried deep,
</div>
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Wolf basted and barbequed the boar. What a creep.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Brother One, he kept working while his siblings kept play,</div>
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No worries of Four, he’d be back some day…</div>
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One, shouted with warning, with each brick he kept score,</div>
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“You better start building lest you want Sam B. Wolf at your
door!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Days had gone by and brick turned to walls.</div>
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One's home proved quite strong, and ready for calls.</div>
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But his brothers, Two and Three, kept dancing their jigs,</div>
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There homes slapped together made for weak and wobbly digs.</div>
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<i>What stupid little pigs.</i> </div>
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</div>
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One’s fireplace was stoked, the Dutch oven, it hung
</div>
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His home, unpretentious, decorated fung-shung. </div>
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Pig Two and Pig Three unable to jostle,</div>
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Danced and jigged, until they grew docile. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But around the bend, upon the hill, north,</div>
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Samuel B. Wolf made his move steady forth.</div>
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With chops now all gone, and licking of lips, </div>
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Samuel B. Wolf was ready for nips.</div>
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<br /></div>
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To knock on Two’s door was only polite,</div>
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But making his point, showed teeth to bring fright.</div>
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“Pig Two, my man, kind soul, thoughtful friend,</div>
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Open your door and let me come in!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Two, now worried that he shunned instruction from One,</div>
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Scurried to close curtain and drape, light from the sun.</div>
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Instructions from One: “In the Event of” lay torn,</div>
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<i>What did it say? What did it warn?</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Pig Two!” Hollered Wolf with a huff and a puff, </div>
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Invitation for dinner I hold in my cuff. </div>
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An ale we’ll share from my own private brew,</div>
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Carrots, potatoes, my gourmet simmered stew.</div>
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I – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We will </i>lounge
after dinner with drink in my – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i>
hands,</div>
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A Toast to all pigs <span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">ROASTED</span>
and <span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">BROASTED</span> and PACKED IN TIN CANS!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Brother Two in a panic burst through the back door,</div>
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Not a minute too soon as his house turned to floor.</div>
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Like never before did he run like the wind,</div>
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And pounding, Two squealed! “Brother Three! Let me come in!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Samuel B. Wolf just paid me a visit.</div>
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He intends to skewer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
ham! Baste it, exquisite!</div>
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His freezer is empty and needs to be filled,</div>
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That Wolf, he is horrid, Brother Four he did killed.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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In his office, askew, Brother Three found instruction, </div>
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“Says here Brother Two, we need better construction.”</div>
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Samuel B. Wolf could be seen rounding the ben,</div>
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“Quickly!” Three shouted, “To the smarter of kin! </div>
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Run now don’t saunter, run like before,</div>
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He’s huffing and puffing! My house! Soon no more!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Samuel B. Wolf stood, blew into cupped hands,</div>
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His plan it was working. Even seasoned his pans.</div>
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With all Pig Brothers in one sound location,</div>
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Butchery and prep work, a perfect cook station.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Standing on rubble of once cozy room, </div>
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Samuel B. Wolf could hear cries of pig-doom.</div>
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“Wolf, he did puff and he huffed,” they did scream, </div>
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“‘till dust is all left, a nightmare from dream.</div>
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Tell us you said so, we’ll sleep on the floor!</div>
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Remember, we’re brothers, please, open your door!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Brother One with a smirk, but ego none he,</div>
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Let Brother Two in, and then Brother Three.</div>
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The table was set and the dishes shone clean,</div>
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The look on One’s face was serious and mean.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A shovel, a hoe, a spatula, a knife,</div>
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“Brother Two, Brother Three, choose without strife.</div>
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Generations of terror, of fighting and discord,</div>
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More wrangling and killing, we cannot afford.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Wolf he did huff, and puffed in full passion,</div>
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But Brother One’s home, held up in good fashion.</div>
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“A wrath” said in anger, “I bring to this home!</div>
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Now let me inside or I’ll crash through your dome!” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Pig One, he did answer and opened the door,</div>
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Which stunned the Pig Brothers’, Sam Wolf, even more. </div>
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“What is this you pork chop, you sausage, glazed ham!</div>
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You think you can trick me? Remember, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">!</i> </div>
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My pans are all seasoned, my grill, it is ready,</div>
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You think you can fool me, throw me off steady?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Enter,” One instructed and gestured with curtsy, </div>
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Our fare, there is plenty and prepared without mercy, </div>
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With Wolf tartar, and canine sweet feet,</div>
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We’re ready for company. We saved you a seat. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Samuel B. Wolf ranted and cursed!</div>
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“Don’t worry said One. We’ll let you pick first.” </div>
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His plan it was working, Wolf bullied no more. </div>
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“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That swine!</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why did he open it? I can’t blow down that
door!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Wolf’s pride was broken, he sunk in defeat,</div>
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To home on the mountain, without any meat.</div>
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His days of baked ham, cinnamon and clove,</div>
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Were forever behind him, no need for a stove.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Nary a word and years had gone by,</div>
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When Brother One’s son came strolling, a nigh.</div>
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He smiled. His eyes twinkled, but not smart like his dad,</div>
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His uncles, he took after, poor little lad.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Her coat, silver-silky, her shape, ooh, voluptuous,</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, to know her…</i>
the thought, it scrumptious. </div>
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Wolf’s daughter, he noticed, she gave him wink.</div>
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He rubbed his snout charming, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She likes me, I think…</i></div>
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Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-25750858125716307332011-05-31T15:17:00.000-07:002016-08-13T10:55:52.900-07:00TIME<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">TIME</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span> <style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9eRsQkWR2xyuk4pdBWiUgdUbfTDfPZ__JmRzfeYtzsBeMvVtc_db0ZJsDWV04rGqIMc8Ep8eOVROJ8YffKCnkcC4uZDsRM7VyJd5RbcvW1DfTs3M_aJ7Vqblotv7YVaUfr4_0hGBccI/s1600/thumbnail.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9eRsQkWR2xyuk4pdBWiUgdUbfTDfPZ__JmRzfeYtzsBeMvVtc_db0ZJsDWV04rGqIMc8Ep8eOVROJ8YffKCnkcC4uZDsRM7VyJd5RbcvW1DfTs3M_aJ7Vqblotv7YVaUfr4_0hGBccI/s1600/thumbnail.aspx.jpeg" /></a>So I was lounging next to the pool. Something had changed.
My primary objective was to relax, but how could I entertain the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exquisite</i> when something was amiss. For
a second, dismissal for investigation strengthened with a sip of my Pinot Gris,
but even the tang of citrus and floral mid-palate complexity couldn’t kick what
was haunting me.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Examination of every detail was perused with scrutiny. The
flagstone path was sparkling clean. The brilliance of our
newly installed glass and Copper etched doors with soft patterns of Hopi art was an artists dream. The investment, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reflected</i>,
was worth every saved penny. </div>
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The water, as usual, beckoned me to test its cool solution:
the perfect mix of muriatic acid chased with a dash of salt. All Cacti was
shaded perfectly by fanning tentacles of swaying Queen Palms. Even the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cruxy</i> ebb and flow from the waterfall poured
with perfection. But curiosity kept nagging me. Something didn’t fit.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>
<i>So what was it?</i> My
questioning mind would not let it go, so trusting my intuition, I allowed my
toes to fan the water. Briefly. It wasn’t that . . .
With libation safe on tabletop, I probed further and with a
rocking to and fro, I took notice that all Periwinkles, Lavender sage and
Black-eye Susan’s that swayed in Earth’s harmony, still, an anomaly persisted.
I gave up and splintered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my
stubborn </i>in half<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>“Do you notice
anything different back here?” </div>
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My man surveyed carefully. Using his index finger he tapped
his chin twice so as to project his concern. “Nope.” Then with water container
in hand he disappeared into the bloom. Somewhat satisfied that my answer lay in
more celebration, I resigned myself to another glass of glory. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meandering methodically toward the house, I was visited by
memory of lore that says that once one lets go of tribulation, answers will roll
in like thunder; and in that second folklore turned to reality. Like a flash
of a camera, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beach-babe-self</i> ceased
to exist! I could not escape that the roll that had resonated around my mid-drift,
while the thunder had planted itself firmly on my thighs! </div>
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So what was amiss? </div>
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Nothing really . . . I’m told.</div>
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So what if my bod is no longer fit for poolside
entertainment! </div>
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I can still swim.</div>
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And I can swim <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
fast.</div>
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Damn those doors! </div>
</div>
Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-45913084092803607832011-05-06T17:21:00.000-07:002016-10-10T17:14:37.178-07:00ROBIN'S VERSION OF CHOCOLATE MOUSSE<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81_LHNNe1GoqV9FTaUZr1Cw9-NFg7uTehb4aQ6t2zfy2rx1TRRpSd5g3_D-jl0OuZtDXLF12huaKGlxvmAMYJqby-_NQx-vWAkJWSBi7Kty9R0rzBeIar2gft_v8NIkmORZ6zx_2UUjI/s1600/CHOCO.jpeg" /></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">WILL YOU HAVE YOURS WITH OR WITHOUT?</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I first discovered chocolate mousse at Edward’s Mansion Restaurant located (once upon a time) in Redlands, California. You couldn’t miss it. It was an old Victorian style three story complete with a Widow’s Walk. It sat about 500 yards off the I-10 out in the middle of nowhere. The menu, with no surprise, was as detailed and quaint as the old house. I wasn’t that hungry, so I decided on dessert. Chocolate Mousse . . . Need I say more? Yes. I do. I need to say more . . . It was the most perfect chocolate I had ever tasted. It was dark with a bit of a bite and velvet creamy. The chocolate was rich and full flavored. Yep, I heard Heaven.</div>
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I realized the following day that the perfect mousse in the world lay in wait for me almost four torturous hours away, and being a frugal sort at the time, more trips up the road was not a solution to my problem, so into the kitchen I went . . . for days . . . and weeks, until . . . Violá!</div>
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<b>Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse (Without)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<u>Ingredients for Six 4-6oz. serving sizes:</u></div>
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2 cups chilled heavy whipping crème</div>
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1 pasteurized egg white</div>
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1/2 cup (or to taste) Dark Chocolate Cocoa Powder</div>
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3 Tbsp raw sugar (or to taste – some will need more sweet)</div>
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1 tsp. Vanilla</div>
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2 Tbsp. butter</div>
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Heat butter in microwave until it is melted (usually no more that 35 seconds)</div>
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Use a whisk or blend electrically (very low speed) heavy whipping crème, and pasteurized egg white, until fluffy. Using a rubber spatula, fold in vanilla, sugar, and melted butter into fluffy mixture. Add cocoa until the batter is moist and blended.</div>
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Portion mousse into glass serving dishes.</div>
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Garnish with mint leaf or shaved white chocolate pieces</div>
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Chill (refrigerator is fine) until ready to serve.</div>
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<b>Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse </b>(<b>With</b>)</div>
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Follow the above directions; however, increase cocoa to ¾ cup</div>
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Flavor with your choice (or use in combination) Amaretto or Grand Marnier.</div>
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Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-77393224133687373812011-01-22T19:45:00.000-08:002011-01-22T20:11:04.980-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">A Classic Retelling</span></div><div>
<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSI89vmfNsA42LGf-CqVu5LGjgJehpSVMxdH-FeItY2AwIqbrBRG0WytvaIIgljBXU9BS5pjQjxa4U72zzeJ422F1baFkF4DVWSPHBjCMn214cyRTZZNobbIC5XxvqS_NROxeACgHVY0/s1600/The_Three_Bears.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSI89vmfNsA42LGf-CqVu5LGjgJehpSVMxdH-FeItY2AwIqbrBRG0WytvaIIgljBXU9BS5pjQjxa4U72zzeJ422F1baFkF4DVWSPHBjCMn214cyRTZZNobbIC5XxvqS_NROxeACgHVY0/s320/The_Three_Bears.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565228355811483554" /></a>
<br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/admin/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>488</o:Words> <o:characters>2783</o:Characters> <o:lines>23</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3417</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.256</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">And when </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">she stood before it, grand, majestic, like a story told, and open just a sliver, she peaked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Curious. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Her boot, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">fashioned and perfect fit, rested against it, tapped, then wedged, then acted without foot, and leaned against it, pretending invitation.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Fictitious.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Entering now </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">where permission not lay, the locks-headed girl called in whisper, Is anyone home?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Quiet.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Beginning inspection </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">of table adorned in linen, white, china, gold trimmed, etched crystal, candlesticks, silver, she spied berries and took it as summons.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Scrumptious!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Sent from Heaven </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">wafting, steaming, hovering, three kettles. With raise of each cap and dip of golden spoon, she dreamed</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">then tasted. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Delicious. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Too hot </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">was the first pot with girth that matched her craving, while the second, just slightly smaller, was too cold. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">But the tiny pot, fired with whimsy, held promise.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Perfect.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Appetites satisfied </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">invite contemplation and to her delight, Locks found that her answer was held in cushions, fastened, puckered, brocade, and each piece with its ornament stood in grand fashion.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Enchanting.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">The King’s chair</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">grand in stature revealed imposture. It was too hard. The Queen’s chair, however, more fitting her style,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">implored to conceal her. It was too soft. But one chair, the petite, whispered dew-spot petals and morning spring…Until it broke. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Displeasure.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Collecting her pride, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">but ready to leave not, interest found her atop a spiral. Still knowing her crime, but blaming those who failed to latch,she explored nevertheless.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Arrogance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> She entered </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">a chamber of sleep, which held in it, beds: one large, knotty pine, one medium, with canopy, and one small,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">embossed and engraved. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Opulence.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">The largest</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">ruffled in twill and still telling story, was so giant she almost not dare.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">It was too hard. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Displeasure.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">The second, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">a cot in ribbon and fluff, proved dangerous. It was too soft.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Distress.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">But the cradle,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">delicate, cordial and fitted to her stature,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">embraced her and soon she fell into sleep.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Peace.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Like dreams</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">that make wonder Locks slipped from reality, and imagined faint voices were those of servants to report for duty.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Delusion.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">And when the Bears’ three,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">spied signs of intrusion, doors open, dishes washed, chairs broken, they crept upstairs where they found</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">quilts tussled, pillows tossed, and the golden locks girl asleep.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Shock.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Locks </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">still in dream stirred, and yet in knowing envisioned a mutinous set by those whose purpose was to wait upon her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Fantasy. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> But like a sweet dream</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">that twists into nightmare, hers grew into reality. And now with yawn and stretch and circle of wrists her eyes, cerulean, revealed themselves to those that crouched around her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Fear.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">And the Bears’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">those three, insulted by intrusion, lay bare their teeth, quiver of lips, and wide stone eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Horror.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">Claws,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">gigantic, huge, and spongy, nudged toward her, nearing her condition with implication of harm.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Warning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span">And then Locks</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">in subconscious action, leapt from broken slumber not even feeling the clutch of curls pulled from her head.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Fortunate.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> With sunsets behind her,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">and many moons ahead, she stood before it grand, majestic, like a story told, open just a sliver, and she knocked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Contrition…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-72883369253525487682010-08-08T09:35:00.000-07:002010-08-08T10:15:21.773-07:00SOMETHING GOOD<div style="text-align: center;"><span>Yesterday</span>,<br /><span>I</span> <span>caught</span> <span>my</span> <span>son</span> <span>in</span> <span>prayer</span>,<br /><span>perhaps</span> <span>giving</span> <span>thanks</span> <span>for</span> <span>the</span> <span>meal</span> <span>he</span> <span>wa</span><span>s</span> <span>about</span> <span>to</span> <span>partake</span> <span>in.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_ocpHrJbxW9UrpBA_qEN9pgMm1YiRwKd22kFHKZ2nB1ds7A4qAzXmiWCdD9A7DLyxGtDzwtwgmltR1a_rfYf4K7xd24AMiFT0zYicH66x8k8DP53kQvJj17bt_cPO2942D2kl50HgkA/s1600/sadona+149.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_ocpHrJbxW9UrpBA_qEN9pgMm1YiRwKd22kFHKZ2nB1ds7A4qAzXmiWCdD9A7DLyxGtDzwtwgmltR1a_rfYf4K7xd24AMiFT0zYicH66x8k8DP53kQvJj17bt_cPO2942D2kl50HgkA/s320/sadona+149.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503088236968778690" border="0" /></a><span>Thank</span> <span>you</span>, <span>thank</span> <span>you</span>, <span>thank</span> <span>you</span>.<img src="file:///Users/admin/Desktop/sadona%20149.jpg" alt="" /></div>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-55018647720358637952010-05-29T21:02:00.000-07:002010-05-29T22:11:22.308-07:00Excerpt: RIDING A BUS IN MEXICO<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;font-size:100%;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Now see, amor, with patience we are there.” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Or were we?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> As I listened to Joe in conversation with the cashier, it became apparent that something was wrong. Body language betrayed the woman as she kept shaking her head as she curled her lips inside her mouth. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Very concerned I asked Joe what was happening. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and now with even more confusion, it was difficult to dicipher. Without thinking I left my seat, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and coveted post as pillow</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, but not without noticing how my half sleeping friend </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">timbered</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> in to the lap of my other compadre. I enquired again about our travel plans, when as if by design, a suggestion was offered to me by way of a tug on my braid.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“What you say es Que Pasa? That is what you mean to say... Que Pasa?” Beside me stood a boy about 9 years of age holding a hanger dangling small leather purses and belts. A strap around his neck was latched to a tray that rested against his torso. It was stocked with gum, candy and chips. He looked just like one of those cigarette girls in a 1950’s movie, only his face was smudged and his sweaty clothes were somewhat tattered. His head adorned a glittering blue and gold sombrero, one that any tourist would die for, and he was almost barefoot as his roped sandals were worn and fraid. “You will not be train traveling today. No more tickets, so you ride the bus. I know where lunch is.”</span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“The bus?” I was about to enquire more, but my attention was diverted away from the boy, as I was pushed a few inches closer to Joe by an irritable crowd still waiting to be told </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">sold-out</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. He and the cashier continued to exchanged words that I understood little of; however, discontent and exasperation about to flood away from each one's brow, made interpretation easy.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“We had reservations!” Joe said in English eyeing the cashier. I could only guess what he said turning toward my direction because whatever it was, it was all in Spanish. The woman rattled off something more. Joe was obviously distressed but being considerate, he continued to do his best to include me in the conversation as did the boy who was still standing next to me. “The only seats left are for passengers boarding in Hermasio. I offered to pay more, even for regular seats. She keeps saying that first class is filled and they won’t sell anymore seats because they have other passengers to pick up down route.”</span></p><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“In Hemosillo...” I replied. “We had reservations. Did you tell her that?” Joe, who was clearly exhausted and feathering both hands through his hair, shrugged and nodded a pitiful yes. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“All the people paid the money for da tickets before you husband.” I looked at the kid</span><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">tried not to sneer, thanked him, then handed him a couple quarters and actually heard a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Beat it Kid!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> come out of my mouth. But he didn’t leave. “Ah,” he said, “this is good, but where I take you for lunch, we will need more.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Why are you making friends?” Joe asked. Before I could defend myself, he had already turned his attention back to the cashier. “Isn’t there anything... I mean...” then corrected his language to continue in Spanish. A quick 9 seconds later in attempt to interpret, he told me everything he knew still using Spanish, then back toward the cashier, “I know you are - then back to me, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">back to her with </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">English, English, English,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> but not before he ended with, “Oh Dios mio!” with both hands back in his hair squeezing his head as if trying to remove it.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I couldn’t help myself. I just had to... “Oh my gosh...I’m starring in an episode of the <i>I Love Lucy</i><i> show</i>. Tell me again, Ricky Ricardo!” I chuckled, but Joe clearly was not amused, turned back toward the stubborn ticket-taker.</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Oh jes! That is me! Ricardo. Mi nombre es Ricardo.” the little boy piped as he lurched for my suitcase. “Lucy, I take care of you and Ricardo, my friends, one of my same name.” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“I’m not Lucy, my name is Peri and he’s Joe. Leave, now.” I said through gritted teeth turning away from the kid for the 75th time.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Ricardo. Ricardo. I am Ricardo just like you friend,” and then he bowed. I was a sucker. I just had too... </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“What friend?” I replied.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“You friend, Lucy-Perita, you, the lady with Ricardo!”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“We’re not friends - I mean - look... </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ricardo</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, we're busy. I’m not going to purchase any more of your <i>lovely</i> items. I am not a customer anymore. Get going now. Shew!” I jestured waving my hand.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“That is right. You was customer, now you my friend.” </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Trying to listen to Joe and the clerk, while trying not to listen to the kid, I let down my guard. “Ok.” I said. “I’ll buy that small purse,” I said pointing not to any one in particular, “but then you have to leave. We are busy here.” I started digging through my shoulder bag, around everything I didn't need, but packed anyway, when I found my coin purse, snapped it open and handed the kid a dollar. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Ah. That one, she is brown so you will need this one.” I practiced patience while the little salesman untangled a turqouise and black change purse, definately something else to die for, thanked him, and then quickly turned my back with another jesture shewing him away.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“But Lucy-Perita, you man,” I heard coming from behind me. </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"My friend to you, I am -"</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"I know, I know, Ricardo. Ricardo, you must simply go somewhere else now. Not here. Beside, you are losing business."</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Jes! Somewhere else, and that is why I take you to the bus. The bus, he is somewhere else away from the train. I take you there and you will have lunch, and soon you will bus travel to Guadalajara." <i>Who did this kid think he was? A fortune teller? </i>I was about to thump the little guy when Joe turned to me in surrender and defeat.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"So, what are we doing?" I asked softly.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, Senior, Que Pasa? but I know what to do. I take you to the bus and you will be okay. Your lady, she is hungry."</span></p><div><br /></div></div></div></span></div></span><p></p>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-75116788042044394492010-01-04T08:59:00.000-08:002018-03-20T10:56:38.175-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: 180%;">A PIECE OF HEAVEN</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QhmVl6UKNyHrXMMYdMVcpoQmSiinJb8AuL7Ktqc5zQPd7cKKm8_aGgmAD_CZ5uOnA0D6gwHTOn-pfkhoMU_9A31ibuI6-351LVmGd5XmAUjTzBS0pMiTh3XCbak8wyX9M_2rOSgK7NY/s1600-h/garden+caf.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423313097986354898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QhmVl6UKNyHrXMMYdMVcpoQmSiinJb8AuL7Ktqc5zQPd7cKKm8_aGgmAD_CZ5uOnA0D6gwHTOn-pfkhoMU_9A31ibuI6-351LVmGd5XmAUjTzBS0pMiTh3XCbak8wyX9M_2rOSgK7NY/s320/garden+caf.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);"><span style="font-family: "webdings";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I found it. My return to Yuma commenced with conniption and mantra of <span style="font-style: italic;">I can't believe this is happening to me! </span>Through clenched teeth and an occasional whack at my steering wheel, I trudged forward weaving thoughts of <span style="font-style: italic;">temporary, temporary</span>. It was 11:45 p.m. when my brand new jalopy rolled itself onto the driveway. With little pondering of my situation, I was ready to market my plan of <span style="font-style: italic;">short vacation</span> before moving on to greener pastures, especially since the only green pastures in Yuma were man made to feed the world.</span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXg1nnkdq5BeFJHEtLoXPzDfAZhbFXkXe-h8ZAvCG10D60-mSHOseCM-ZQ6Z7cXNSccpIp_CX38G4y9Up6IleeOSNJOEcWOTUKy2ELGd4LPe1vDbx3Wp5IWp1bBgSVh47rNfRmleZQq1k/s1600-h/Desert.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423301683246178098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXg1nnkdq5BeFJHEtLoXPzDfAZhbFXkXe-h8ZAvCG10D60-mSHOseCM-ZQ6Z7cXNSccpIp_CX38G4y9Up6IleeOSNJOEcWOTUKy2ELGd4LPe1vDbx3Wp5IWp1bBgSVh47rNfRmleZQq1k/s320/Desert.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 78%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0); font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">As I was readying to leave my stuck-to-my-sticky-back seat, my mother, my grandparents, and my brother, surprisingly rounded the walkway to load into the Cadillac for Bullhead City. Being that it was mid August, the plan of a midnight run came into fruition with the discovery of a smoking air conditioner, and the part needed was still three shipping days away. The trip was hot (and the hot never ended), which furthered my case for getting the heck out of Yuma, again. But I would need a job first... a temporary job... first...</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);">Leaving Bullhead City, was ventured in fashion, as before, departing just before midnight. As the sun broke, I wasted no time looking for temporary work, and I found it. In fact it was a place I visited before, only previously it wasn't a restau</span><span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);">rant. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh606oYQI0StM2uPhQht9ldDueFY2SE-byM1udJdzkCSP2Rv4wC5rANEwbsfeG3ADAG46CJ2nl9rtw33sk3FHqR-_-4_C2nCCCQGCX_CM-VfNyoLc-r-0YhG3UECFf6Zx-T80NkUKbx6Cw/s1600-h/Garden+Cafe.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423303313026894674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh606oYQI0StM2uPhQht9ldDueFY2SE-byM1udJdzkCSP2Rv4wC5rANEwbsfeG3ADAG46CJ2nl9rtw33sk3FHqR-_-4_C2nCCCQGCX_CM-VfNyoLc-r-0YhG3UECFf6Zx-T80NkUKbx6Cw/s320/Garden+Cafe.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 247px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 319px;" /></a></div>
<span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);"><span style="font-family: "webdings";"><span style="font-family: "webdings"; font-size: 78%;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Garden Cafe is much as it was during the early 1980's. I can readily say that it is one of Yuma's finest and original patio restaurant. Guests are in for a treat as they dine on delicious gourmet breakfast, lunch and desserts, surrounded by l</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ush trees, blooming flowers, and an aviary that is home to generations of doves and cockatiels. While customers dine in the presence of history, one would never guess that the old grounds keeper's home that sits charmingly among ribbon filled trees, now serves as storage for the restaurant.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(204 , 102 , 0);"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />Nature's Way, as it was called then, became my piece of Heaven in the desert for almost four years. Tips were adequate if not good, but on those rare occasions when too little filled my pocket, the beauty and paradise of what I had privilege to that day, filled a permanent place in my heart.</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhch5bvPjytcEZecr0tOgTP_W4ngoDywJbEUIpj0_kaOtsAkoTMLminifXq8Be_6tgKLJdtLN1ZVBAFeRJXflQoapSryw8FvczHwQURoCDpHGDxgDBxRfJOCoIvhjH5UNnOX1AhZRpeX00/s1600-h/Jaquine's.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423305498581182946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhch5bvPjytcEZecr0tOgTP_W4ngoDywJbEUIpj0_kaOtsAkoTMLminifXq8Be_6tgKLJdtLN1ZVBAFeRJXflQoapSryw8FvczHwQURoCDpHGDxgDBxRfJOCoIvhjH5UNnOX1AhZRpeX00/s320/Jaquine's.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 318px;" /></a>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-38911456390215180952010-01-03T09:43:00.000-08:002010-01-05T08:45:34.926-08:00Don't Drink the Water or You Will Be Back<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">almost native</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"> Yuman (of the Arizona type), will often warn those who complain, gripe, or rip to shreds our oasis in the desert, against drinking the water. Why? Because there is something about the water here... maybe... but whatever it is, many who leave find themselves back.<br /><br />On the surface, Yuma is boring, dry, ugly, and boring. (Did I already say boring?) What many don't realize, and often not until they return (some kicking and screaming the way I did), is that Yuma is filled with amazing secrets. One secret is that of our heritage families like the Redondos', Sanguinettis', and the Gutierrez', who have kept the old flavor of Yuma alive. Oh. Did I say </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">flavor</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">?<br /><br />Yuma is filled with restaurants and patrons, who have </span></span></span></span><span><span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-family:'trebuchet ms';" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">become Mexican food artisans. And anyone, visitor or defector, cannot, I mean </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">cannot</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-family:'trebuchet ms';" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">, deny no matter how hard they try, that Yuma's Mexican food is superior to all. But it's not just the food, it's the atmosphere. One such restaurant, Mi Ranchito, welcomes customers into richly toned rooms of marigold where portraits of </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">familia </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-family:'trebuchet ms';" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">grace walls between landscapes of Mexico. The music is mariachi and the food is delicious and plentiful. In contrast to Mi Ranchito, Yuma also seats numerous restaurants where only 'locals' dine and although the motif of said few (actually many), is not as festive, the food is the same... </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">magnifico!</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br /></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvC__IH6QnA_MocnPZy5Z6edHX7TVlkCL8Bv5JarBGQk5GTMDngOQLwu24jpILOf296L6pT4yBYwdBfeRRJ4Ox4wX64bPj7CdhFggU8sgttL1U1Lf4WKvBSqqL7uJ__FJ7tHjCqBd-ynU/s1600-h/La+Casa.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvC__IH6QnA_MocnPZy5Z6edHX7TVlkCL8Bv5JarBGQk5GTMDngOQLwu24jpILOf296L6pT4yBYwdBfeRRJ4Ox4wX64bPj7CdhFggU8sgttL1U1Lf4WKvBSqqL7uJ__FJ7tHjCqBd-ynU/s320/La+Casa.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422586001105299010" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-family:webdings;" >La Casa Gutierrez is an old residence located in 'Old Yuma' on historic Orange Avenue. It is a quaint restaurant with tables and chairs placed in and about the original floor plan. Libations are your choice; you bring your own, but don't forget your corkscrew. Inconvenience? No. Not when you consider that the corking charge is free. <span style="font-style: italic;">La Casa, </span>as Yumans' call it, tried to close once, but mutiny erupted among the townspeople, and thus, we still have our La Casa.<br /><br />Yuma holds many secrets, and I intend to reveal them all. As far as dining? I apologize to those who have enjoyed the short waits for a table.<br /></span><br /></span>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-82636530484870946182010-01-03T09:05:00.001-08:002010-01-03T09:42:42.107-08:00New Years Resolution? I've Never Done That...<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQfvT5vqylEw3wm3pvC4dkIO-0agFx7AGN4pLmG0K6fh3P0lxTpKOGcuDW0hOQRKYjpTnnIj2sAygK2ZhbxxSWqKOTzMHGLE11DET8iwlMWySMWARDBMy9knCm7pyYgpGxgk4joWgv6w/s1600-h/Justine+Louise.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQfvT5vqylEw3wm3pvC4dkIO-0agFx7AGN4pLmG0K6fh3P0lxTpKOGcuDW0hOQRKYjpTnnIj2sAygK2ZhbxxSWqKOTzMHGLE11DET8iwlMWySMWARDBMy9knCm7pyYgpGxgk4joWgv6w/s320/Justine+Louise.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422569702476291026" border="0" /></a> But why not give it a try?<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />As years roll forward, so do the numbers on my scale.<br /><br />As years move forward, so does the list of "Things I Want To Do" grow longer, while the accomplishments of what I have achieved grows shorter.<br /><br />As years progress toward more years, I do too, so I am grateful for that.<br /><br />As years advance, I'm still trying to get to that place in career where I really want to be.<br /><br />So What's Next?<br /><br />Me.<br /></div>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-75212325612913297922009-11-01T07:22:00.000-08:002009-11-01T07:24:04.505-08:00Again?Another lay-off for teachers? Now... Where did I put that suitcase?Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-16868165852936261642009-08-23T19:39:00.001-07:002009-08-23T19:39:32.412-07:00Back to WorkI'm back at work.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-83485048794977996022009-07-24T07:58:00.000-07:002009-07-27T16:18:26.733-07:00"Acts of Love" by Cassandra Barnes is the perfect poolside read.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybnHe3HzmokXYqB9A37Env2_D-XWBzfWMeQvbZYEJ3NWRsfls4UPrEaw4sjb2qQOLAUiaUyqU1uxJOfOqtgM5kuRv_qWV1JeyGKYhvRneJVq1QoBZJ1GKb7hyU0ZnXJPiaferLO4tWMc/s1600-h/c40e70f1d8f4e668.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybnHe3HzmokXYqB9A37Env2_D-XWBzfWMeQvbZYEJ3NWRsfls4UPrEaw4sjb2qQOLAUiaUyqU1uxJOfOqtgM5kuRv_qWV1JeyGKYhvRneJVq1QoBZJ1GKb7hyU0ZnXJPiaferLO4tWMc/s400/c40e70f1d8f4e668.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363277213156193474" border="0" /></a><br />Every summer I compile a list of novels that I intend to read. My standards dictate that at least one be a classic - read before or not, a mystery - romance or not, a ghost story, a biography/autobiography, and finally that one be a self-growth and God centered. I use various locations to add <span style="font-style: italic;">cozy, zing,</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">contemplation</span> to my reading moments. Such real estate resides nestled on my couch, where the sky is easily visible and the clouds can interject and insert their opinions. Another prime location is the corner chair where a swaying jackoranda can be viewed dancing with purple daisies and blackeyed-susans. My fun-reads, however, take me to my pool where I soak up words and water.<br /><br />This summer's classic is, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" by Harriet Ward Beecher Stowe. My spirituals consist of Deepak Chopra's "Book of Secrets" and as a reference check, the Bible. My fun read by the pool, however, is one that I am just beginning called, "Acts of Love" by Cassandra Barnes.<br /><br />Cassandra Barnes tells a story about a woman who lives in a quaint little town, where she owns and operates a small business called Earth Scents. Earth Scents is a cozy shop that holds herbs, candles, oils, and fragrances meant to promote well-being and healing. One can almost sense being surrounded by the scent of white birch, as sun streams through crystals that dangle in the window. And all the while, soft meanderings of metaphysical music drifts in the background.<br /><br />The "Spice Cats," Cinnamon and Nutmeg, spark playfulness in an atmosphere that finds itself suddenly surrounded by the mystery of a double murder that Amanda's love interest (perhaps), is lead investigator. I'm only on chapter seven, but I detect some conflict between the 'want to be, maybe not want to be lovers. Yazz has his suspects, but Amanda isn't so sure. By any means, I'm curious about the murders, Amanda's secret surrounding her long lost son, and I love her abode. This story is the perfect poolside or fireplace read. You pick the season, but in the meantime, I'll keep reading!Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-91448626538845609132009-07-23T15:45:00.000-07:002009-07-23T16:20:11.835-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjS7cRuX2IqM8rTa7BlAfm43OFYmlbP085eES8AeIOXxKfh7CFUtDKxGHh_Udy8W0QmZ4HQJuy7fCrFxcJbELfc4GCCaExVkHprg4WUWZeFrzQ8UX7RNVDmQbtfXSffbHStQ3CITRMJk/s1600-h/8d4b13ffc6b4da58.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjS7cRuX2IqM8rTa7BlAfm43OFYmlbP085eES8AeIOXxKfh7CFUtDKxGHh_Udy8W0QmZ4HQJuy7fCrFxcJbELfc4GCCaExVkHprg4WUWZeFrzQ8UX7RNVDmQbtfXSffbHStQ3CITRMJk/s400/8d4b13ffc6b4da58.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361798006918631234" border="0" /></a><br />SEE IT<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span>Going Within, Peace in Sight<br />White an' Foamy Waves of Delight<br />The Sun That Fell, The Wind Propels<br />Birds in Song, Eternal Life We Long<br /><br />Granting Inside Whispers of Devine<br />Sound Consciousness<br />Living Life<br /><br />Shadows Fall, A Ray of Light<br />In Mourning Time, Comes the Sign<br />Within the Silence, Of All the Sounds<br />There is Peace and Man Without Their Frowns<br />Calm in Harmony, Nature at Dawn<br />Man an' Ocean, God is One<br /><br />Creation Creator, Starlight Star<br />Message Sublime, Moving On In Time<br />Deep is Weeping, Sand in Heart<br />Weight of Struggles, Past Alert<br /><br />Awakening Sunset Beneath it Arises<br />To Another Land<br />Good Morning Man, Good Evening Shadows<br />Time to Sleep, No More Sorrows<br /><br />Becoming Inside, Whispers of The Devine<br />Sound Consciousness<br />Living Life<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> by Cloyce E. Hilsinger lll<br /> Alaska 12/10/1994<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-86311913746561533572009-07-05T13:19:00.000-07:002009-07-06T15:18:57.190-07:00Wishes...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv2JNLdWD76XM_b1y0mK6qpVvA5I-qm8QU8ahjbwelAQi-d-wxc4jaEjXwz84YvmJqMQLx5cZQbY2ZnsecFW2Cg-xMpVXRC8hX88OT1omf9g7ov8AtZUtTrtZnBZAbC6Ds5QJuASMyjY/s1600-h/genie+lamp+.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 84px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv2JNLdWD76XM_b1y0mK6qpVvA5I-qm8QU8ahjbwelAQi-d-wxc4jaEjXwz84YvmJqMQLx5cZQbY2ZnsecFW2Cg-xMpVXRC8hX88OT1omf9g7ov8AtZUtTrtZnBZAbC6Ds5QJuASMyjY/s400/genie+lamp+.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355094409451669762" border="0" /></a>Cassandra Barnes at Through A Window Brightly, proposes an interesting question. If you could make a wish come true, what would it be? Her idea peeked when over hearing a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">conversation</span> between two women who revealed that great quantities of money would be theirs'. I had that wish once, until it came true.<br /><br />My wish of great wealth was to find thrown away money alongside the highway, or stuffed under a mound of sand somewhere in the desert. Of course my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">justification</span> for keeping the loot, would be that it was dirty money (found by me), meant for the unthinkable; let's say for the purchase of drugs, or life savings demanded by human smugglers. If found (by me), filthy money would suddenly transform itself into goodness and love: I would share by sending great quantities to various charities. I would gift to family, and of course, my husband and I would enjoy frequent luxury vacations during custom renovations to our seasonal homes.<br /><br />As it happened, one day during a ride through the desert, my husband waved me over to where he had parked his ATV. I approached slowly as he was signaling me like an approaching airliner to its dock. "What's the deal?" I asked. Then I saw the gleaming white plastic coated potato sack. It sent chills up my spine. Not good chills; violent dark murdering chills. There we were on a lonely road, next to the All American Canal. We were in complete isolation staring at large meticulously placed bags, of which its contents was obvious.<br /><br />With <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">further investigation</span> of shape, weight and number of packages, and with a tree branch placed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">strategically</span> atop the bags fold, the evidence could not be ignored. A careful line of dusted footprints trying to be concealed, led away to a mesquite tree, where perhaps the deliverers of said contents waited.<br /><br />We knew it; we were looking at perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars in money, drugs, or perhaps, both. Our whispered discussion was not about how my wishes had just come true, but rather about how to leave and not draw attention to ourselves. No doubt, the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">unscrupulous</span> could be watching for a 'pick up' of the soon to be evil fortune. We decided to play dumb, and attempt our departure as if we were discussing the beauty of the canal as we slowly launched away on our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ATVs</span>. Once out of the desert and into population, we reported our find. There guess was, that we called it as it was.<br /><br />Now I know what "Be careful what you wish for" means.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-42621170498512603842009-06-23T14:47:00.000-07:002009-06-24T15:03:10.102-07:00An Excerpt<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">LEARNING SPANISH THE HARD WAY</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">BY ROBIN CHRISTENSEN</span><br /><br />CHAPTER <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">UNO</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">My patience resigned. It was hot. I was sticky. Every moment sandwiched between malodorous men the size of redwood trees, fetched more query within me; <span style="font-style: italic;">Was this really the beginning of a dream vacation come true?</span> Squeezed between the two <span style="font-style: italic;">chaps</span>, my mind argued, lauding ideas of how to alleviate my current situation. Vacating my seat would mean standing for who knows how long. However, motivation to do so increased, once again, by one <span style="font-style: italic;">gent</span> who kept trying to cozy-up on my shoulder.<br /><br />Considering the circumstances, my usually kind soul refused him my <span style="font-style: italic;">gift</span> of comfort, even for a minute or two. My lack of generosity swelled with every whistle and snort; with every smack of his lips. His head bobbed and weaved. I feared for the worse, but lucky for me, his subconscious mind fought gravity that pulled on his lower jaw. I was saved, yet again, from the impending doom that could have found its way down my sleeve. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Every so often, repose</span> visited, but only momentarily because the third Act was readying to play. Motivation to surrender my seat intensified still, as his symphony worsened with every dither of his head. His folly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">persis</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLPrLm4chOc_wutP_mEqhnnSd1r4KW3i9TbS5zW5wdUCjw2AnHgn46IXd2C5-XlIszadvNSYH78eCGBR_LXBo1owpndg6qs5EoUSYaJGLuCQNEdlOqqQNjQiRzrsJFkgufYpdu1dWlOU/s1600-h/sombrero.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 110px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLPrLm4chOc_wutP_mEqhnnSd1r4KW3i9TbS5zW5wdUCjw2AnHgn46IXd2C5-XlIszadvNSYH78eCGBR_LXBo1owpndg6qs5EoUSYaJGLuCQNEdlOqqQNjQiRzrsJFkgufYpdu1dWlOU/s320/sombrero.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350762752018423666" border="0" /></a>ted <span style="font-style: italic;">"Yam-yam</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">uh-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">un</span></span>-uh, yam-yam</span>". <span style="font-style: italic;">Smack, bob, weave</span>. It was just impossible to be friendly!<br /><br />My left brain continued its interrogation of the right, as the unimaginable chanced right before my eyes. Only seconds after the ticket window opened, Joe, to our horror, was pushed and shoved by <span style="font-style: italic;">"49"</span> people who had the audacity to cut in front of him. If not for the heat and my <span style="font-style: italic;">friend</span> now leaning his reeking self against me, I could have stood in protest citing the unnatural custom of cutting in line. And if the torture of Joe's battle to defend his space wasn't enough salt festering in my already bleeding wound, the cashier who nonchalantly issued tickets to the mob of 'cutters' really frosted my cake!<br /><br /><br /></div></div>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-15953947772081540842009-06-17T16:24:00.001-07:002009-06-17T17:17:18.970-07:00So What Happend to My Plan?<span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">A year ago last March, I had an </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">itch</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);"> to change my surroundings and the direction of my career. After 12 years on campus, 9 of those teaching English, I decided to quit, kind of... My real dream is to write and publish, but being realistic, I knew I would have to teach a bit longer. Perhaps two more years at most.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">The Art position I applied for prior to teaching English, was not going to vacate even though that teacher is horrifically unhappy. I decided that teaching at a new school and district was in my best interest. Teaching art was still an option, so 3 months later, I began my search. I let the high school district know my intentions, but there was an obstacle. Anymore, talent, comprehension and passion of subject matter, interest, and teaching credentials, do not qualify one to teach in that given area, so the week before school began, this </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">seasoned educator</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">was emergency certified to teach biology.</span> </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);"> (The art positions I so coveted, were literally filled by others' </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">unqualified</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">, as I waited on the phone while excited secretaries wrote me in for interview.)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">Biology was OK. I loved reviewing (I hold over 30 units in Science) and teaching Biology the English way, but alas, March came once more, and this time, I was given my walking papers! Was the Universe listening? During the school year I earned my credentials to teach Art, but with our economy and budget cuts, teaching art may not be in my future. But again I have to wonder...was the Universe listening? Yes!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);">With that, I set my plan in motion... well almost. You see, my plan was to exercise, write, and swim, every day. That is how I planned to build my writing career this summer. However, my plans have been completely thrown to the wind, or should I say the breeze and clouds? I love clouds. Clouds are my favorite weather thing, but being a desert girl, it is impossible to even think about submerging my pinkie tow into a pool, when the thermometer has yet to read above 97 degrees! My nature dictates that I don't even take the plunge, until the water reaches a cool 86, which requires 4 days of 102 degrees (or above) consecutively.</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 153, 153);"><br /><br />So my plan? I'm writing...</span></span>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-15769824323998082652009-06-11T16:33:00.001-07:002009-06-12T10:51:07.877-07:00"Matt Cat holds tight to his helmet and obeys all street and sidewalk signs."<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHK4r1aKvR3rhzB0GcqLSFvX9fP4_u_IF5JLtYAX7GcnzAi9lA6QxTCtisSj9vyRMNpNL_prXBdII8jEndEOMT9a_yVgfn5fo4BykgyneIjKnya4Yo5L0OTS94R87awL3mwdYHmxK7lMM/s1600-h/sc00055776.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHK4r1aKvR3rhzB0GcqLSFvX9fP4_u_IF5JLtYAX7GcnzAi9lA6QxTCtisSj9vyRMNpNL_prXBdII8jEndEOMT9a_yVgfn5fo4BykgyneIjKnya4Yo5L0OTS94R87awL3mwdYHmxK7lMM/s320/sc00055776.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346218350830821554" border="0" /></a>MATT CAT SKATEBOARD<br />is a story about competition, friendship, and sharing. Matt Cat is on his way to the store when he encounters his<br />friend, Rod Dog, who is on his way to the store. Both are in pursuit of their favorite treat, "People Shaped Cookies, Chocolate and Vanilla Bean, both!"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-79125705453316804822009-05-31T22:04:00.000-07:002009-05-31T22:08:22.988-07:00STILL A WRITER, STILL NOT READI was just about to give up on my goal and aspiration of publishing my novels and Children's books, when I happened across a piece of an interview where Toni Morrison, claimed that once she quit her full time job to become a full time writer, she felt real fear for the first time in her working career. In so many words, she said that making the commitment was not what frightened her, but all the free time now available to her; which meant that she had to commit.<br /><br />I would like to understand that fear. In fact, I WANT TO FEEL THAT FEAR!! Like so many unpublished authors, I have the works in my mind, laptop, other computer, sketch book, notebook, filing cabinet, on scraps of paper jumbled and crumpled at the bottom of my purse, inside one of my many journals, the ash tray in my car... you get my drift. And like so many writers, I have a whole file (to be nice, let's just call it a scrap book) of rejection letters - some handwritten. In the publishing world, hand written rejections are good. You don't get published, but they are good. (Pahleeezzz.)<br /><br />Several nights ago while cleaning out a closet, I ran across an old suitcase I knew was full of photos. Not able to resist, I began to thumb through. As I relived old moments, I saw an envelope with the words - "Report: What I Want and Expect to do When I Grow Up." As I unfolded the paper, another fell away from it and floated to the floor in 2 pieces. It was a poem about grapes that I had written in the 5th grade.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Grapes are Wild<br />Green and Purple<br />Some People Eat Them<br />My Grandpa Drinks Them<br />They Grow on Vines<br />In France<br />Where People Like to Dance<br /></div><br />(My grandfather really did tell me that he liked to drink his grapes. I was thinking Welch's - looking back, I am positive that he was thinking Cold Duck.) After I chuckled a bit, and noticed all 'caps' were correct for poetry (part of the lesson), I focused again on what was left in my hand. This time it was an actual report written during my Sophomore year in high school.<br /><br />The main content was about me becoming a writer or a nurse. As I read, it was clear to me that writing was what I wanted to do most. But where is the time? I didn't become a nurse, but somewhere along the line, I did become a teacher, so I write when I can, which is mostly during the summer and some weekends, but that is OK. I am back on track again, and hopefully someday, the fear that crept over Toni will visit me.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-5775916876750883702009-05-29T14:36:00.000-07:002009-07-05T14:57:58.523-07:00Excerpt from "Chasing the Son" by Robin Euleta Hilsinger-Christensen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXqNar14IVfpdFNemnAZI08IvsMH3qJGH-wAgaYkQT-QeJ_Q0YLEr8-dVJ86eBYuJ4b77kcI_zAW2QMWaaa3E1eLIU46vB3cr6mTMhmjlonn9v8CWnMnPKfcEWXhKGcW9248tmn_T9ks/s1600-h/chasing.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXqNar14IVfpdFNemnAZI08IvsMH3qJGH-wAgaYkQT-QeJ_Q0YLEr8-dVJ86eBYuJ4b77kcI_zAW2QMWaaa3E1eLIU46vB3cr6mTMhmjlonn9v8CWnMnPKfcEWXhKGcW9248tmn_T9ks/s400/chasing.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355098456607098338" border="0" /></a><br />Barbara collapsed on the burgundy chaise, shadowed under lattice, weaved with lavender snail vine . As each quash of golden mulberry pealed away from her flip-flops, a dusty scent of marigold, neon yellow, orange, and cranberry, wafted through her, and drew her apprehensions toward the China Berry. From its October rainbow wreath, finger twists of hazelnut trunks, reached under the umbrella of beige and crimson platelets, that rattled like streams of water falling against pebbles. <span style="font-style: italic;">When had it time to grow?</span> she wondered. And just like her child, <span style="font-style: italic;">when had he time to grow?</span> but unlike her child, this sapling just moments ago, could not topple away into danger. Unless, of course, she chopped it down. <span style="font-style: italic;">Had she chopped him down?</span><br /><br />Meandering flagstone paths burrowed under cinnamon patches of bear grass, called Barbara’s mind... no her heart, to crouch under the thick sienna canopy of Japanese maple, where her favorite bench, stone and beveled, lay in wait. <span style="font-style: italic;">How did this sanctuary even exist? Why wasn’t it dead like so many others? Had they planned it this way? Or was it just Michael’s green thumb?</span> She couldn’t remember, but sitting there numb, she wondered how it was that God could gift her with such magical color, of sweet scent, of perfect solace?<br /> Fixed and surrounded by one exquisite creation after another, her attention pressed against the letter tucked away in her pocket: “I designed it for you, Mom, because I knew that someday you would need a place to pray.”Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-2201143383313287752009-05-23T16:26:00.000-07:002009-05-23T16:34:26.475-07:00Me? Are You Sure?I learned Thursday, that I am on a list to work this summer on committee to revise and build upon the biology curriculum that my colleagues and I just finished teaching. So how is it that I am not highly qualified to teach biology, but my proficiency level in said area, is enough to sit on committee to build the curriculum, which other teachers will teach?<br /><br />As my grandmother would have said, "What a hoot!"Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-67604544370285223062009-04-10T11:40:00.000-07:002009-05-23T16:26:33.468-07:00College... So Why Did I Earn My Degree?<span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wanted a change. Teaching 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> grade Language Arts was holding me hostage. On a typical day, I instructed, refined lessons before I taught, as I taught and after I taught. I read, edited, suggested, corrected, assigned rewrites, monitored, reviewed, and finally, adjusted future plans for instruction based on student need and improvement. In planning, I employed my favorite strategies utilizing multiple intelligences, forcing my students' to use multiple portions of their brain at every possible moment. I supervised, engaged, I maximized instruction so that learning was mandatory. No one, especially 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> graders, could escape my wrath. Nor could I escape theirs'.<br /><br />Students' learned to write, and several each year, actually worked on their own, creating master pieces in pieces... pieces they wanted me to critique, in addition to the work load I already held. This action taken by a student, is the highest complement, the highest award, a teacher can ever receive. So what am I complaining about? It was my schedule. You see after everything, there was still more... meetings, usually three a week, student council (which I loved and miss), fundraisers, newspaper recognitions, hospitality, parties to plan and attend so that new teachers would become old teachers, etc..., etc...<br /><br />My estimation is that most teachers work two extra days a week. English teachers probably double that. I was ready for a change, so in order to give myself the gift of more time, I changed jobs. Now I teach biology to freshman students. I don't hold a degree in Biology, but I do have 26 hours in science, 7 hours in nurse's training, and 22 hours in math. In addition, </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">this is my 13th year as a teacher, not including substitute teaching time. To boot, </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">now I have one years experience of 'on the job training' in bio, yet that is not enough to be labeled "Highly Qualified". That's OK with me. What isn't OK with me, is that a person holding a degree in Biology can teach biology and not hold a teaching credential, and yet, will be considered for a job in that field before I am.<br /><br />I understand the concept behind this policy. After all, we do want teachers to be competent in the area in which they are teaching; however, what I don't understand, is why did I go to college to become a teacher? Why not get my degree in English, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">toodle</span> around in my office, publish some work, and then pop myself into a classroom someday? Perhaps it may have been more fun that way.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">As a teacher, I have learned through my career, through simple observation, through collaboration with my peers, and through debates during happy hour, that teaching is truly an art.</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> I have always been an advocate for teachers no matter how they find themselves in the classroom. Teachers are people who have the ability to inspire students to not only learn, but to become life long learners. And for those who struggle, teachers help bring understand as to why someone is in a classroom, and why participating will serve as beneficial.<br /><br />Today we have a situation in education, where teachers are being booted because they lack a certain credential, while those that don't hold a teaching certificate from an accredited university, are given leeway, and first priority in employment.<br /><br />Teachers like me are being punished because some tenured teachers are, and always have been, ineffective. We all know who they are. They are people who enter the classroom, certificated or not, allow foul language to fly, allow regular naps, look the other way when conversations employ <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">verbiage about last nights date (perhaps even on the cell phone), I could go on... </span> Many of these people have the audacity to admit that they are only in teaching for the time off and the paycheck. The paycheck? They are stupid people. Or maybe not... they still have a job.<br /><br />Any how, enough of the negative or perhaps, just interesting observations. A door has been opened for me. Now it is time to step through and accept the gifts that are destined to come my way. I'm actually curious and looking forward to what lay ahead. Hm...<br /></span>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-14684551098176507392008-11-14T20:01:00.000-08:002008-11-14T20:08:38.437-08:00Job HuntingMy husband is a retired teacher who is looking for a job. His applications are impressive with his credentials that include a Masters Degree in Industrial Arts and another in Administration. That's in addition to teaching degree, of course. What's the problem? He's over qualified.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-66469508453663022362008-10-30T15:56:00.000-07:002008-10-30T16:15:19.995-07:00Attack the Teachers! Attack the Teachers!Apparently a new law is in legislature to update the current No Child Left Behind Act to include holding not only schools accountable for the education of our children, but individual teachers as well. This scares me. Today Freshman took a practice test preparing them for next year's AIMS test (Arizona Instrument to Measure Standards test). <br /><br />Ordinarily, my students have always taken this test seriously, but that was when I taught the eighth grade. I always explained to them that the AIMS would determine what courses they would be placed in at high school. As expected, they took their test seriously.<br /><br />Now I teach Freshman. My classes and students have been a joy and the experience working at the high school level has been refreshing until today. You see, today my students participated in a practice test and many did not take it seriously. I heard more often than not that "it didn't count anyway" when inquiring quietly why a test that should take at least 30 minutes was finished in five. More and more I heard, "I don't care" or "I don't need this to graduate." Soon whispered conversations were taking place between students during testing. Once again I reminded, privately, that although this test was only practice, that perhaps it would mean something to someone wanting to grant a college scholarship someday.<br /><br />When the day was finished, I could not help but notice how many tests were not finished. Now I wonder... when this law passes, will my job be in jeopardy?Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-54120316724662208592008-10-25T10:03:00.000-07:002008-10-28T21:48:10.220-07:00Uncle Sam, Remember Me? I Don't Need Your Help!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhMjkCbQ5wBRb0C_NjyEeiNTuh4ZKXQGDw9IP2jR2QsAQroh5Km7NpcUSbNnTzWJ9fb4kC2lWxo-IGgDPmnryvGj-g4ouBD7ZzdYeTXohU5mpuE-bpReQKeNpEDQAm6N5XKClmcmngxY/s1600-h/33-1212868151gYKL.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 75px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhMjkCbQ5wBRb0C_NjyEeiNTuh4ZKXQGDw9IP2jR2QsAQroh5Km7NpcUSbNnTzWJ9fb4kC2lWxo-IGgDPmnryvGj-g4ouBD7ZzdYeTXohU5mpuE-bpReQKeNpEDQAm6N5XKClmcmngxY/s320/33-1212868151gYKL.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262433053275072754" border="0" /></a><br />This morning at almost the crack of dawn, I roamed through my home to open windows to allow scents of desert flowers to permeate the indoors. As usual, the sky was gorgeous with its twirls of pinks and golds, and to add splender to the moment, I poured myself a scrumptous glass of iced green tea. The backyard next to my lovebirds, already perched in their morning places, would be the perfect start to my Saturday.<br /><br />Walking to the back door, I talked myself into a short detour to catch a glimpse of what the world was doing. With a click of the switch, CNN came into view. The same droll of whining seemed to be the morning fest, so I flipped to FOX. For a moment things were interesting with the poll counts and knocks against a fabulous woman running for Vice President, until another woman began to spew poison about "how the American people want help from their government." Instantly, I heard my grandfather's "Huh?" fly from my mouth as I choked on my tea.<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"></span><br /><br />Since when do the American people want help from their government? Have we lost ourselves that much that we are looking to the White House to bail us out again and again? Many might answer yes, but look closely. Just weeks ago, members of Congress were inundated with voice mails, e-mails, faxes, letters, and phone calls, expressing OVERWHELMINGLY (media, biased or not, report 86 to 90%) that a 'bailout' was not the answer nor was it wanted. But what happened? Our Republican President and Democratic Congress signed into legislation to "help the American people" with a bailout package of over 700 billion borrowed dollars!<br /><br />May I speak for the masses? I CAN HELP MYSELF! So many of US have worked diligently building our lives and futures. We have saved, we have invested, we've put away our dollars for a rainy day only to see much of it wash away recently, and still, we say, "No Bailout!" Congress, however, keeps weeping that we must save Wall Street in order to save the Middle Class - the backbone of our nation. Is the middle class crying? Maybe a bit, but we are the grownups in this mess.<br /><br />Those we entrusted with our intentions refuse to listen so much so, that as we point out the obvious, they refuse to whipe their snotty noses, bemoaning tidbits of what the American people need. Is this the legacy we wanted to leave future generations? Is this what we want to do with the gifts and hard work of our grandparents? Let's remember who we are. Our leaders are intruding. It's time to stop them. They know that as we grow weary of their ways, we will do just that. I may have chocked on my tea this morning, but I think it's time to toss the whole lot of it back into the harbor. Let's act now. I say let's raise up our arms and vote them away.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7617439849781189261.post-18230919845437059772008-10-24T17:09:00.000-07:002008-10-24T22:30:34.094-07:00Just Wondering Why My Posts Get Mixed UpI write many drafts before I publish, mostly because I don't have time to devote to blogging during one sitting; I piece it together as time permits. My schedule is amazing. Like most, I have a full and a half time job. I teach Biology now, so I'm learning the curriculum only weeks ahead of my students. This presents challenges and surprises.<br /><br />Every day is a challenge - will I present the lesson with clarity, precision, professionalism? or will I blow it and show everyone what a brain-klutz I am? Most days my lessons are delivered well (even though I'm shaking in my Burkenstocks), and in reflection, my surprise moments are that I am able to leave work knowing that my students' time was well spent. Other days, however, I wonder why I am there. What made me believe that my artsy-fluffy-whimsy-whatever-self, could pull off fact? I want to discuss life deeper than cells and elements. I want to assign pages of, "So, If All Life Evolved From a Single Cell, Where Did the First Cell Come From?" or perhaps, "If Horton Heard a Who, Is It Possible That You Could Hear a How?"<br /><br />The Language Arts still flows mightily in my veins. So What's Next? "Matt Cat Skateboard" - that's what's next.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06346765476556078197noreply@blogger.com0