The I-Groan, Part 2

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved to learn Indian Smoke Signals

I was beginning my second minute of lecturing on the virtues of taking notes on paper versus electronic devices at the AT&T store, when the eleven-year-old rolled her eyes completely out of sight. That signified total shutdown from listening to anything else I had to say.  I have seen this before many times.  I don’t think Alex, the AT&T employee who was helping me, had.  He was making the sign of the cross, even though I was sure he was Baptist, and dialing 1-800-CALL-An-EXORCIST.   I stopped talking and her eyes came back into view just before he hit dial.  The color came back to Alex’s face and we continued.  I completed my notes, paid for the phone, and we left.  Alex held the door open calling out “God Bless”.   I am sure we will be on every prayer list in town by Sunday, both for her sake and mine.

That afternoon with I-Phone, charger, adaptor, and notes in hand, we loaded up the children, packed the RV and headed for our favorite camping spot.  I decided to try out the new I-Phone on the way.  Now, just so you know, we have a family plan of 700 roll over minutes of which I used 5 last month so I basically have to review my notes every time I answer any cell phone.  

I had already learned how to translate toddler gibberish, speak fluent two-year-old, and decipher every nuance of eye rolling before the first six children were in high school.  I was tri-lingual before these last two were even born. The children never bothered to learn even rudimentary “Senior”.  We were destined to have a failure to communicate.

“I think I will try out my new I-phone and call my sister and tell her we are on our way,” I confidently said.

“You might want to practice first,” said Miss Eleven-Year-Old-Know-it-All, between the sounds of her texting, the whirling sounds of sending, and the beeping notifications of receiving on her cell phone.  “I’ll call you.”

I was waiting for my phone to “ring”.  Instead, it shocked me and I dropped it.

“You’ve got it on vibrate.  Do you want it to vibrate?”

“No, I want it to ring.  I don’t want an electric shock in my hands or my pants.”

“Which ring tone do you want?  You can have a ring tone that is different for each person?  Do you want separate ring tones for just our immediate family?”

“Ten ring tones?  How will I ever remember ten ring tones much less which tone is for which family member?”

“You can put a picture of the person calling you so you will know who it is.  Here, I’ll put my picture so it will come up when I am calling you.”

“Couldn’t I just say ‘Hello, who is this?”

“Fine,” eyes rolling toward the ceiling.  “Here is a high pitched ring that you are sure to hear.”

My phone rang.  The sound of an alien spaceship circling our car sounded, the dog began to howl, and the eleven-year-old’s picture appeared on my I-phone screen.

“Answer it!” my husband yelled above the howling dog and the sounds of the alien space ship trying to land. 

“How?” I queried?

“Slide the bar at the bottom and tap on the number.  Here let me” came from Miss Queen of the I-Phone.

“No, if you do it I will never learn.  Now where is the bar?” I said scanning the tiny screen.

“I don’t know but I’m looking for one” came from my dear tee-totaler Hubby as he swerved the truck from side to side. “Just answer the phone so the dog will stop howling and the space ship can land.”

“Hello?  Who is this?”

“It’s me. Look at the picture.   I’m right behind you.”

“Ok, I think I have that.  Slide, tap, say hello.  Got it.  Now how do I text?”

“Well to text, you tap the green oval at the top, type in the address from your contact list, type your message, then hit send.  If you are texting and someone is calling you, you can tap accept, reject….”

“STOP.  Don’t give me so many options.  Speak slower, not louder.  You aren’t making any sense…”

My husband reached for his cell phone.  “9-1-1?  What is my emergency?  Are you kidding?  I’m in a four passenger pick-up truck with a Shih Tzu, a seven-year-old and an eleven-year-old who do not speak ‘Senior”, a phone that E.T. tried to call home on, a wife who can’t see a bar when it is right in front of her and it’s an hour and a half to our destination.”

“Yes, sir.  Stay calm.  Alex notified us. There is an I-Phone Crisis Counselor about a mile behind you.  He has been following you since your wife left the store.  He is a certified Instructor for I-Phone 4 and he is fluent in “Senior”.  I’ll stay on the line until he catches up with you.”

My husband pulled the truck, trailer, two kids, one dog, and three cell phones safely to the shoulder of the road and waited for the I-Phone Crisis Counselor to catch up to us.

As the I-Phone Counselor spoke to me slowly, using simple one syllable words, I said to myself:

“Who needs a cell phone anyway?  Maybe I’ll just send out smoke signals.   There’s plenty coming from my ears right now.”

I-Moan Part One

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for I-Phone lessons

As I am about to enter decade number seven, I am determined to have an up to date telephone.  I can handle technology even if it is changing faster than my moods.  I am an intelligent, creative human being.  Over the years I have created stunning set designs with nothing more than toilet paper tubes,  nylon trotline twine, and a can of spray paint.  I have altered size 4 costumes to accommodate a size 14 body.  I can certainly learn to use an I-Phone 4.  Besides, I have a seven-year-old and an eleven-year-old on call 24/7 for tutoring.

I began my quest into 21st century technology with a visit to my AT&T store and Alex, a knowledgeable employee who, despite his mere two decades of age, spoke fluent "Senior."

"Alex, I want a new phone."

"Good decision," he said as he looked at my paint less flip-phone. "And what do you want to do on it?" he said speaking in flawless "Senior."

"I want to call somebody, answer it when it rings, and text."

"This I-Phone 4 will do that."

"Will it do anything else?"

"Yes, but only if you want it to."

"Like what?" I asked fearfully.

"You see that I-pad you are carrying?  It will do everything your I-Pad will do. It is just smaller.  And this phone will serve as your hot spot for wi-fi so you will have one less thing to keep up with."

"Ok, let me have it."

"Good. It will take just a minute to set up your new phone so you will be ready to use it.  And before you leave, I will show you how to call, answer, text and I will connect your I-Pad to the Hot Spot.  While I do that, here is a bottle of cold water for you to drink."

Somewhere, Alex's Grandmother is beaming with pride.

In just a few minutes Alex returned with my phone.

"Now here is your password, you answer it by sliding this bar and tapping this..."

"Wait a minute.  Let me write this down."

At this point the eleven-year-old rolled her eyes and said pitifully "She has to write everything down on PAPER."

"For your information, young lady, paper and pen do not require batteries.  If I drop it in the pool, I can still read it.  It never becomes outdated nor is there ever a need to update it.  No password is required to access this information. Should I ever decide to pass this phone on to you, you will have written instructions on how to use it."

"By then the I-Phone 24 will be out."

The next day we left with the two kids on a road trip.  I was to get my first lesson from the eleven-year-old on using the I-Phone.  Let me just say right here that despite the fact that I learned to speak two-year-old fluently  and was fairly good at deciphering toddler jibberish, my children failed to learn to speak "Senior."t

Old Quilts, Old Songs, Old Joy

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved....for days such as this!

The Piece Makers, our local quilting guild, have been meeting at the Treatment Center for  Alzheimer's every Wednesday for several decades. The money they make for quilting for the public goes toward helping to fund the center.  They also make quilts for their annual bazar.

I have been a volunteer "guest" quilter off and on for the past twenty years.  I enjoy the conversations and the fellowship.   I am in no way up to their level of artistry or standards, but I do fairly well on a straight line.

This past week a lady brought in a quilt started by her aunt many years ago.  When the aunt passed away and her house was being disposed of, the niece found all of these tiny two inch squares scattered in the yard and throughout the house.  Tiny pieces from sugar sacks, flour sacks, and woolen shirts. Each piece had been meticulously cut.  Some of the squares had already been pieced into what would be a "nine-patch" pattern and some had only been cut.  She could not stand for this piece of family history to be treated in such a manner, so she gathered them all up.

At home she washed and pressed each piece; then pieced them together in the pattern her aunt had started.  She brought it to the Treatment Center to be quilted.  That was the quilt we were working on this Wednesday.

This quilt was pure art and fine craftsmanship.  All of the square corners matched exactly. Each nine patch was precisely six inches square.  As I was threading my needle to begin, I thought of the hours  and hours it took to get the quilt to this point.

As we laughed and talked I found myself wishing I knew the story behind each square.  Was this patch first a flour sack, then a little girl's dress or maybe an apron?  After being handed down and worn again and again, were these two inch squares all that could be salvaged and used yet again?

As we quilted and discussed the intricate squares,  an older man and a few members of his church choir arrived to entertain the alzheimer clients.  They were in the recreation room right next to the room where we were quilting. As they were setting up, I mentioned that I would like to find a country church that still sang the old church songs I grew up singing as a teenager.

"Well, I go to a little country church but that doesn't mean they still sing the old songs," commented the lady to my left.

"No, you would be hard pressed to find a church that still sings the old songs," said the lady quilting across from me. "I miss those songs."

Just then we heard the sounds of the piano giving the introduction as they began to sing.  Floating into the room, a strong single voice carrying the melody amidst beautiful accompanying harmony came "I'll Fly Away",  "In the Sweet By and By",  "Onward Christian Soldiers" and "Amazing Grace", "The Old Rugged Cross", "Just as I Am", "Shall We Gather at the River" .  The songs continued for another twenty minutes; each one calling up forgotten memories; each song seeming to make the needles glide effortlessly through the quilt. Aged backs straightened a bit, smiles creased lined faces, and our voices joined in singing the familiar words.

Had a photograph  been taken at that moment, no doubt it  would have captured pure joy...and, yes, it probably would have appeared as a brown tintype.

Gold Fish, Rightly So

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for doubloons 

Every kid wants a gold fish.  The parents buy two or three and get an aquarium.  In a month or so the kids lose interest.   The fish die and you flush. End of story.  Oh, there is the occasional funeral and even a rare commercial for Mr. Gold, a fish, who did not have life insurance but for the most part it is not a big deal...until now.
 
Two years ago the nine-year-old wanted gold fish.  For her birthday I got the aquarium, filter, light, bubbler, and three gold fish.  The first two followed the traditional path, died within two days, and were soon flushed.  She wanted replacements.  What the heck, at 18 cents a fish I could afford to be generous, so I bought two replacements expecting all to be over within a month.
 
When the fish were four months old, I had to find solid food weekend feeders for them as we were going away for the week-end.  When we planned a week long cruise, I had to search all over town for three somewhat expensive seven-day solid food feeders for the now one-year-old fish.  When we returned I half expected to have to flush some skinny fish.  Not so.  They were thriving.
 
When I mentioned this to my friends they said "What, you didn't have the one way valve connectors for the bubblers?  Man, you are lucky the electricity didn't go out while you were gone.  You could have returned with ten gallons of water syphoned out onto your carpet and some smelly 
fish." 




Before our next trip, I bought the one way valves for the bubblers which were not cheap.
 
At two and a half years old, the three fish are still alive and have grown to be five inches long lips to tail fin.  Every time I pass by the aquarium, I swear they are laughing.
 
Night before last, the eleven-year-old came running into the bedroom.
 
 "You've got to help me.  Margarita (I swear I don't know where she got that name although I could have used one right then) is being beaten up on by Tiger Eye and Goldie Locks.  They are pecking on her (I thought only birds pecked) and pushing her up against the glass.  You've got to do something."
 
My first thoughts were of an old cheer we used to do when we played John Tyler High School in football.  FLUSH THAT JOHN!  FLUSH THAT JOHN!  But knowing how tender hearted she could be when it came to dumb animals...and fish...I went to see what was happening.

 
Sure enough, Tiger Eye and Goldie Locks had it in for Margarita. 
 
"You've got to rescue Margarita." The only thing I had big enough to accommodate Moby Dick was my cut glass punch bowl, not exactly what my mother had intended it for when she gave it to me.
Nevertheless, we filled the punch bowl with dechlorinated water and moved Margarita into her new condo.  She did have a few scales missing and was listing a little to the left; Margarita, not my mother, although my mother does that, too, from time to time. 
 
"She should be fine," I said as I eyed the toilet.
 
"What about a bubbler?  She's going to need air."
 
"She will be alright tonight. In the morning I'll get a multiple connector for the pump.  Now go to bed."
 
The next morning I got up early to do any necessary flushing in case Margarita hadn't made it.  She was laughing at me on her side.  The bubbler that at been in the aquarium was in the punch bowl and my daughter's alarm had been set for midnight.  She had been switching the bubbler from one tank to the next all night.
 
I bought the multiple connector at Wal-Mart.  Last night we tried putting Margarita back into the aquarium with the bullies.  Nothing had changed. Margarita went back into the punch bowl.  At least there would be no switching bubblers back and forth during the night.
 
I googled "bullying gold fish".  According to the experts, a ten gallon aquarium is too small for three gold fish the size of ours.  Back to Wal-Mart for yes, another ten gallon aquarium, pump, filter, bubbler, lights, and plant.  Ka-ching.
 
I set up the aquarium and all the gear. I put Margarita in her new single digs.  She straightened right up, swam around, and I swear, smiled at me.
 
The relief on  my daughter’s face when she arrived home from school and saw Margarita swimming happily  in her very own ten gallon tank was worth all the trouble and expense to me. 

 However, later  while looking at the sales slip, Dr. Hubby commented "Now I know why they are called Gold Fish."
 
"You better hope she takes as good a care of us in our Golden Years as she does these Gold fish."
 
"Good point.  Maybe you should get a waterproof TV  to keep Margarita entertained.  After all, we want her to be happy."

Danger, Will Robinson, Warning!

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for racing stripes.

If you ever watched the 60’s TV show “Lost in Space” you will recognize the little robot calling out “Warning! Will Robinson, Warning!” whenever danger was near.  I wish I had one of those.  At least it wouldn’t be a highway patrol saying “ Warning! Mrs. Worsham, Warning” and waving a piece of paper at me.

I have been called Lead Foot, Jody Andretti, Rocket Mama and a few others.  I have been known to drive unslow.  I blame it on the car designers and modern technology. It’s true.

Back when I started driving, cars did not have air conditioning.  You drove with the windows down in the summer which was the only time I had access to a car.  You judged your speed by the position of your pony tail.  If it was straight out behind your head, better slow down.  Or you judged speed by the sound of the wind noise.  Cars had those little triangle windows that opened a crack and served no purpose other than to create wind noise to alert you to your speed.  When the decibels reached 7 or just short of a train, it was time to hit the brakes.

In the late 60’s early 70’s Chevrolet thought it would be helpful to install a dial whereby you could set the needle on the speedometer to go off when you reached so many miles per hour.  The intent was for you to set it at the legal speed.  The trouble was I got tired of hearing its buzzer go off every ten seconds, so I set it on 95.  Now when that buzzed, I slowed down.

Today we have Cruise Control.  You tap a button, set the speed, and prop your feet up on the dash.  Foot free driving.  Some cars automatically adjust your speed if you approach another car or a herd of deer cross the road which is more likely in my area.  But there is nothing that says “Warning, Jody Worsham, Danger” to avoid a speeding ticket.  Yes, you can buy one of those radar detectors but that’s like admitting you sometimes speed and plan on doing it whenever you think you won’t get caught.   Lead Foot, yes, knowingly disobedient, never. 

The seven-year-old gave me my very own speed reminder.  It is low cost, easy to install, and highly visible.

Today pony tails are worn low on the neck if you have one at all and the air conditioning eliminates wind noise warnings.  Triangular windows have been replaced by huge expanses of glass.  Cruise control only works if you remember to set it. You only know if you are speeding if you can quickly decipher which of the twenty-seven dials and electronic read-outs on the driver’s console and steering column is for speed.   Well, that, and those flashing red and blue lights in your rear view mirror.

 

“Warning! Mrs. Andretti! Warning!”    At least this time it was just a “warning” ticket.

Inventory or Junk? Part Duh

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for Auction Anonymous

It depends on the person you ask.  Our auction/bargain hunting days have now spanned forty-eight years.  During that time what he buys is still inventory and what I buy, he claims is junk.  I fail to see the difference.

But to be fair all of the chest of drawers from the auction 48 years ago are gone except for two I have in my sewing room.  The birch became tables, workbenches, cabinets, and chairs.  Most of the remaining bedframes, after supplying six children with multiple beds and a few trips to the salvage yard when funds were low, were made into fence posts to fence our thirty-five acres of land.  It was a little strange to see, but it kept the horses and cows off the road.  The few remaining bedframes are in a small pile in the back pasture.

It turned out the band uniforms were not a bad investment.  Each uniform had sixty-four silver knob buttons, six yards of woven nylon cording that formed the citation cords, and a hat with a plume.  I offered band uniforms to every theatre department that was even thinking about performing “Music Man”.  The Nacogdoches Historical society bought some to use as the basis for Santa Anna’s officers for a re-enactment.  A couple of choirs bought some to use as costumes for toy soldiers.  My students strung and hung silver buttons on stage to create a perfect starry night and we have used the nylon cording to tie up just about everything.

But I am a little worried today.  Sutherland’s has been going out of business since Christmas and Dr. Hubby has been adding to his “Never-know-when-you-might-need-it inventory” since before Christmas.  I now have a weather thermometer in every bedroom, bathroom, and closet in the house just because they were a good price.  Today is the final, final, really final last day public auction.

With his first call he announced “I got you some shelving.  I don’t know what you can do with it, but it was a good buy.”  That had me a little worried.  Why would there be any question about what you would do with shelving unless…I won’t go there…yet.

His second call said “I got you some yard sticks.  Think you can find a use for them?”  By now I was getting a little leery.

“How many?”

“A  case…or two….”

“Ok, well that’s not bad.  The school can probably use some yard sticks I….you said a case or two…how many cases?   Exact number.”

“Eight.”

“And how many yard sticks in a case?”  I was learning.

“Five………..hundred.”

“You bought 4,000 yard sticks?  What are we going to do with 4,000 yardsticks?”

“Make tables?  Use them to make Santa Anna-Music Man-Toy Soldier Scarecrows?”

The third time the phone rang I almost didn’t pick it up for fear of what he had bought next.  However, imagining what he had bought was worse than knowing.

“What did you buy this time?”

“Uh, now it only has 50,000 miles on it.  It was a real good price. “

“I hope you are talking about a dolly.”

“It’s a truck.  Well, I had to have some way to haul my inventory home.”

Our town has a growing number of storage facilities.  If I read in the newspaper about a storage unit auction, I’m chaining him to his recliner and going myself.  There might be some good junk there that I can turn into inventory.  At least I won’t come home with 4,000 yardsticks!

Going Once...Going Twice...

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for Storage Wars

 In Texas, state universities can only sell state owned property through a silent auction announced to the public.   Until my husband became a professor at Stephen F. Austin State University, I had never heard of a state auction much less attended one.

 It was early in our marriage so we were still childless and thus had an extra bit of cash.

“Let’s stop by the silent auction and see if there is anything interesting,” said Dr. Hubby.

“Ok” never suspecting what I was in for.

We had only the bare necessities as far as furniture was concerned so Lots  3,4, and 5 held promise with the chest of drawers that were displayed. Lots 10 had two bedframes, and lot 45 had a storage closet displayed.   SFAU was demolishing some of the units; those one story Motel 6 look alike dorms where two units shared a bathroom.  Dr. Hubby had stayed there as a student in the late 50’s.  Each shared unit had four steel twin bedframes, two wardrobe closets, and two chests of drawers and there were 300 units.  Lot 35 interested me as a theatre student.  I saw potential in the West Point style black SFA band uniform as a costume for a butler or maybe a train conductor.

“Now do not make an even bid and do not make it for just dollars” instructed Dr. Hubby.  “I’m going to bid on Lots 3, 4, 5, 10, and 45.  Maybe I’ll get one,” and he was off.

I placed my bid of $19.21 for the band uniform in a sealed envelope and left it with the person in charge along with my name and phone number and waited for hubby.

The next day we got a call.   “Hey, honey, I was high bid on all the lots.”

“That’s great.  So we have three chest of drawers, two twin bedframes and a closet.”

“The displayed items were just samples.  I actually bought thirty-five chests of drawers, eighteen wardrobe closets all solid ¾ inch birch, and uh six hundred bedframes.” 

“WHAT????  Ok, this is a college town I can see having a garage sale and getting rid of some of the chest of drawers and making our money back and the birch will be good for building all kinds of things, but what are we going to do with three hundred bedframes? 

“I’ll think of something.”

 That was what I was afraid of.

 “Oh, and you got your band uniform or should I say band uniforms….there’s two hundred of them.  What are you going to do with two hundred band uniforms?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Hang them on bedframes and make two hundred scarecrows?”