Spring fever and outdoor projects

The time has changed. The weather is looking good . . . cool mornings and warm afternoons. Everywhere the signs of spring are springing forth and most of us have a touch of spring fever. I’m ready to get out into the good old outdoors and do stuff. This past weekend was just too gorgeous to stay inside, so I went on an adventure. I visited a friend’s family chicken farm of years gone by. We puttered around in the yard.

I checked out an old outhouse (not literally). An old store that provided staples for the farm hands caught my eye. I dug up some flowers and trees to take back to my place. Feeling a bit faint from all the work, I found an old lawn chair to sit a spell and catch my breath.

While I was catching my breath, I commencest (not sure that’s a word, but it works here) to thinking back a few years when I got this bright idea to build a water garden and fishpond. Let me share the experience with you . . .

I finished setting up a water garden and fishpond I had started back before Easter. And, in the process, I discovered I might be allergic to digging ditches. I noticed every time I picked up a shovel, my back began to hurt. I believe there’s a connection.

But, after digging the hole three times, I finally got the thing right. Seemed like every time I got the hole dug, it would rain and fill it up with dirt. The problems could have been because of the printed directions accompanying the pool stuff.

After all my years, I have discovered it does pay to adhere to the directions, at least sometimes. It seems I was supposed to dig the hole, set the pool in, fill with water, and add sand around the pool. Well, I didn’t do that, exactly. I dug the hole, set the pool in, added sand, and waited until I returned from a Texas visit to add water. I didn’t want the fish to croak while I was gone. I also didn’t count on a big rain. When I returned home, my lovely pool was setting catty wampus in a hole filled with water. Back to the drawing board.

I drained the water hole, bucket by bucket. And, then followed the printed guidelines as to how to properly install a fishpond.

After doing it the right way, my pond was in place and the home to a couple of fish. I decided to start small. It made more sense. If those two lived, I’d add more. And, if they didn’t, it was better and cheaper to kill only two as opposed to a whole school.

I added rocks around the pond, to give it that natural look. That was another adventure. Buying rocks seemed a little odd to me, and buying them by the pound seemed even odder. It’s kind of like buying water by the bottle. Who would ever thought a person would pay hard earned money for rocks by the pound or water by the bottle.

I soon discovered I would have to take out a loan on my house to pay for the rocks to put around this little pond. The guys at the rock store are not my friends. They tend to frown when I made them weigh the rocks, adding one at a time to the scale. And, they simply hated it when I would come back and asked for $3 worth of rocks.

Being the thrifty person I am, I decided to take things into my own hands. I’d make my own rocks. I bought the forms and the ready to mix cement. I even followed the printed directions. Add six pints of water to 80 pounds of mix. Now, we all know that just don’t seem right. The stones fell apart. They crumbled in my hands . . . Dust to dust.

Not to be defeated, I decided to ‘bust’ up concrete blocks and make little stones.

Pain has a way of swaying one’s decision. In the process of moving one of the big blocks, I somehow hung my big toe nail. After nearly ripping the dang thing off, I promptly discarded this bright idea. As a matter of fact, while laying in the backyard writhing in pain, I gave serious thought to filling the entire pond in with dirt and calling it a planter.

I re-thought the plan. A few plants here, a little Monkey grass there, a rock or two strategically placed, and a few fake water lilies gave my pond a natural as it’s gonna get look.

Then, with my pond complete, I sat on my deck, my purple toe propped high in the air, watching the little fishes swim, listening to the bubbling water, sipping on a glass of tea, and thinking all was well in my Corner of the World, again.

Wow, with memories like that I think it best if I keep my outdoor projects simple. Better yet, I think I’ll just take up fishing.

Kaiden Mann

I met this little guy a few months ago. He won my heart . . .

He was a little wiggle-worm all sprawled out on a pallet in front of the television set. He’d stretch this way and he’d stretch that way, finally he just reared his head back and watched TV upside down. Didn’t much matter to him. His kaki shorts barely touched his little knees and his black t-shirt sported a little drool. This just made him all the more handsome.

Ten-month old Kaiden Mann won me over with his bright eyes and his ear-to-ear grin. Kaiden’s a little ball of energy wildly taking in his world and sucking up every drop of life around him.

Little Kaiden’s not like other babies. His head is misshaped and is scarred from two cranial surgeries necessary to open his skull giving his brain room to grow. It’s also a little bumpy where a shunt has been inserted to allow the fluids to drain from his brain. He has a perfect little body except his fingers and toes are webbed. Kaiden was born with Apert Syndrome, which happens about once in every 200,000 live births.

Apert Syndrome is a disease where the seams between the skull bones close earlier than normal. This affects the shape of the head and face. Babies born with Apert Syndrome have severe webbing of the fingers and the toes, along with numerous other symptoms.

The disease is inherited. Only one parent needs to have the gene to pass it on to a child. And, in some cases, it may occur where there is no known family history.

Treatment for Apert Syndrome consists of surgeries to correct abnormal bone growth. And, Kaiden is facing as many as 15 before he reaches the age of 18.

Kaiden may be different, but he is a very special little boy. He has had two cranial surgeries

Carla Barnes, Kaiden’s mother, said the next surgery he is facing is to separate his fingers and toes.

“We’ve been told that here in Mississippi doctors will only be able to separate three of his fingers on each hand,” she said. “But, surgeons in Dallas say they can separate all five fingers and toes. We want to given Kaiden every advantage we can. That’s why we want to go to Dallas for the surgery.”

There will be two different surgeries to separate Kaiden’s fingers and toes. In the first surgery, the doctors will separate his thumb and first finger, same with the toes. Then, three months later, Kaiden will have the remaining three fingers and toes separated.

“I don’t want Kaiden to have to settle for a finger here or a toe there,” Carla said. “I want the best for him and I want to him to have every chance possible. That’s why we are trying to raise money to go to Dallas for the surgery. Insurance won’t pay for the out-of-state surgery.”

Even with the surgery, it will take a longtime for Kaiden to gain full use of his fingers. They have been in one position since conception and he doesn’t know any other means of using his little mitten hands.

Another surgery Kaiden is facing is having his mid-face reconstructed. Carla said the arch of his mouth more of a cathedral shape.

“The arch of his mouth goes straight up to a point,” she said. “The doctors will have to go in and widen his jaw bone and nasal area.”

Carla was in her seventh month of pregnancy when through an ultra-sound doctors discovered something was wrong with his skull.

“I was sent to have a MRI done,” she said. “The doctors were unable to one a hand, and the other looked like a mitten. It was then that the doctors told me the only disease where there were cranial malformation and mitten-like hands was Apert Syndrome.”

Carla said she had never heard of Apert Syndrome before then. The disease is the result of a malfunction in the gene. There’s nothing the mother or father could have done to prevent it.

Carl as said most children born with Apert Syndrome can have normal intelligence, but much of that depends on the skull. The brain needs room to grow Kaiden has a shunt that allows the fluids to drain and keep the pressure off his brain.

“Apert children tend to be behind in their milestones. He is over 10 months old and has no teeth,” she said. “He’s not crawling and he didn’t start sitting up until he was nine months.”

A physical therapist comes out and works with him. She teaches Carla what to do. and she works with him the rest of the time.

“We work towards goals,” she said. “Our goal for a longtime was to get him to crawl, but he’s going to do it in his own time. He finds his own way to do things. Kaiden is different, but he’s not really treated any differently than any other 10-month old little boy. This is normal to us.”

Carla said her child did not asked to be born this way. It wasn’t something that she or his dad did. She said she would fight for Kaiden.

“Is it wrong for me to want him to have five fingers instead of three?” she said. “He shouldn’t have to settle. He should have every opportunity to be and look as normal as possible. We will do what ever we can to make that possible for him.”

Kaiden has much older brothers and sisters. Carla said she never wanted to be tested during her pregnancy. Had she known early in her pregnancy, she said it would not have mattered. This was her child.

“ I knew I was going to have a baby either way,” Carla said. “I am grateful we found out during my pregnancy that something was wrong. Had I not known, I would have been in total shock. Knowing before he was born gave me time to find out about Apert's and be prepared.”

Kaiden is pretty independent. If he doesn’t get his bottle when he’s hungry, he lets you know. If his sister doesn’t let him play with her cell phone with all its bells and whistles, he lets her know. Kaiden’s has a tough road ahead, but he has a wonderful support system.

Duct Tape Junkie

Traveling the paths that wind their way through my corner of the world, I have come across lots of things being used for things other than what they were intended. For instance, my dad had the first remote control for the TV. . . He simply would shout what channel he wanted, point at me, and, low and behold, I would run and instantly put the TV on that channel. I don’t know about you, but I believe that is a gross injustice of what I was put on this world for. And, I told my dad that.
“I wasn’t put on this earth to be a human TV channel changer,” I explained. “I was put here to bring happiness into the lives of people.”
He looked me square in the eye and said, “Sweetie, you being my TV channel changer makes me very happy.”
I just gave him that ‘you’ve gotta be kiddin’ look. You, know that look that only a teenage can render.
But, in my opinion, I do believe the most over used and misused item today is “duct-tape.” After much research…well uh, a little research, I have come to the conclusion that “duct-tape” was created to attach duct work used in heating and air-conditioning. This marvelous gray tape was created by a professional for highly trained professionals.
But, people like you and me have taken this high-tech industrial tool and brought it down to our level. Due to our lack of professionalism, we have reduced this modern marvel to a cure all to be used at every whim. Many a wanna-be-handyman live be the motto, “if you can’t fix it…duct it.” No matter what the problem, we scream for the gray stuff.
My son, Tim, used the gray tape to get more life out of a pair of shoes that had long passed the worn out meter. Tim’s shoes had come apart from the toe back to the heel. Tim took a coat hanger and wrapped it around his shoe and then held the whole thing in place with rounds and rounds of “duct tape.” One of the problems was he now had a brown boot and a nearly all gray boot. The other problem was the coat hanger. One end of the wire worked its way out from the tape covering poking its pointed little head out right at the toe of the shoe. Every time Tim took a step, his jeans would catch on the wire. I suppose this was aggravating, but not enough to persuade Tim to shell out the money to purchase a new pair of shoes. He’s a little bit of a tight-wad.
On a recent trip to Texas, I carried a piece of over-sized exercise equipment to my cousin. I used the gray tape to hold the thing in the back of the truck. I wrapped the exercise station in plastic to keep it form getting wet. Then, to hold the plastic in place, I used two rolls of the gray tape. Round and round, up and over, the thing looked like a mighty gray sculpture rising high above the cab of the pickup. The cold, the rain, the wind and 600 miles left the plastic covering in shreds, but, by golly, every strip of the marvelous gray tape was in tact.
I know of a high school student who admitted she made her entire homecoming dance wardrobe from “duct-tape.” Yes, you read that right. A t-shirt was the base. Over the t-shirt she began to wrap yards and yards of gray, sticky tape. Once, the basic “duct-tape” dress was completed, she add several yards of tape to the back to create the effect of a long flowing train. Next, she took a cap wrapped completely in the gray sticky stuff along with matching shoes. Oh, please don’t let me forget the matching handbag. Oh yeah, her coordinating escort stuck close to her side.
Now, as you might imagine, several problems arose from this sticky get-up. She sort of looked like the mummy waltzing around on the dance floor. And, a train made of “duct tape” doesn’t flow; and it soon becomes a free ride to everything in its path. Taking the gray garb off was a whole ‘nuther’ story. The tape worked its way on to skin in many places. Amid screams and tears, the tape was ripped off, skin, hair, and all.
“Vengeance is mine...” sayeth the gray tape.
The human race has become dependent on the gray tape. We keep in the house for household repairs. A roll is in the shop for the same reason. Each tool box has a roll of the gray stuff just in case a spare part is needed in a pinch. As a matter of fact, in this fast paced world we live in “duct tape” may be the only thing that holds it together for some of us.
Looking around my corner of the world, I see a torn shower curtain that could use a strip of the tape. The window in the back store room is cracked. I just know the gray tape would keep out the cold. I burned a whole in my leaf-raker-upper. This has to be a job for “duct tape.” Let’s face it, I, too, am a “duct tape” junkie. I just can’t help it.

Dream a little dream

I had a dream the other night, not one of nightmare on some street or other. Just one of those dreams experts say people have to put the day’s activities in perspective.
In my dream, I was climbing up a 20-foot ladder. I had almost reached the top rung when out of nowhere came by pestering little brother in this Batman get-up. And, in one of his kick . . . bang . . . boom moves, he knocked me clean off that ladder.
Down, I started falling . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .
Right in the middle of my dreaming I remember thinking I was OK, unless I was dreaming. ‘Cause I’d heard if you dream you’re falling and you hit bottom . . . you . . . well, ahhh, die.
“Sure hope I’m not dreaming,” I remember thinking in my dream state. “’Cause that ground is getting closer and closer.”
All of a sudden, I woke up, only to find myself on the bedroom floor clutching my pillow for dear life.
Don’t tell anybody I fell out of bed, at my age. I’m trusting you on this.
Dreams are kinda of funny though. My brother used to dream and walk and talk in his sleep. We had as many arguments in his dreams as we did when he was awake.
Once, we were on a family outing at the drive-in theater. Joe drifted off to sleep in the backseat of the car. Right in the middle of the good part of the movie, he began mumbling something about chickens.
“Linda, catch that baby chicken,” he yelled.
“We’re in the car, there ain’t no baby chickens in the car,” I said.
“I’m gonna tell Daddy, if you don’t catch those chickens,” he again yelled.
“Well, go ahead,” I yelled back.
“No, I ain’t,” he laughed. “I’ll just let them get run over and you’ll be in trouble.”
Then, just as quickly as the conversation began, it was over with Joe never believing he had said a word.
One night, he decided to take a journey during his dreamland visit. I followed him through the house as he rambled his way to the bathroom and climbed into the bathtub.
“Get down,” he shouted.
“Why,” I questioned.
“Get in the foxhole or you’ll be shot, dead,” he yelled.
I think he had seen one too many war movies.
I don’t recall ever talking in my dreams or walking in my sleep, but, I have had some pretty far-fetched dreams in my day.
Once, I dreamed I was fighting Indians. During the standoff I was shot in the leg with an arrow and left dangling from the edge of a cliff.
When I woke up, I had gotten tangled in between the rungs of the old iron bed frame. One leg was twisted around the frame, while the rest of me was hanging off the edge of the bed.
Dreams are funny things. And, we do some pretty weird stuff in them, too.
When my oldest son, Jody, was about seven, he felt he was ready to graduate to the top bunk of the bunk beds. One night, I heard a loud thud, followed by a . . . Mommmmm.”
Jody had taken a nose dive off the edge of the bed. I helped him up and checked him out for any obvious injuries.
“Son, what happened,” I quizzed.
“I thought I was jumping off the diving board,” he sniffled.
“Were you asleep?” I asked him.
“Well, yeah, until I hit the floor.”
Sometimes, we dream fun stuff and sometimes we dream scary stuff. We really never know which kind of dream will find its way into our sleep.
In My Corner of the World, I like the fun stuff way more that being chased around the room by the “monster from the deep.” And, that’s why I try to think only happy thoughts at bedtime and only watch scary movies in the middle of the day . . . And, then only through the tiny spaces between my fingers covering my eyes.

Allowances

"An idle mind is the devil's workshop" was the philosophy both my mom and my dad adhered to. And, growing up in the Self-household, the Self-kids were kept busy enough that we didn't find too much to get into.
Don't get me wrong. We weren't slave labor or anything. We received an allowance. I think it was something like $1.50 a week. That seems puny now, but when we got paid on Saturday morning, the Self-kids were walking in tall cotton. And, when we picked cotton or worked the fields, we got more.
A lady, not long ago, was telling me about a teenager who was staying with her. It seems this young person was having a difficult time keeping money in his checking account. His parents gave him a $3,000 a month allowance and he ran short every month.
Now, I don't know about you, but this causes me to raise an eyebrow or two. There were no strings attached. No chores to do. This was just money he was given. This gives a whole new meaning to the word allowance.
"Chores will make a better person of you," my dad used to say.
"One day, you'll appreciate what I'm trying to teach you," he would add.
Every afternoon, we'd get off the school bus (no personal cars), change from school clothes to ever'day clothes, and commence our after-school routine.
I cleaned the house, did the laundry, and got supper started. Joe did most of the outside chores. He fed the cows, pigs, horses, dogs, and whatever other varmints we had at the time. After supper (not dinner), I cleared the table, did the dishes, and then did my homework.
On the weekends, we mowed and cleaned up the yard. In the summer, we hoed the cotton, corn, and garden. Then, we picked it.
But, as I recall, it wasn't all work. We had our fun times, too. Joe and I used to have races to see who could chop the most weeds in the fastest time. We did pretty good, until we looked back, and saw we had been chopping down the corn and leaving the Johnson grass.
Believe me, Dad was not a happy camper. Our backsides didn’t fair very well, either.
Tall cotton stalks made great hiding places. You could crawl between the rows on your belly and sneak right up on somebody. This was great, especially when you could scare the living daylights out of your little sister, who was too little to do the chores. So, she got to ride around on daddy's cotton sack. But, there was a time when the scare tactic was reversed. I was crawling around on my belly just waiting for the right moment to scare Karen. Joe had the same bright idea. Just as I was about to burst through and scare the heebie-jeebies out of Karen, I bellied right up to a big old snake curled up in the shade of a cotton stalk. There we lay, eyeball to eyeball. I was petrified. My mouth flew open, but no sound came forth. I put it in reverse, and crawfished out the way I came in. Then, just when I thought I was far enough away, I bolted up ready to run. That's when Joe and I crashed into each other faces first. There we stood, blood gushing from my nose and his lip. By the time daddy got to us, we had our stories ready. I don't think he bought the yarn we had spun, but he let it slide. Karen just sat there with a silly grin on her face like she thought we had gotten what we deserved.
Our allowances didn't amount to much when compared to today's. But, earning the allowance made us part of something. We worked and we got paid. And, it kept us off the streets and out of a lot of trouble.
I know times have changed and things are different now. Kids are different. And, families are different.
Some things change, but some don't. I'm a firm believer in my dad's philosophy, "An idle mind is a devil's workshop." Many kids have too much time on their hands. They don't hold down jobs, and household chores are out of the question.
To be fair to today's kids, it's not all their fault. We as parents share the blame. We've wanted to make our kids' lives better than ours were.
Reality is, My Corner of the World is a little sadder because in my drive to make life easier for my kids, I've deprived them of valuable learning experiences . . . and a whole heap-load of memories.

Bessie and the snake

It’s springtime and warmer weather means snakes. I read somewhere that Mississippi has over 50 different species of snakes. Snake-lovers say there are good snakes and bad snakes, and, they keep the rodent population down. Probably, if it weren’t for these slithering varmints, we’d be up to our hip-boots in rats.
This may be the case, but I still can’t find it in my heart to make friends with a snake. To me, s-n-a-k-e is a four-letter word. And, I mean a big, bad four-letter word.
It is the time of year for these scaly creatures to slither around the yard, in outdoor sheds, and in flower gardens. For some reason, these vipers visit my neck-of-the-woods first go ‘round.
I’ve already encountered three snakeroos this season. The first was earlier in the spring. I was getting some saved spring flowers to take to the cemetery from the collection I have stored in my shed. I am a bit of a pack-rat. And, maybe I make it easy for snakes to hang around the old home place. But, what’s the alternative? Clean up the shed? Probably not gonna happen, I might need some of that stuff sometime.
Anyway, back to the snakes. The second encounter was . . . well, it wasn’t really with the snake. It was with his skin. This fella crawled into my shed weaved in and out of the two-by-four studs leaving his scaly skin along the way. Now, I don’t know whether snake skins stretch as their bodies slither along leaving them behind or not. This skin was six or eight feet long. And, if it is all the same, I had just as soon not meet the reptile that decided to exfoliate in my shed.
My third encounter was a bit more on the hysterical side. Hysterically funny for me, and hysterically frightening for Bessie.
Bessie is a friend who is notoriously humorous in her own right, but throw in a snake and funny doesn’t even begin to describe the scene.
Bessie has a garden pond that has become over run with pond scum. The fish won’t even live here. But, a bad ol’ cottonmouth moved in and set up housekeeping.
Bessie has a habit of leaving her shoes on the porch. The other day, she slipped on her sandal, only to find something in the shoe besides her foot. She kicked it off. Figuring it was just a little ol’ frog. She picked it up and peeked inside, as she was peeking in, a small cottonmouth was peeking back. Eyeball to eyeball.
She threw the shoe down, ran in side the house and locked the door behind her. Once inside, she discovered her puppy was still outside. Slinging open the door, she grabbed the dog, and darted in again.
Frantic, she called her son. No answer.
She called her brother. No answer.
Just short of calling 911, she spotted a neighbor pulling into his driveway. Out the front door she bolted. Flagging him down she explained the situation.
“Calm down Bessie,” he said. “I’ll get a hoe and be on my way.”
“Forget it,” she screamed. “I got one.”
When the dynamic duo returned to the scene of the snake-in-the-shoe, the snake had decided to take a stand. He was still in the shoe looking out the open toe.
With a few wacks of the hoe, the snake was on his way to snake heaven. And, Bessie’s sandal looked like the puppy had used it for teething.
Someone told me that snakes didn’t want to be around me anymore than I wanted to be around them. Now, I find that hard to believe, since they are always coming into my territory. I have found them in my shed, my garage, my yard, my wood-pile, and even my house. I don’t go looking for them.
This country girl may be from the country, but she has no desire to come face to face with another snake. And, I bet Bessie feels the same way.
There may be help. There’s a product called Snake Guard. It is a snake trap, kind of like the roach motel. The snake crawls into this little disguised glue sheet and gets stuck. Getting rid of the stuck snake can be another matter.
With the luck I’ve been having in My Corner of the World, the stuck snake would simply decided to shed his skin and move on. Forget the snake motel. Give me a hoe or shotgun. I’ll reserve that slithering serpent a place on Boot Hill.

Beach Ball With Legs

We're deep into March. The birds are chripping. The weeds are growing. It already beginning to feel like Spring. Wal-Mart already has their swim suits on display. I decided, this year, it was time to quit stalling and go buy that much needed new bathing suit or swim suit, which ever you prefer.
To be honest with you, I don’t really know what kind of material swim suits are made from, but they shrink from year to year.
Excuse me, but am I the only person who has found this to be the case?
In September I pack the suit away in a drawer, and by next swim season it has shrunk a size...sometimes two. This year was no different.
There’s a few things I’ve noticed about shopping for swim suits.
First of all, they don’t make them for short, dumpy people.
Secondly, why do they make swim suits in the plus-sizes so gawd-awful ugly. These suits generally have some humongous, loud-colored flower or design on them. As a rule, when I slip into a swim suit, I like to be sort of inconspicuous. Big purple flowers make that a little difficult, if you know what I mean?
Thirdly, how can such a little swim suit cost so much?
The other day, I threw on my baggy Capri pants (didn’t we used to call these things pedal-pushers) and my over-sized shirt (the bigger and baggier, the fewer bulges exposed) and headed out to buy a swim suit.
I dug around looking for just the perfect suit for this less than perfect body on the plus-sized rack. This cute little black number with a hint of white on it was calling my name.
Picking it up, I figured it had to work, after all, black is supposed to make you look thinner. I’m all for that.
I flagged down the lady with the dressing room keys. She leads me to the dressing room door and screams at the top of her lungs, “How many swim suits?”
So much for slipping in unnoticed. “Just the one,” I replied.
‘Course now, everyone knows a short, dumpy, old woman was in stall two trying on swim suits.
With my back to the mirror, I went about the task of putting on the swim suit. Tugging at it and poking little love-handles in here and there, I finally got the suit on.
The moment of truth had come. I now, had to turn and face the mirror. Step by step, slowly I turned. I was horrified. Shamu, the Killer Whale was in the mirror.
I can see me now, minding my own business laying on the beach and some kid wanting his mother to take a picture of him with Shamu.
Believe me, this black and white swim suit did nothing for me.
Later, I was looking through some historical pictures, at the newspaper office andI ran across a picture of an advertisement for “Ladies’ Flannelette Bathing Suits, $1.50.” The ad ran June 23, 1906.
The picture showed women coming out of the water in below the knee dresses, long-sleeved, with collars and white trimming. Oh, yeah, they also had on long black stockings. The heftier ladies didn’t standout anymore than did the thinner ones.
Now, that’s my kind of suit. Hey, the price is right, too. OK, maybe that would be a little impractical.
I think I’ll just make do with what I have. In fact, I have a giant beach ball that has a hole in it. I might just add holes for my arms and legs and call it a swim suit. I already sort of look like a beach ball with legs, now I have the colors to match.
Summer’s almost here in my corner of the world, and I’m planning for a wet and wild summer. Well, as wild as a 60 year-old beach ball with legs can get.