Paper Hearts for Small Towns

What’s on my mind? Our small-town newspaper. I love this paper! Honest, I do. Stuffed with as many flyers as Big City papers once had, this nugget of news arrives on the step twice a week, free of charge. Small-town newspapers are the glue that binds small communities.

Page 1 of yesterday’s paper features a photo of a 69-year-old skydiver at the local airport (a common sight, here), a neighboring town’s approval of four non-medical cannabis shops (the phrase “hell in a hand basket” comes to mind), and a link to the sad demise of three sheep-killing cougars.

As usual, the paper's stuffed with ads.

We read these ads because we want to support local merchants. So! I’ve just read an ad for one of these bathtub-refit places in which a new tub is placed over the old one.

Well! The ad has the usual BEFORE and AFTER shots. The BEFORE photo shows a sleek, pristine, beautiful tub. The AFTER shot is of an indistinct, fuzzy, dirty, and possibly cracked tub. Reread that. Yep ... That’s what the photos and their captions show.

The ad also says: “Your Bathroom Will Be the Envy of the Neighborhood.” Uh-huh ...

I’m not poking fun at the newspaper, or at the bathtub company (“locally and independently owned and operated”), or at our beautiful little community. Stuff happens, and it can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

The newspaper is my morning smile. I wouldn’t trade this charming place for city living under any circumstances. Oh, how I love small towns!

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Wonderment in the Sky

What’s on my mind? A couple of days ago, the story below appeared in The New York Times. Scroll past its many annoying ads: The final sentence starts with “Incidents tapered off...” 

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/wow-what-is-that-navy-pilots-report-unexplained-flying-objects/ar-AABXltD

Many of you will have variations of stories not unlike my own true experience. Until I spoke to my children and to Himself earlier today, I’ve never told anyone what I saw. I don’t know why. I just never have.

On a clear summer’s day in the late 1960s, my former husband and I saw an Unidentified Flying Object (UFO). Alan Strickland and I were driving along a quiet road in central British Columbia, Canada, when we encountered the classic flat-bottomed dome in space movies of the day. Alan has since died or he’d verify my words.

We immediately pulled to the shoulder of the road to watch it hang, motionless, in the sky. We didn’t leave the car. We were too astonished to move.

With no reference points such as buildings or trees, it was impossible to tell how near or far the UFO was. I can’t estimate its size, but it was close enough that I can say with certainty we saw no openings one might consider windows or doors. It appeared to be metal … I can’t remember if it was shiny or dull, but its surface was clean and undimpled. 

Math isn’t my strong suit: I’m confident I could still draw the angle it was at, but have no idea how to state the number of degrees that angle was. The craft was soundless. We felt no fear. 

My best guess is that the UFO hung there seven-to-10 seconds after we spotted it. It suddenly took off faster than anything I’ve ever seen - without a sound and on an angle, rather than vertically. It disappeared in (I’m guessing) two seconds. There was no slow start, as with a car. It instantly moved from zero to zip. I’ve seen US Airforce jets; This was faster. My memory of most of this is clear and distinct.

In 1967, Alan saw another UFO in the sky above the prairie in Manitoba, Canada. If he described it at the time, I don’t remember what he said. I, too, saw a second UFO, also in the late 1960s. Oddly, especially for something so unusual and presumably memorable, I have no idea where, when, or with whom I saw it, or what it looked like. Zero. All I know is that I saw a second UFO, and wasn’t dreaming. Once again, I felt no fear. 

I’m a rational, science-based person. I have no idea what UFOs are, or from where they originate, but I firmly believe in their existence. For reasons unknown to me, I’ve never told anyone - not even (while they were alive) my parents, or (until today) my children, or my close friends. 

Nor did Alan ever say one word about what he’d seen. He and I didn’t even discuss it between ourselves, other than his report to me that he’d seen a UFO in rural Manitoba. 

I haven’t thought about what we saw for more than 50 years. My son directed me to the NYT story only after I thought to tell my children about this experience earlier today.

Two days ago, I had a minor medical procedure in a Canadian hospital. I always marvel that a patient can be compos mentis one minute, unconscious the next, and - unaware of pain and the passage of time - then fully awake, with no memory of a procedure that may have taken several hours. Question: Could something similar be at work with UFO sightings?

My son suspects the question has shifted from “Are they there?” to “Who and what are they?” Rationalism aside, I suspect he’s right.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Cupboard Love

Cupboard love is a popular learning theory of the 1950s and 1960s based on the research of Sigmund Freud, Anna Freud, Melanie Klein and Mary Ainsworth. Rooted in psychoanalysis, the theory speculates that attachment develops in the early stages of infancy. 

This process involves the mother satisfying her infant’s instinctual needs, exclusively. Cupboard love theorists conclude that during infancy, our primary drive is food, which leads to a secondary drive for attachment.

- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cupboard_love

What’s on my mind? My firstborn arrived as the snow bucketed down in January, 1971. His twin sisters were born as more snow bucketed down in December of the same year. I was, as the joke often went, a slow learner about cause and effect.

Mother’s Day has come and gone, but I’m still thinking about the four-year-old who went missing from a school playground March 24, 1991. With his parents and others nearby, no one saw him drop from sight.

As though an invisible portal opened and quickly closed, he just ... vanished. His May birthday came and went. This year, his birthday fell on Mother’s Day, as it has several times in the 28 years since he walked into the ether without a trace. 

There were cruel rumors the child had been found ... The parents had divorced ... Untrue.

I met his mother, once. Her pain pierced my heart like a spear. Thinking of her lost child made me want to hold my own closer.

While there’s no comparison between that gut-wrenching story and my then-14-month-old son’s brief disappearance, having three children born in the same calendar year made it difficult to keep an eye on them.  

Parents and caregivers are often tested. My test came as a line of volunteers and police officers searched for my son in the high yellow grasses of an autumn field. 

I didn’t know how long he’d been missing. Ten minutes? Twenty? As he sat and played with his cars and blocks, his three-month-old sisters screamed for the food and diaper changes that kept me running in circles. When I looked up, their brother was gone.

The police came almost immediately after my hysterical call. As they and volunteers beat the high grass, another officer tried every door in the townhouse complex where we lived. 

The front door of an unlocked suite opened directly onto a kitchen. Although no one was home, a trail of cereal lead to a closed cupboard. In that cupboard sat my son, calmly and silently eating in the dark, one hand in a box of Cheerios. 

Kisses and tears met his triumphant return. There are many ways to lose a child, some of them tragic. We were fortunate.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Giving Illogic the Cold Shoulder

I Googled the words “Antarctic Dating Sites,” this morning. When you’ve exhausted all the dating possibilities in Toronto, New York, London, and Paris, well … Doesn’t every single look further afield? In this case, the snowfields of the South Pole?

I’m not single, and have no-o-o interest in looking beyond our happy home, so please consider this post “research.” If you’re single, you’ll be sure to find the person of your dreams in Antarctica! At least, that’s what the Antarctic dating sites suggest. 

Antarctica isn’t my end game in this literary jaunt, but you’ll have to wait a bit to find out what is. I recommend you Google “Antarctica” to find the answers to the questions that have plagued your troubled dreams for years, weeks, or the last few seconds, whichever comes first. 

Questions such as: Has anyone ever been murdered in Antarctica? Has anyone ever been born in Antarctica? Are there spiders in Antarctica (Yes, yes, and yes). Plenty of other non-Antarctic questions plague my troubled dreams. Asking them has generally served me well: It never hurts to ask questions and seek objective answers.

Right now, I’m curious about dating sites - especially those that purport to feature “Antarctic singles” eager to connect with you and me. 

Take this Antarctica dating site, for example: “Join our site and meet single Antarctica men and single Antarctica women looking to meet quality singles for fun and dating in Antarctica … Sign up now to begin using one of the largest online dating sites in the world!”

Or this one, headed: “Antarctic Dating Site/The Irish Civil War.” Wondering what the connection between Antarctica and The Irish Civil War might be, I clicked. What popped up was the name of a town not far from where I live. 

As you likely know, geolocators can easily pinpoint where your computer is. The photo supposedly taken in the town not far from me showed the many half-naked people who allegedly live there (not with highrises towering in the background, they don’t).

The half-naked people who allegedly live in the alleged place allegedly near me look so … cool! Maybe that’s because their second home is in Antarctica and they’ve just returned from fighting the Irish Civil War. 

Curiously, the dating site makes no reference to Antarctica. Zippo. Could this be a (gasp!) scam?

It’s winter in Antarctica right now. Antarctica has 24 hours of darkness in winter - as I learned from doing a little basic research. Here’s a photo of some of those happy, good-looking singles just waiting to meet you and me today. 

Too bad Antarctica’s Internet and communications service is limited, with most of it dedicated to its research stations, making it unlikely for one of these gorgeous singles to have meaningful online dating-site chats. Learning this took only basic sleuthing - asking Google questions; receiving answers ... asking Google more questions; receiving more answers. 

. 

Fun facts: Antarctica has an area of 5,500,00 square miles, or 14,200,000 square kilometers. Its population density is 0.0002 per square mile, or 0.00008 per square kilometer. Its terrain comprises glaciers, ice shelves and icebergs. 

That, too, speaks to the difficulty of a meaningful connection. Anything’s possible, of course, but the odds don’t look good. A little open-ended research strongly suggests that.

Ahhh. but here’s yet another dating site: 

Antarctica’s best FREE dating site! … Start meeting singles in Antarctica today with our free online personals and free Antarctica chat! Antarctica is full of single men and women like you looking for dates, lovers, friendship, and fun. 

Finding them is easy with our totally FREE Antarctica dating service. Sign up today to browse the FREE personal ads of available Enderby Land singles, and hook up online using our completely free Antarctica online dating service! Start dating in Antarctica today!

All of this doesn’t mean there are no singles in Antarctica. I suspect there are plenty. But Googling Antarctic dating sites may not be the best way to a meaningful relationship with someone who actually lives and works in Antarctica, rather than a half-naked poseur. 

Googling Antarctic dating sites is obviously a ridiculous exercise, but it’s not a waste of time. 

It’s important to ask questions - and plenty of  ’em. Some people rarely do. They want to believe that even if something looks and sounds too good to be true, it must be true because they want it to be true. That can lead to a whole mess of trouble, usually financial. 

Do your homework. Pay attention to information that may conflict with your beliefs, particularly when it comes from credible sources such as government agencies. Check for lawsuits and their outcomes. Check reviews. If they’re relevant and available, look at balance sheets. 

The Internet can be the Wild West of sales pitches, but it’s a good, basic research tool. Be careful out there. Use your noodle. THINK.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Time of Our Lives

The elephant came to town a long time ago. Barring some Vulcan memory wipe or creeping dementia, it was a time I’ll never forget - a simpler time, a time of innocence, a time if and when an elephant might happen to come to town, easy-going parents would give their kids permission to climb on its back without worrying too much because: “Hey, this is the 50’s! The world is perfect, the skies are blue, jobs are plentiful, and opportunities abound!” 

That aside, parents also wouldn’t worry too much because the elephant in question was a baby. A baby elephant is still capable of tossing off and stomping an obnoxious, gum-snapping kid, but this particular baby elephant had resignation in its eyes, perhaps from having given too many kids too many rides too many times over its young life. 

The elephant came to town in 1952. We didn’t own a TV, so it probably never occurred to my father that this particular elephant could bust its chains, kill a few kids, truncate the adults, and generally make a nuisance of itself. 

When the time came, my father shouted: “It’s time to see the elephant!” Things were more relaxed in the 50’s, that time I jumped on the elephant’s back and my father smoked his pipe and talked about fishing with the sweaty, pimply-faced kid in charge of the elephant. 

That time I rode the elephant, no one worried too much because (as I’ve just said) there wasn’t too much to worry about, this not being a rogue elephant with fire in its eyes. A rogue elephant would have risen up and trampled its obnoxious, whip-snapping owner, as rogue elephants usually did in 1950’s movies set in India. 

Those movie elephants gave the impression of giving as good as they got, but over time, they probably had resignation in their eyes, too.

From time to time, the pimply-faced kid in charge of the elephant turned to the kids and yelled: “Stand back, kids! Stand back!” to show how Responsible and Careful he was, and then he’d turn back to hear my father talk about the time he snagged two rainbow trout on a single hook ... “I had quite a time bringin’ ’em in,” he said. 

Meanwhile, the gazillion kids trying to scrabble aboard the elephant knew time was a’wastin’, so they scrabbled even harder.

We kids had the time of our lives, even if the elephant didn’t. As Charles Dickens wrote in A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...”

It was a three minute-walk from our house to the Home Oil gas station. On this day - the grand opening of that very same Home Oil gas station, the day before cars queued up to gas up - on this day the elephant went ’round and ’round the pumps as ever-more kids clamored for a ride. 

Whether that sad-eyed, gas-sniffing elephant is still alive, I don’t know. They say an elephant never forgets, and if this particular elephant survived those ignorant times, it may be wishing for the mercy of a Vulcan memory wipe, about now.

Although we lived just around the corner from the Home Oil gas station, my father never once filled the car there. My father was a pragmatist, and Bill (the Chevron attendant with whom I was secretly, passionately in love) always washed the windshield of my father’s car.  

“What’s Home Oil going to do? Have an elephant squirt the windshield with water? Have an elephant fill the car with gas?” Those were logical questions. So much for that marketing promotion.

A few days ago, I returned to the place and the moment in time when I and a gazillion other screaming kids rode the elephant. The gas station is long gone, of course, as is the succession of structures and shops that over time took its place. 

And what, pray tell, sits on that spot today? A child riding a fish. My father would have liked that. What goes around, comes around, time after time.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Hollywood Has Some Splainin’ to Do

What’s on my mind? Hollywood has some splainin’ to do.

Why is it when an actress changes her hairstyle using garden clippers and a home dye job, the result is always terrific? You and I trim one hair with barbers’ scissors, and face a major disaster.

Why is it that whether an actress is the chaser or the chase-e-e, she always wears a skirt and high heels? You and I schlep around in sneakers and shorts (“What are those warts on your knees?” “Those aren’t warts; they’re my boobs”), and have never been the chased or chase-e-e.

Why is it that an actress on the lam never carries a wallet but always has several changes of outfits? You and I carry a wallet, but have no new clothes because we waste our money on movies.

Why is it when an actress hero hot-wires a car, it starts right away? You and I hot-wire a car and nothing happens except that our hair gets frizzy.

Why is it when an actress tries to break into a password-protected computer, s/he always says: “I’m in!” after the third attempt? You and I forget our mothers’ maiden names and the bank lock us out and throws away the key.

Why is it when an actress dismantles a ticking time bomb, she always succeeds with one or two seconds to go? You and I dismantle a ticking time bomb and have to apologize for being stupid and provoking an argument.

Why is it that an actress never needs a bathroom break? You and I skip a bathroom break and see above re: Ticking Time Bombs.

Why is it when an actress always puts on her pierced earring in seconds? You and I take forever to get the post through the piercing. 

Why is it that an actress always find a handy bobby pin to pick a lock? I can’t get into my own house, and have to pay some dough-head $126 to slip a bump key into the latch. 

Why is it when an actress is tied to a chair or to the railroad tracks, her nail file busts her loose? You and I get trapped in a supermarket lineup and our lettuce is limp by the time we reach the cashier.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

I Tweet. Therefore, I Am.

To tweet, or not to tweet … That is the question. 

I do, but spend as little time as possible on Twitter. It’s not that I don’t like my fellow Twits. Having a social media presence on Facebook and Linked-In and on two blogs is quite enough for me, thank you. So adding Twitter to an already-busy life was not exactly something I embraced with joy, but something I had to do, the same way people “have to go” to cocktail parties.

When someone told me Facebook was “so yesterday,” I tried Instagram. But when I learned I couldn’t post without taking a photo downloaded from my phone, I said “Uh-uh.” 

Did you know it’s now possible to determine exactly when and where an online photo was taken with a cell phone, and from that information, to get the coordinates to locate you and that cell phone? I didn’t either, until I saw it in a documentary.

I deleted my Instagram account almost immediately after that. The instructions to create the account were hard and my brain is soft. I didn’t have the patience to take and download all those photos. Thus, I became a Twit.

Tweeting is a form of marketing. Just ask Donald Trump, who believes tweeting reinforces his “brand.” Imagine walking around  as a “brand” first and a “person” with a heart, soul, and conscience second! Imagine surrendering all or even a sliver of your privacy to be able to say: “Me! Me! Look at me-e-e!” 

Social media is “me”-focused: This is a selfie of me. This is a selfie of me and my boyfriend. This is a selfie of me and my wet hankie, after my boyfriend broke up with me. This is a selfie of me.

Social scientists have plenty to say about how social media has changed our outlook and culture. Let them yada-yada-yada about that. They’re qualified and I’m not, other than to state the obvious - that social media has positives and negatives. 

I’m guessing that - by isolating us - social media is a major cause of depression. I’m also guessing that - by uniting us through shared connections - social media is a major cause of happiness. And ... I’m guessing social media is addictive (“How many Likes has my post received?”), which is a no-brainer.

Addiction tends not to be a good thing. Those “Likes” are the reward pellets Mr. Rat receives for posting a baby animal photo or a yummy food photo or a this-was-me-25-pounds-and-10-years-ago photo. We all “Like” those photos. We could all use a whole lot more of them in our lives.

But hey! My mother used to pick up the phone when she wanted to connect with someone. She knew fast enough if someone “Liked” her or not. I’m a fan of social media, but rarely phone anyone. The world has changed. 

As for Twitter ... Why do I feel like a bird brain when I tweet? Is it because I feel like I’ve just stumbled into a cocktail party conversation without one clue what anyone’s talking about? Am I the only Twit wandering around cyberspace talking to people I don’t know, never will know, and whose names I’ve already forgotten? 

Here’s a not-untypical scenario. Let’s say I send a man a “Like” because he’s posted photos of his good-looking puppy. Spoiler alert: Sometimes a puppy is just a puppy.

And let’s say this man acknowledges my “Like” by “Following” me ... Does this mean he’s a creepy stalker or does this mean he merely “Liked” my “Like”? Does etiquette require that I acknowledge his “Follow” with another “Follow”?

I almost never “Follow” anyone except literary agents or other writers, so I’m sure as heck not going to “Follow” some dork with his puppy on display. I do the polite thing, which is to “Follow” him for a day or two before quietly dropping him.

This is The Compleat Idiot’s Guide to Twitter. It’s actually The Incompleat Idiot’s Guide to Twitter. As usually happens to me at cocktail parties, I have no idea what more to say. Besides, the light’s perfect just now … I want to take a selfie.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Rabbit, Redux*

What’s on my mind? Once more, with feeling: Let’s hear it for the rabbits of our island village! 

The largest of three bunnies in our garden.

It’s Spring - their favorite season - celebrated not only through their (F-word to follow) fecundity, but by the spring in their step. Like the swallows of Capistrano, the rabbits return each year. In fur coats. Not feathers.

Now you see ’em, now you don’t. There goes one! Bouncing idiotically across gardens, jumping out from every bush in a doltish game of peek-a-boo, leaping in front of dazed seniors with the cheek to show them their bum (the rabbits, not the seniors) ... There goes another! 

Foolish, impudent morons that they are, the rabbits of this village-that-pretends-to-be-a town have the effrontery to chew tulip shoots and anything else that looks tasty while waiting for the carrots, lettuce, beet tops, and other delectables that are their preferred main course. 

(Our neighbor, Mrs. H, passes along this easy household tip to keep rabbits from your garden: Spread a trail of rabbit pellets from the edge of your garden into a nearby park: “That should do it!” she says. Thank you, Mrs. H! We look forward to more of your handy hints at some future time.)

They’re fierce little things, these rabbits. I wouldn’t want to corner one: My stubby fingers look too much like carrots. 

There was the infamous year an island grade-school class decided to sell bunnies as a fundraiser. Unbeknownst to their teacher, the conniving older kids had somehow corralled and penned a passel of wild rabbits, which they sold to the sweetly innocent children of the lower grades. 

When the innocents sought a cuddle, the newly unpenned biters sank vicious, rabbitty incisors into tender young flesh. The wails of small children erupted throughout the village. It was as close to a scandal as our community gets. 

Wounds were bound; money was refunded; rabbits were released to do what rabbits do (which is to say, engage in the F-word and sack private gardens). Peace eventually returned to the village, but the rabbits have been uppity ever since, so much so that one of them is running for mayor. 

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I always say. And yes, you may steal that phrase. 

In the spirit of bite-free fundraising, I propose a WEAR YOUR RABBIT EARS TO WORK DAY. How about a BUNNY BOUNCE country dance, or a RABBIT ROMP seniors’ sex emporium? (I already know what you’re going to say. Stifle.)

I can envision men’s T-shirts reading BUNNY POWER! and women’s T-shirts with BOUNCE! across the chest. 

Uh … Maybe not women’s T-shirts with BOUNCE! across the chest. This a seniors’ community. FLOP! probably makes more sense. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

* With apologies to the late, great John Updike, for swiping the name of his novel.