Tuesday, February 28, 2012

The Writing Path

 Writers, Writing and Wannabes    

      There are always news tidbits to catch our attention – an interesting medical development, a frog so little it’s dwarfed by the dime it’s squatting upon, or how many people are living in poverty. 
      Within days, sometimes hours, we forget most of these. One remained in my mind. It wasn’t related to anything of particular importance to our health or our economy. It was just a little throwaway statistic. To me, it was a bit of a “believe it or not” issue, and I could hardly believe that 81% of our populace feels they have a story worth writing.

      Hard to believe? I thought so. Until I thought about it a moment. How often have you heard someone say, “That’d make a great story”? Or, “You ought to write that down”?
And generally, that’s correct. Our grandfather’s tales of the good ‘ole days, the nerve-racking experiences of a vacation gone wrong, workplace incidents – all have made good stories in the telling, so you decide to turn them into a written narrative.

        You read the words you’ve written. Something has changed. The story has lost its impact, it no longer seems especially interesting, and it has certainly lost every smidgen of its original humor.
     What went wrong? For one thing, in the vocal version, the teller used body language. Just try translating that into words, you would-be-writers.
     Then, there are all the different voice inflections that are used as a story is told. They don’t translate well, either.
      Okay, the English language is full of words. They fill dictionaries so thick we can barely lift them. If you’re writing on a computer you don’t have to worry with those archaic things called reference books. A dictionary or thesaurus is at your service, with the click of a key.
     With those tools, writing should be a snap, right?
     Wrong. There are rules in writing.

     Any sensible person would now either turn on the TV, or pick up that book they’ve been intending to read for the last two months.
     A determined writer does neither of these things. They enroll in some type of writing class; a local seminar, perhaps, or one conducted online. They plunk down money to learn more about the various ways they can torment themselves by attempting to arrange words into interesting sentences.

      Now, if you’re one of these wannabe writers, you may have already learned you can't spell. The little doodad you won in the fifth grade as a spelling prize means nothing. At times, even one-syllable words have brought you to a halt.
      That’s a bit frustrating, but no big problem.  Computer and writing apps have spell check, and if you’ve come anywhere near the correct combination of letters, they’ll very graciously supply the correct spelling.
      Punctuation? Maybe you have a good grasp of the rules. Most likely you don’t. There’re a few pitfalls here: editors don’t like exclamation points. Please don’t rely on that little mark to tell them something is being said with special emphasis. “Show me,” they insist. So you show them, with that elusive word that’s tucked away in the dictionary – or the thesaurus. It’s there, if you can remember how to spell it.
  
                                                                            ! ,  ? ! , . " - ' ,  
   
Those little squiggles above have rules governing their use. The comma, for example, has at least 15 rules of 'dos' and 'don'ts'. 



      There’s also a little problem for those who learned to type many years ago. Long, long ago, typists inserted two spaces at the end of a sentence. Click, click. It’s as automatic as breathing. Today, it’s a no-no. Has something to do with our brainy computers handling the spacing, with no input from the writer.
                                              
      If the writing bug has given you a serious case of writing fever, all these little spelling and punctuation problems are shrugged off. You’ve learned to cope - you have mastered a multitude of online writing helps.  All you need is a little boost from a writing course. Something to take off the rough edges of what you’re writing. 

     That’s not at all difficult. There are many classes being offered online. All the eager writer needs to do is look for one that fits their needs – and shake out that piggy bank for a bit of financing

     So let the fun begin.

          One class, Making Writing a Happy Habit, coached by Cynthia Morris, is an enjoyable and enthusiastic venture into learning why you write and how to keep writing, no matter what. Students explore their goals and weaknesses, and share their problems with other aspiring writers. In this class there is a great amount of camaraderie as the writers find their writing problems are very similar – and there is constant coaching and encouragement. Cynthia also offers a great variety of online classes, tips, and writing help books.

     There are classes for every phase of writing- for every step along the way. The wannabe can find guidance from the first sentence, to the signing of a publishing contract. There’re also free tips and guidelines, best used as ongoing support.

      Some classes focus on techniques and the basic rules of writing. These are especially important, but aren’t for wimps or know-it-alls. It takes a tough skin to endure the criticism of those wonderful words you submitted in the lesson plan. In addition, if you are convinced you know your writing is correct and interesting and doesn’t need the suggestions you’re receiving––well, you have more to learn than you suspected.
     Often a sample of your writing is requested. The student submits an interesting paragraph or two with nice colorful descriptions, and a bit of exciting action, and sits back waiting for a bit of praise. Obviously, a person with an exceptional amount of talent has written this. Surely the instructor will recognize this fact.
     Wrong. Something unheard of has happened. That perfectly worded sentence is passive.  How can that be? Come on, now, it was full of action, how can it be passive?
     Read the rules.
     Okay, first lesson learned.  More writing submitted. Something called POV pops up.  It seems a writer must be careful about switching from the point of view of one character to another.
Read the rules.

      So goes the class. The student learns their first beautiful scene-setting paragraph is entirely too bland for an opening - something exciting is in order. This may have something to do with our changing society – the need to have something stimulating and exciting, now. Who wants to take the time to read a description of the peaceful pastoral scene. No, the reader wants thunder and flashes of lightening. A weeping heroine, a racing car - action is in demand - in a non-passive sentence, of course - and  the goal of a writer, is to tweak the interest of the reader, so again, go by the rules.
    
     You’ve taken several classes, studied the rules, and perhaps you’ve learned you have a great idea but are a long way from being a skillful writer. What comes next? Do you give up? No. You edit, you rewrite. You repeat the process again and again.
One writing coach has stated that if you truly want to write, you will. Nothing will stop you.
     
      There’s one more step to take. Before sending your finished manuscript out to take its chances in the cruel world, you must have it read and edited, either by a professional (not an inexpensive route) or by a critique group. You cannot critique your own work.  You can edit and edit again, but your mind   will skim over unclear statements and repetitious words.
      Some of those in a group may be more critical than you’re comfortable with, but even the most severe and painful criticism can be helpful. Usually!
      Having other writers read your work is extremely helpful, and fun, besides. You’re meeting other writers and even learning by critiquing their work. You will also learn that the words that were in your mind didn’t always make it to the printed page. Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.
      Use the suggestions, both the good and the bad, constructively. Think about it. There’s no rule, no law saying you must do as one critic insists. Remember the old fable of the man who tried to please everyone? ‘Taint possible. Your work is yours. It’s your decision.

     You still want to write that story? Get a soft cushion for your chair, vow to ignore the laundry, the scattered newspapers, all big sale advertisements, and learn to drink your coffee cold.

     That's  the path you've embarked upon. Enjoy.

Dannie

Monday, February 27, 2012

Things Saved

CLEANING OUT THE FILES:

Many bits of information have come my way, usually forwarded through Facebook, , some funny, some educational, and some worrisome. And I save them. My files are worthy of the attention of those folks featured on television – the one that shows the homes of hoarders. And just like those hoarders, there’s some good stuff stashed away in my files – if I could just find it.

Tonight, I’m systematically (if you believe that, you don’t know me very well), going through the clearly marked “Fun Stuff” file. I see a lot of 'stuff' in there -everything from cartoons to old worn out jokes, but “systematic” isn’t going to fit this project. No way. Haphazard is a much better word.

The very first thing I opened was a group of fun-poking cartoons about aging. A few were saved the rest discarded.
Next came a file of old Southern sayings listed alphabetically – the  Southern saying, spelled phonically on the left, the meaning on the right.

Many of these have migrated westward and are readily understood by Texans––at least this Texan.  Hm-m-m. This could explain why I get questioning looks when chatting with out-of-state friends.

To name a few that caught my eye:
  
Catty-corner(ed)            Diagonal
Cattywampus                Askew, awry, not straight
Chinchy                        Real stingy
Conniption                    A major fit, a total loss of control of one’s temper
Consarned                     An expression used by those who don’t wish to say “damned” 
Fixins                          What is needed to prepare a dish
Frazzle                         Worn out, fatigue, nervous because of some happening
Heap                            Quanity, a great amount
Holler                          A small valley––also to talk at the top of your voice
Kick up a ruckus           To cause a commotion
Kilt                              Past tense of kill


This dictionery of sayings is a keeper.  My score for the night: one file tossed in the trash, one file saved, and an hour or so browsing and laughing. But I’m curious––Were the meaning of those words clear to you––without reading the definitions?

This project may be too time-consuming to continue. I’ll give it some thought.

Dannie


Sunday, February 5, 2012

Dandy's guard duty



Woof,woof, everybody.

 It's not easy to get my paws on this contraption nowadays. Seems like My Lady is holding it in her lap day and night. Well, now that I have a chance, let me tell you about my troubles.

I have a problem with My Lady. She’s nice enough, in general––well actually, I like her a lot, but personally I think she’s a little dumb.


Here I am, the best guard dog she’s ever had, and she keeps me on this, bark ,bark, bark, leash. Sorry about the cussing, but I get a little exasperated at times. 



Last week, for example, I was at my window lookout, and the neighbor’s big fat cat jumped up in the birdbath right outside my window. I barked and barked, but all My Lady did, was pat me a little and went back to this thing she calls a laptop, and didn’t let me out to clear the yard of this trespasser.

Oh well, it was just a cat, and I guess he heard me barking, ‘cause he left and hasn’t been back. Sometimes I miss those cats that once lived here.  I had a lot of fun scattering that bunch, especially that hateful black one that always bowed up every time I walked by.



Today I was outside––on a long leash, of course––there was a deer coming out of the brush, down close to my rock wall.  Well, of course, I didn’t want that thing coming up in my yard, so I barked a warning, but all it did was waggled those big ears and kept walking.





What happened next is hard to believe. Despite my warning, deer kept strolling out of that brush, until there were six of those big-eared dummies. Well, I barked and barked, but all they did was flop those ears a few times and look in my direction. They must not see very well, because I know if they’d seen who was on guard, they’d turned tail and left in a hurry.



Well, I barked until I was hoarse, and those critters finally decided to leave, but not in the big leaps I would have preferred.

After they were gone, my Lady unhooked my leash. Now  she unleashes me? Kinda dumb, wouldn’t you agree?  I could’ve saved myself a lot of barking, if she’d just wake up to the real world, and let me tend to things.

It makes a fellow want to retire from this watchdog business.




Woof, woof
Dandy




Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Writing and Trivia



In another month maybe the tiny buds
 forming on my Forsythia will look like this.

     It’s been a while since I’ve posted any thoughts so today I thought ––how difficult would it be to share a few of the humorous things items that have been passed along from friends?   We could all use a few chuckles, right?

     But first, my excuses for not tending to my blogs...

     I’ve been sidetracked from blogging in recent months by an unexpected activity that has kept me busy and burning much mid-night oil.
      You may think ‘busy’, a strange word to use in connection with sitting in a recliner, a cold drink or cup of coffee, (depending upon the weather), nearby; laptop in place, and me, pounding away on the keyboard. But I am correct in its usage. I had no idea how correct, until, curious, I checked the thesaurus,  and found these synonyms: hard, tiring, hectic, eventful.

      The event that started all this line of activity, was a simple request by our children to write down the memories of their father’s and my early lives. I think they expected a rather humorous account, because of their Dad’s laughter as he told his tales of growing up.
     That bit of writing turned into more than a mere bit. Even without the modern stuff they were familiar with, there was more than thirty years of combined individual lives and then those of our early married life, the wartime years, and those that followed.
     Anyway, I bit the bullet, so to speak, finished the project, without the humor, unfortunately, since I’ve heard of no one losing their breath from laughter. I’m still thinking of incidents to add.
      With that, I discovered I liked to write. Sure, I’d written twenty years of newsletters on the aluminum giftware of the Depression years, and numerous articles for the trade papers, but I discovered writing fiction.
     Writing fiction has created that busy life I spoke of earlier, with all its various meanings. To make a very long story short, I have been critiquing the work of two talented writers, and in turn, they are doing the same for me. It’s an educational, eye opening, fun experience. And a time consuming one.

End of excuses and a glimpse at a few things I’ve saved.

Cowboy rules:
   Every person in the Wild West waves. It's called being friendly. Try to understand the concept.

  If that cell phone rings while a bunch of geese/pheasants/ducks/doves are comin' in during a hunt, we WILL shoot it outta your hand. You better hope you don't have it up to your ear at the time.

Texas Trivia:

King Ranch in South Texas is larger than Rhode Island .
Beaumont to El Paso   : 742miles
Beaumont to Chicago : 770 miles

Understanding Southern dialogue:
Catty-corner(ed)
a. Diagonal.
Cattywampus
a. Askew, awry; not straight.
Chicken fried steak
n. A steak dipped in batter like chicken then fried until crisp. Some cooks will then smother it in gravy to hide the evidence.
Chinchy
a. Real stingy, as in, "That Roscoe's the chinchiest sonnovagun I ever seen."
Chunk
v. To throw, thoe, or toss, as in, "Hey, boy! Chunk me a chunk of at-ere wood you got dere."
Citify
v. To take the country out of the boy; said by some to be impossible.
Citified
v. Urban or urbane. Takes yuh pick.

Funny or maddening?
I came across this little tidbit while doing some research for a story. It does raise a question––how much credence should we give to the highest court’s decisions?
 U.S. Supreme Court, which, in April 1873, said it was within the power of Illinois to limit membership in the bar to men only. Only one Justice dissented. One Justice wrote:
Man is, or should be, woman's protector or defender. The natural and proper timidity and delicacy, which belongs to the female sex evidently, unfits it for many of the occupations of civil life.... The paramount destiny and mission of woman are to fulfill the benign offices of wife and mother. This is the law of the Creator. And the rules of civil society must be adapted to the general constitution of things, and cannot be based on exceptional cases.




Thursday, December 22, 2011

Old Ornaments Holding Memories

From the '60s.-the era of tiny
grabbing hands
Decorated by a youngster in
bed with mono.
Hand-painted Santa ornaments according
to each family member's hobby
                                                             

     What would have been my best Christmas ever? I remember one, with a little boy getting his first puppy and a teenaged daughter getting a sewing machine. Then there were the ones with the tricycles, the new clothes, the dolls...... And I remember the year the deed to the site of our new home-to-be was on the tree.
     But nothing–––nothing–––can rival the excitement and anticipation of a Depression Age five-year-old when that fragrant cedar tree is set up and decorated. That is what I remember most.                                                          

    The tree was set up, supported in a bucket filled with rocks and the ornaments and ropes of tinsel were hung. The living room had huge honeycomb appearing tissue bell hung here and there and red wreaths hung in the two windows and on the front door. They weren’t big or elaborately festooned with holly and cones – they were only about seven inches in dia. and a faded red. Each had a tiny crushed wisp of greenery and a few bedraggled red berries.

     The tinsel was crushed, the rough paper ropes were faded and so were some of the ornaments.  No matter. It was Christmas. The decorations said so.
      The tree stood at the end of the room opposite the old wood-burning heater. That is where I spent hours gazing into the red globes that distorted my image; admiring the little ornaments with deep recesses that sparkled like jewels. I gazed at those ornaments until I was numb with cold and then stood by the heater until I was slmost singed. Then back to the tree.

     The color, the magic, the dreams that that little cedar tree held in its branches! Santa Claus would visit and he would leave gifts. There would be wonderful new things; things I could play with ---a doll, maybe one with sleepy eyes and long hair.

     So my memory is of the excitement of anticipation; of the magic of color and glitter in a world that had very little to offer in that regard; it was the promise of something special and the mystery of that wonderful person who gave to little children---Santa Claus.

       In later years I learned that my mother had one dollar, or less, to spend on my gifts and she supplemented that with wonderful doll clothes. My dad, probably remembering his sisters’ enjoyment of their Christmas dolls, always picked out the doll that stood under the tree.

     Looking back on those lean years, I can imagine the difficulty of saving enough nickels and dimes to help Santa retain his status.

       So little brought (not bought) so much.


In special memory of
 Kent

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

PEARL HARBOR

December 7, 2011––December 7, 1941

Seventy years ago. An unbelievable happening. A jarring wake-up on a peaceful Sunday morning.

My dad had turned on the old battery powered radio expecting the usual rather mundane news to blare out. Instead of hearing unemployment statistics or congressional disputes we heard WE HAD BEEN ATTACKED BY THE JAPANESE--ships destroyed--hundreds killed.                    

I expect my parents more fully recognized the seriousness of what our nation was facing than I. I was still young (really, now, I was), and although the semi-weekly newspaper had been filled with reports of the war in Europe, that was far away, That was a world away.

My dad was an independent man who had chosen the life of a farmer, partly because he loved growing things and the outdoors, but also because he wanted the freedom of doing his work the way he thought best, free of interference from anyone.

 By this date, 1941, Franklin Roosevelt had been in office almost eleven years and in his efforts to move the country out of its deep depression, had promoted many new laws, some extremely beneficial, some very restrictive, and some determined to be unconstitutional. My dad, the independent farmer, had found himself being told what to do, when to do it, and how. He expressed his opinion of our nation's leader quite frequently and quite expressively, all negative.

So, is it any wonder that the two most memorable statements of the next day were, first, President Roosevelt declaring in that unmatched ringing voice of his: "We are at war." and second, my father saying, "Dannie, you've heard me criticizing our President, but you'll not hear another critical word. We are at war and he is our Commander-in-Chief."

What a hornet's nest that attack had disturbed. Going to war meant winning the war, and that's exactly what we intended to do. Men 'joined up.' Women went to work outside their homes. We bought War Bonds to help finance it, and endured severe rationing in order to supply our troops. Old methods of manufacturing were trashed and the assembly line created. Classmates were drafted or volunteered. And before the year was over, we learned some would never return.

Those who were left on the home front listened to heavily censored news. Letters from servicemen had sections blacked out. The newsreels we saw at the movies (no home TV watching of an invasion) were horrible, showing burning convoys of ships, bombing runs and then the resulting devastation. There was an unspoken fear––were we going to be able to win this war?

Tonight, I saw the faces of survivors of Pearl Harbor––old weathered and wrinkled faces of men in their late eighties and nineties. There were photos of the young men they had been and there were a few stories of their war years that followed. To see those old warriors, to remember the battles they fought for our country, should make us all stop and give serious thought to what we have––and why we have it.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Dandy

   Woof, woof.   I hate to admit that this has been one boring place since all those silly cats disappeared. I've watched a few deer grazing and once a fox crossed my front yard but since he was trotting along and seemed to have no interest in lingering, I didn't even bother to bark.
      Once, when I was outside, sniffing the air, I spotted a deer lying by the rock wall, and when I let out my fearsome bark, it leaped high and left the country.  I was rather pleased with that. I'm just a little fellow,  but that big deer didn't stay around to discuss squatter's rights.
  

      Most of the time I don't even bother to bark. They're almost as dumb as those cats. I would bark and the silly things would look up and twitch those big ears a bit, then go back to grazing.  I guess they were smart enough to realize I was locked in the house and couldn't get to them. I betcha if I'd been outside they'd gone off my hill, pronto!
      My Lady is rather lax about watching out the windows for unwanted visitors, so it's left up to me. I don't mind. She has made me a convenient place by a front window, and I watch the traffic and its nice to see someone turn in my driveway.
      My neighbor's dog comes by every morning but I'm not very interested in her. She a feisty little black and brown terrior type, always jumping around, wanting to play when I'm outside. I consider myself too mature to waste my time on that silly stuff. After all, I'm my Lady's guard dog and I'm going spend my time taking care of her.
      Yesterday, while I was watching, I saw an enormous German sherpherd type of dog out front in my yard. This fellow was big-g-g-g. I dug down for my deepest, scariest bark, but he didn't seem to notice. I expect he was too far away to hear me or he'd have left this place in one giant leap. My Lady noticed my alert, and that is good. She needs to listen to me! Anyway, she looked out and saw this dog and petted me and called me a good dog. I like that, but I was hoping she'd open the door for a better look. If she had, I'd been out of here, and taken care of that intruder. There are times I suspect  she knows my intentions and outsmarts me.
      Oh well, it was nice being called a good dog.  I barked some more and didn't get scolded and sent to my bed, so I'll continue to be on a look-out. You'd better be my friend if you're planning to come in my yard.

Relaxing after guard duty.

Woof, woof.
Dandy


                                                                 

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Resetting the system

Soon after the new Facebook was thrust upon us, I wrote and published my new posts as usual but did not realize until this morning, that they went out to only a select few...a very short list that FB had selected when I failed to create my own.

Although there was nothing special about this one from my rocking chair, but now that I've discovered the problem, and hopefully will remember to follow the new procedure, I'm reposting....I hope.



SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2011

Dear Facebook

Dear Facebook,
 I hope you know that I have tried very hard to like the new you that you have served to me on your Ethernet platter. You have even garnished your serving with a great variety of tantalizing tidbits, all intended to please me.

I’m sorry, Facebook, but I am not pleased. All this involves change, and these days I am leery of change.

Change involves energy and I’m conserving mine. Yes, I know I am usually sitting down when I’m scrolling through Facebook, making that a low-energy project, but I’m referring to the energy my brain’s going to use as I sort through all the benefits being offered by your new look.

And, yes, I realize the brain needs exercise, lots of exercise, to ward off those dreadful things that happen when the brain is allowed to become idle. I read all this kind of stuff. That’s why I’m stingy in using my brain’s energy on your changed system; I need to put my brain’s energy toward keeping up with these latest brain-improvement projects.

I’m sorry, Facebook. Keeping up with your whims is not on my brain-improvement list.

But Facebook, I am annoyed that you have taken my friendship for granted. I am surprised that you did not realize that I would be vexed by your taking every click on the keyboard, every link I have followed, every “like” I have clicked, to create  a computer image of  Dannie Woodard. Didn’t you even care? So many relationships have ended this way. It’s sad.

 Ah yes. Facebook, you rascal you, I remember the occasional innocent questions you’ve asked, the new opportunities that have been introduced.  Now I understand! All were a prelude to the biggest opportunity of all…that of navigating the new Facebook and facing the challenges of finding an option that will protect the remnants of our privacy.

You know so much about me, Facebook: your computer brain has analyzed all my keyboard clicks,  you know where I live, my age, that I’m Caucasian and female. That last should have warned you. A woman can be helpless or capable, she can be fickle or faithful. She may be stuck in one persona or she may be as changeable as the weather. So remember, Facebook, that what you think I am may be changed by tomorrow. Please don’t assume you know my preferences. Remember…tomorrow I turn a fresh page.

Dannie

PS. I am so thankful that I did not write this when I was angry.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Dear Facebook.....sn old blog

Dear Facebook,
 I hope you know that I have tried very hard to like the new you that you have served to me on your Ethernet platter. You have even garnished your serving with a great variety of tantalizing tidbits, all intended to please me.

I’m sorry, Facebook, but I am not pleased. All this involves change, and these days I am leery of change.

Change involves energy and I’m conserving mine. Yes, I know I am usually sitting down when I’m scrolling through Facebook, making that a low-energy project, but I’m referring to the energy my brain’s going to use as I sort through all the benefits being offered by your new look.

And, yes, I realize the brain needs exercise, lots of exercise, to ward off those dreadful things that happen when the brain is allowed to become idle. I read all this kind of stuff. That’s why I’m stingy in using my brain’s energy on your changed system; I need to put my brain’s energy toward keeping up with these latest brain-improvement projects.

I’m sorry, Facebook. Keeping up with your whims is not on my brain-improvement list.

But Facebook, I am annoyed that you have taken my friendship for granted. I am surprised that you did not realize that I would be vexed by your taking every click on the keyboard, every link I have followed, every “like” I have clicked, to create  a computer image of  Dannie Woodard. Didn’t you even care? So many relationships have ended this way. It’s sad.

 Ah yes. Facebook, you rascal you, I remember the occasional innocent questions you’ve asked, the new opportunities that have been introduced.  Now I understand! All were a prelude to the biggest opportunity of all…that of navigating the new Facebook and facing the challenges of finding an option that will protect the remnants of our privacy.

You know so much about me, Facebook: your computer brain has analyzed all my keyboard clicks,  you know where I live, my age, that I’m Caucasian and female. That last should have warned you. A woman can be helpless or capable, she can be fickle or faithful. She may be stuck in one persona or she may be as changeable as the weather. So remember, Facebook, that what you think I am may be changed by tomorrow. Please don’t assume you know my preferences. Remember…tomorrow I turn a fresh page.

Dannie

PS. I am so thankful that I did not write this when I was angry.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Dandy's Yogg

Neglect


     My Lady  borrowed this from a dog lover's post on FaceBook:
 "He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dogl You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion." 
     Now, I had never before given much serious thought to a dog's life, but the quote above seems to be pretty descriptive of what we want to be. 
     I know that as an inside dog, I am one of the fortunate ones but I hear daily warning about the extreme heat being dangerous for all of us. Some are being left in locked cars and almost die before they are rescued.  Others are dying daily from lack of water or other neglect. These instances are seldom newsworthy. We're only dogs!
      Sometimes we get left behind when the family moves and no longer want the bother or expense of keeping a dog...or cat. I hate to admit this, but I've never known a cat to be helplessly kept in a back yard as dogs often are.  They are escape artists. How sad and how unfortunate that we much more intelligent (ahem)  dogs don't have the same skill. 


   
A well cared for and loved cat.
When I was new to this house, I was
 not sure I should be up here.
Checking out my surroundings. I think
I will like it here.
     A recent happening passed on from a North Texas resident, has My Lady upset. She says it is heartbreaking and I agree. It seems that a small dog was tied with a short leash that allow it to rest in the morning shade, but did not allow it to escape the hot afternoon sun. Day after day its water bowl was empty and was filled by compassant neighbors. The little fellow always greeted them with happy barking but he may not have been getting food or the heat may have been weakening him, for his barks became whines and then he was found dead. 
Another well-loved dog. but she's
a bit fiesty for an old fellow like
myself.
    Woof! That's a bad thing. I think someone should have reminded that dog's owner of what was happening. Maybe the police should have been notified. I have heard that there is a Humane Society that helps when animals have such bad troubles.
     My Lady keeps raving about "responsibility." I don't have a large vocubulary, but from the way she says it, I've decided it's a good word: Responsibility...  It has a nice sound, doesn't it? I think better things happen when there is responsibility.
     

     My Lady says to mention that three "C" words describe neglect: Cruel, Callous, and Criminal.


Being patient with my friends'
foolishness
Woof, Woof!
Dandy

Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Open Road


         
       Did you know that in addition to our town"s historical courthouse and marvelous old homes, it also has a bit of history preserved in a portion of the old Bankhead Highway? The Bankhead extended from Washington, DC to San Diego, CA and was a part of the National Auto Trail system. It was a symbol  of our nation’s modernization. It made possible travel from coast to coast, which in 1930 was considered quiet a feat. The route was marked by a pole marker that was white with yellow stripes on the top and bottom and the letters "BH" in black. 
          The Texas Historical Commission is charged with focusing attention on historic highways and byways of Texas, and we can hope the Bankhead is on its list.  
           Like many other highways of that era it had many branches or splits.  In Texas, there were a total of 11 splits as it took different routs through the state before they all came together at El Paso,
           . The main route passed through Texarkana, TX, before arriving at Fort Worth, where it turned into former U.S. Highway 80, and continued westward, going on through Midland and Odessa before rejoining the branch route at El Paso. The route from Fort Worth to El Paso is now followed by Interstates 20 and 10.
        Browsing through the records of that bygone era, will soon make it evident that standardizing the system was a great improvement. Never mind that we sometimes take the wrong exit or in a complicated interchange get on the wrong highway. Believe me, what we presently have is a vast improvement!

    Todays signs are highly 
    visab even on 
     foggy days.
    Steep grades on today's
    have deep sand escape lanes
    for runaway trucks


    Four lanes are far
    differentfrom old
     dirt roads of the past.



    Even mountains don't stop the
    interstates.
         Today we expect nothing less than a well maintained route to get us to our destinations as easily and quickly as possible. For most of the present generations of travelers, good highways have always been a fact of life but not too many years ago, at least in the memory of some of our oldest citizens, navigating the country was a totally different experience. It was time consuming and at times, hazardous.
         In the 20s most of the roads were hardly more than the old wagon trails they had once been. The highways that were paved were usually in major cities and were, of all things, cobblestone.
         For years they were not marked until several trail association initiated change and by 1925 there were over 250 named highways.
        The first named was the Lincoln Highway: there was a Jefferson Highway, a Dixie Overland, the Glacier Trail, the Great White Way, and well over 200 more including the Bankhead Highway which ran from Washington, DC to San Diego, CA
         Each highway had their own type of colored signs and they were placed haphazardly on barn roofs or other flat surfaces that faced the oncoming traffic. Signs were sometimes placed on telephone poles.  
         The Federal Government recognized the confusion that was developing and advanced the radical idea that the highways should be standardized with a numbering system and standard signs. This proposed change was not popular: people had bonded with their highways’ names and disliked the idea of substituting numbers which had no meaning.

          It becomes easier to understand how the road system was so slow to become more efficient when you remember that in those years only the rich had automobiles, making extensive highway use nonexistent. Most people contented themselves with their horse and buggy or of streetcars in some of the cities. Longer trips were made by train. Only a few of the more daring automobile owners ventured out on sightseeing trips. At the time, to do so was an adventure comparable to an African safari.
    Trouble on the road.It was a brave
    person who dared take a picture of
    a man with car trouble.
          Think of them, wearing their dusters, poring over poor maps, and hoping they were fully prepared for emergencies, with cans of water, gas, spare tire a tire tool, and a tire pump.
         All  that changed with the popularity of Henry Ford’s Model “T”, They were affordable to almost anyone with a well paying job, dropping down to under $300 in 1920. Although they were not known for comfort, they made possible increased travel and an  increased demand for good roads. Thus our present highway system came into existence.  

         Although the names have mostly disappeared from our maps, the nostalgia remains. The people of those days of change were correct in their belief that the numbering system was a colder, less personal one, and the only numbered highway to find a special place in our memories is Route 66. The pathos of the travelers of the 30’s led to it being immortalized in song and fiction.
          The name is a magnet that pulls us to its old route and Texas has a small section running through Amarillo. That it was lined with antique stores was an added enticement when we occasionally visited that town, for in years past, I seldom willingly passed an opportunity to share with them most of my available cash.
          It appears that I am fascinated with the old days  and the changes that have been made. See more highway nostalgia in the July 16, 2010,Rocking Chair Journey.


    Dannie