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A Hoosier Redneck’s Review of the Royal Wedding
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:49 AM |
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A Hoosier Redneck’s
Review of the Royal Wedding I bet you
are wondering how we managed to be invited to the wedding of this century, well
as the American trailer park style reporter I attended as a special envoy. I of course took Leslie as my escort in ascot. The crowds up the street are amazing. Leslie said it reminded him of the Snake Pit
years ago at the 500. Here we sit in the big church. Am I ever glad that I brought bigger cushions
for us to sit . These chairs are a bit
skimpy and I knew I would be relegated to the rubber ring after sitting for
hours in pretty chairs. We are decked
out in our finest Goodwill finds. I won
the fight when Leslie was insistent on wearing his Butler T-shirt. As a concession I agreed to not wear the fish
net hose so I guess we are rather on the conservative dress scale for this
event. I am wearing a fashionable
chapeau complete with feathers. Leslie
says it is like sitting next to Big Bird. I begin to
scan the room for familiar faces. I make
eye contact with Maggie Thatcher. She
quickly looks away. Yeah right! She feels guilty. I loaned her my Pink Floyd
CD and she never returned it. I think
she was going to make a pirate copy.
This was right after she left her government job and she was on a fixed
income. Oh there is Sharon and Ozzie
Osborn. Old Oz must have been throwing
‘em back with Bonnie Prince Charlie last night because they both look a little
hung over. Leslie leans over and
whispers that he wished he had done something with his ingrown toenail because
“these fancy shoes are killing me.” A
man knows nothing of suffering for style. I see my
friend Joyce Dwulet making a head turning entrance. My, that red sequin gown is hard to
miss. That side slit up the dress is
high enough that we could see if she had any dollar bills tucked. How clever to place a temporary tattoo of the
Union Jack right above her clevage. She
looks fabo as arm dressing for Mr. Craig Ferguson. Tongues are wagging. I see someone coming here, I think it is Boy
George….no…Oh yes it is Tony Blair wearing a disguise. You see Tony didn’t get an invitation. He was really freaked about it but I snagged
one off of a scalper outside our room at the Comfort Inn and sent it to
him. He was thrilled but said he would
have to attend incognito. That spring frock he is wearing is a nice
choice. The patent leather belt shows
off his trim waist and tiny hips. Oh there is
Joe Cocker, he smiles at me and coyly raises a sign that says “You can leave
your hat on”…..Joe you devil! Leslie should
be jealous but he reminds me that those dry biscuits he had for breakfast are
long gone and he is getting hungry. I
tell him those were not biscuits but scones.
As I am digging around in my bag of snacks he says that he felt sure
that they would be selling fish and chips somewhere in the building. Whew, success as I pull out the bag of pork
rinds. He will be happy until he needs
something to drink. I came prepared with
juice boxes so surely we should be able to make it through until the final buzzer
goes off. There were so many things to
think of in getting ready to attend this big affair. I made sure that the courier delivered our
wedding gift yesterday. I know you are
wondering what Leslie and I got the newlyweds.
Well we of course wanted to send them something truly fine in keeping
with our American heritage but tasteful and practical. Well we found the perfect gift. A set of six Elvis tumblers from Graceland
stenciled with “Hunk of Burnin’ Love” on them.
I bet she will have trouble keeping the Queen away from them. Leslie taps
his watch with his finger. I tell him I
know it is getting late. He is worried
that I did not put enough money in the parking meter. I am terrible about pounds/dollars conversion
so I am not really sure how much time we have on the meter. I told him we may get a ticket but I don’t
think they will bother to tow the car.
He leans over and asks when they are going to play the Star Spangled
Banner. I see that I have been remiss in
coaching him on the upcoming events of the day!
This is not the opening ceremonies of the Daytona 500. I remind him that they will play something
British like…”Mad Dogs and Englishmen” or something of that nature. I now feel
that it is time for things to start.
Everyone is glancing at the back of the church. They must be coming…no it is not the wedding
party but Keith Richards. No one quite
walks up an aisle like dear old Keith.
All eyes are fixed on him as he looks towards the Queen. There has always been talk that HRH and the
rocker well….to say it tastefully, spent an evening together. Keith turns toward her majesty and winks and
we see the corners of her mouth curl in a girlish smile. Prince Philip is to busy shining the buttons
on uniform to notice. Oh the
pageantry! I point out
to Leslie in the program that the opening musical selection was chosen
specifically because it is one of the Queen’s favorites. No sooner than I say this, the organ begins to play the first chords and
the angelic voices of the choir boys sing “You can’t always get what you
want….” Part 2
This is
your roving Indiana Trailer Park Style reporter giving you the insiders scoop
on the Royal wedding festivities. My
first report included all the pre-wedding activity. The ceremony itself was pretty much your
standard prayer, music, preacher asking the bride if she will pick up the old
man’s dirty underwear. She says
yes-cause she’s in love. Groom says
yes-cause he believes he no longer has to take her out to eat to get a little
fun so essentially they both are CLUELESS!
Fun time is over!
After the
preacher pronounces them man and wife-they don’t get to kiss. They must have some kind of ordinance in
England of kissing in church. That is where
the term “stiff upper lip” came from I think.
As the couple leaves I think I hear Ozzie Osborn say “uh…well…let’s
paw-tee”. And away we go to the
reception. Leslie doesn’t want to go
through the receiving line but I told him it will probably be the only chance I
get to speak to the Queen today. She had
asked me for my buttermilk pie recipe so I was going to slip her the recipe
card. I also had some half-runner bean
seed that Prince Charles asked me to save for his garden. I had a bit of explaining taking them through
customs but after I explained that Camilla is planning on canning a bunch of
beans this summer and these go along great with fried chicken (Charles
favorite) they let me take them through.
I’m not
sure if this is really Prince Philip or his wax figure from Madam
Tussaud’s. Maybe it is about time for
his nap. The wedding couple was so
gracious and ladies I am here to tell you…Prince William wears Old Spice
cologne just like his father. You see,
these are the little tidbits of information that only me, your reporter on the
scene can provide you with. I told the
new Princess Catherine how lovely she looked.
I also remarked to her that she either was wearing a really good
foundation garment or she still had that perkiness of youth.
I asked
Leslie to go ahead and go through the buffet line. I had a responsibility to my readers to keep
an observant eye on everything going on.
He could bring me back some of those little pig in the blankets
though. I have a revelation of gossip for
you. I had always suspected but now I
know for sure. I watched as she went
down the buffet line and when she reached the chip dip I saw it with my own
eyes….Camilla is a double dipper! No
surprise to most in attendance I think.
Prince Harry was over at the keg
and getting pretty tossed. His cheeks
get really rosy when he gets a few Guinness under his belt. I watched ever so closely as the Queen walked
by my table and glanced on her plate.
The old girl must really like potato salad. My biggest interest was in the BBQ chicken
wings she so properly stacked next to her corn on the cob. Would she….the whole world wants to
know……would she….take off her white gloves and grab those wings with her
fingers? Yes! Yes!
She yanked them babies off and threw them over her shoulder and grabbed
those wings like any good tavern regular.
I think I felt closer to her at that moment more than ever before.
Well a DJ with a bad comb over (at
first I thought it was The Donald) came out to “get the party started”. They had the first dance stuff they always
do. This was pretty much your standard pablum stuff. Then the disco ball drops down over the dance
floor and things begin to get jumping.
The DJ plays “Shake Your Booty” and Princess Ann can’t sit still. I see the Queen say something to Prince
Phillip and he shakes his head “No”. So
she then jumps up and grabs Elton John and they start tearing it loose doing
the Hustle. I look away for just an
instant and during that time Prince Charles and Amy Winehouse are executing
probably the worst Samba you would ever want to see on Dancing with Stars. I could just hear Bruno holding up his score
paddle with a big fat “1” saying “what
were you thinking?”.
I can see Leslie has had just about
all of this action he can stand. He
(like Prince Philip) needs his nap. I
tell him I would like to stay a bit longer but about that time they begin to
play “YMCA”. Things begin to get really
ugly about this time. The conga line
begins to form with Mick Jagger as engineer with Tony Blair in chiffon right
behind him. Keith Richards is up against
the wall rolling something to smoke while at the end of the train we find Ozzy
being drug behind while hanging onto Bono’s belt. As we begin to get up to leave we see Prince
Charles go to the microphone and we decide to wait and see what he has to
say. It is apparent that he has made one
too many trips to the champagne fountain.
He nods to the DJ and the music starts.
What a fine and fitting finale to a truly festive event. As Charles sings the last refrains of “My Way” I think I hear the sounds of a tear
or two being shed and feel a bit dampness upon my own cheek. I venture a gaze over to Camilla to see that
she too is overcome with emotion as she covers her eyes and then is so
emotional she puts her head down on the table.
Thank you England for showing this
colonist what royalty really means!
(c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
Life's A Sitcom
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:46 AM |
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If you ever
wondered where a show like Seinfeld gathered
ideas for their situations....wonder no more. Everyday
life. Allow me to share what I just encountered. I
received a card in my mailbox at home that I had something
to pick up at the post office. O.K. I go uptown on my lunch
hour to the post office. I drive around for a while to find
a parking space. I go in and stand in line for about 10
minutes or so while the fellow ahead of me completes a
complicated transaction. I give the card to the nice postal
lady. She comes back with a letter size yellow envelope
that looked just like one I had sent just the other day.
The envelope contained 50 single page flyers about our china
show that were requested by a museum in Indianapolis. I had used the address provided by the museum and took it to the
post office and they placed the $2.96 postage on it for me.
Now I am not that far from Indianapolis
mind you. Anyway
the nice postal lady says that the envelope has $2.96
postage due. I point out the obvious that there is a $2.96
meter label on the envelope. She goes back and checks and
returns to tell me the envelope could not be delivered. She
said she did not know why but they could not deliver it. I
then said O.K. and reached for
the envelope.....No chance! She grabs it back and tells me
I have to pay $2.96 to get it back because it had been sent
parcel post and
that does not provide return postage. So just to make sure
I understand it right I repeat to her that I must pay an
additional $2.96 to get the envelope back. Then pay another
$2.96 to send it out again but we still do not know why they
could not deliver it so it may come back to me again for
another $2.96 in return postage. Can you begin to see the train wreck
coming.... Now I may just be a hilljack from Indiana but
$11.84 to mail $1.00 worth of paper 30 miles
seemed a little bit like intentionally hittin' your thumb
with a hammer. I then look at the postal lady and say "you
can just......throw it away". (You thought I was going to
tell her something more expletive didn't you). She sort of
stuttered and I thought she was going to tell me I still
owed $2.96 so I quickly turned around to see this fellow
standing behind me, ashen faced holding this big box. I look at him and
tell him "You're next!". He swallows hard
and says in a trembling voice..."Oh my I'm sending this box
overseas..." As I head for the door I holler back at
him "You still have time to change your mind." Ain't free
enterprise wonderful? And real life is funnier than any
fiction and don't ever wonder why it costs 37 cents to mail
a letter. You are paying for efficiency. From down on
the farm with rural "free" delivery (RFD) in Indiana (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
A Self Proclaimed Title
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:44 AM |
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As with so many day to
day things that many people accept and never question
I sometimes wonder why things are the way they are. It sounds like a mantra from the sixties but
I was just a wee babe when the age of self-examination was in full bloom. No, I am referring to how people classify
themselves. If you were given a list of
occupations and asked to choose the title that would best explain your chosen
task in life what would that be. If you
would say “mother” no one would question this if they knew that you had raised
children. If you were to choose mechanic
they could tell by the grease under your fingernails that you were not just
blowing smoke. To call yourself a doctor
you had better have the sheepskin displayed for all to see or face charges from
the state medical board. But of all the
professions and titles we classify people under there is one that defies
verification.
ARTIST
Now, to my knowledge
there is no higher power to screen one’s credentials and sign your card
“Artist”. Granted there are those that
do have some fashion of an art degree, be it in art history, fine art, art
appreciation, art restoration etc. For
these we do not question their right to title.
They studied and earned their degree so thus all that goes with it. But in the art world as we will call it, the
vast majority of the “artists” have no degree or official certification saying
that they are an artist. I think it is
great! What other title can you arbitrarily
bestow upon yourself. “Today is my first
day of being called an artist”. You can
have ten thousand business cards printed up with your name and under it
“Artist” and no printer is going to ask for validation of your claim. I myself am an artist. I am a porcelain artist to be exact. Or at least that is my medium of choice. I struggled a long time before feeling
comfortable in allowing myself to use that title. I think the final realization hit me when
after entering several local art shows and fairs that I became know in my area
as an “Artist”. This right of passage
gave me a new confidence to actually use the title “porcelain artist” on my
business cards. What a scary feeling the
first one I gave out to someone. I
expected them to hand it back to me and ask if I had any proof of what I was
claiming to be. Of this I was prepared
to say that the printer did not have room to insert the words “would be” before
porcelain artist.
This title is very
prolific anymore. If you are a student
of art history you can really only name a small number of “Artists” in the past
few centuries. Granted there are those
of lesser notoriety that can still use the claim of artist in their epitaph but
the numbers that we see today are just astounding. One nice thing about calling yourself an
artist is that you do not have to prove that your livelihood is made from the
sale of your artwork. Vincent Van Gogh
set the benchmark on that since he sold little of his art while he was
alive. The starving artist portrayal
makes it all too apparent that your art is simply not appreciated in this
millennium. Practically every town of
any size has an art gallery. Now these
galleries can contain anywhere from very good artists just waiting for their
time to the paintings of barns and landscapes with “v” seagulls. An “Artist” has done every one of the
paintings in these galleries. Just ask
them. They’ll tell you they are artists.
Other criteria used in
other professions not necessarily applicable here, that being how prolific an
artist is. The body of work as it is
called. For full effect you want to move
your arms in a sweeping motion when you say that. Any one knows that the more you practice your
craft; be it painting a portrait to removing an appendix, repetition usually
promotes proficiency. Some old masters
are all the more valuable because of the few number of paintings in
existence. Once again the “Artist” mode
is in contradiction.
We have all seen them. You know what I am talking about, those
“works”. These are pieces, paintings,
sculpture or any media that render you speechless. Speechless as in “I can’t find words to
describe it”. Yes that collage of toilet
paper and the bleached scull of a groundhog that just isn’t speaking to you as
the creator had intended. And the
$2,000.00 price tag causes you to regain your composure just long enough to
utter a word that you would punish your 16 year old for saying. Yes, this was the vision of an “Artist”. You ask if this artist’s vision is natural
or induced by organic or chemical agents.
You begin to remember the scene from “The Exorcist” and Linda Blair
spewing forth what might have been a good companion piece for this $2,000.00 exercise in vanity.
The thing I like the
most about calling myself an artist is that I can act weird. Yes, you know as well as I that erratic
behavior is acceptable in “artistic types”.
We can dress wild with hair in disarray, personal hygiene in need of
attention bolstered by total lack of concern about everyday necessities like
food, lodging and transportation. Oh
yes, and game-full employment. Now
perhaps I am not a true artist. I have
one foot in reality to the extent that I have a full time job and only get the
luxury of painting after the day- to -day chores of life are taken care
of. I suppose if my inner soul were
really artistic I would throw all these trappings of conventional existence
aside and do art for art’s sake. Well I
like to eat on a regular basis. I like
to sleep in a warm clean bed. I like to
look like I have a permanent address.
So I guess I am torn between what I view society wants me to be and then
what my true talent dictates. Doesn’t
that sound like something you could spout off to Dr. Phil?
That brings us to “talking
the talk”. You know what I mean. Artist
talk. The B.S. that separates the
starving artist from the one having caviar at their openings. You know the talk that no one really
understands. The talk that no one has
the gonads to say “What the hell are you talking about!” “Movement, rhythm, flow of the line,
transition of color and value, and the fact that I am asking $2,000.00 for this
piece of crap.” Here again body language
and theatrics is very important. You
must use exaggerated hand movements as you explain the “ musicality of the
piece and the subtle textural overtones and would you like to buy a Kirby
sweeper.” See you didn’t hear a word of
it and you are thinking where could I hang this in my house. He’s got you to thinking it is worthy of
hanging…. You are hooked. You believe he
is an artist. You may even end up being
his benefactor before the evenings over.
Part actor, part snake oil salesman, and part house painter. The major components are sized up.
The other thing that is
nice about being an artist is that you can have a fan club. Just like the rock stars. They are the ones that validate your claim of
artistic title. Shoot they may have even
bought some of your work or even done the one thing that can chisel your title
of artist in stone for eternity.
Commissioned a piece. You were
paid to paint a particular work just for them, just on their specifications,
just for their home. You have arrived!
Forget the fact that the work was a portrait of his first car a 1970 Chevy Nova
with rally stripes. You can even be so
conceited as to list on your brochure that you do only commissioned work. Looks so high- brow.
Internet and cyberspace
opens a whole new avenue of self -exploitation for the “Artist”. The web page opens up a world of
possibilities. You can now “talk the
talk” in writing about your inner muses and how they spring forth in your
finished work much like channeling through a medium. You can have one of those glamorous photos of
yourself, beret optional but always holding some tool of your trade…whether it
be a paintbrush, stone chisel, or chainsaw.
Then you have a great opportunity for merchandising. You may have prints, note cards, T-shirts and
variety of sellable merchandise just short of selling your actual artwork. That would be too cheesy to sell that via the
internet. Oh yes we must not forget the
biography for the website. Now since
there are no official qualifications for the title of artist you can even
relate your experiences at summer camp as a driving force in your revelation of
your true talent. Who’s to
question. That craft project with the
pinecones and the cardinal feathers was the stepping- stone to a grander
purpose. You said so right in your bio
so it must be true.
I think we are lacking
in society by not giving our youth a better outlet with which to make a
proclamation of title. We don’t give
them enough information in pointing out to them that if you can’t cut it in
college, you don’t really want to work for a living, and you want to live a
truly Bohemian lifestyle you can always decide to become an artist. As a footnote I must add I have known some
male artists and everyone of the female partners of their relationships (not
married I might add) had to work full time to support these male “Artist”
counterparts. Hello! Wake up call.
I can see a pattern here. Can you
say non-committal; irresponsible, self-indulgent…that is when I decided that I
would declare myself as an artist! (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt
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Yard Art=Self Expression
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:39 AM |
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It is human
nature to want to exercise the right of self-expression. After all that
is what sets us apart from the other living species. It is the ability to
re-invent ourselves that make us the superior beings. When I was in high
school in the 70's we had dress codes. The administration never missed
the opportunity to remind us that "you are judged by what you
wear". Now today that materialistic way of thinking would be frowned
upon but hey we were wearing polyester and paisley for heaven's sake!
In keeping with that let us examine a rudimentary but none the less
visible form of self-expression....Yard Art. You know "yard
stuff" as in the inanimate objects that you display in your front yard.
This includes figures, structures, signs as well as antiques and
sculpture. Now here in farm country old farm implements are fodder for
creative landscaping. Let's just talk
about curb appeal for a moment a.k.a. the impression from the street of
your humble abode. For instance if you paint your house white with black
shutters it is pretty much for the most part non-threatening, but paint it pink
with purple shutters and you will in the words of Emeril.."kick it up
another notch!" You will be the talk of the neighborhood coffee club.
They will refer to you as the people living in THAT pink house. This
comment is immediately followed with questions from various sippers
asking..."have you seen them....what do they dress like....do you think
they are from Europe?" See you
already have made a statement. Only you know what that is but you have
definitely opened the doors of communication. Yard art does
the same thing. I remember all too well my grandma's pink flamingo
venture. Yes she had 2 of the tropical fowl with wire legs displayed
under the mimosa tree that she had ordered from a nursery catalog. When
we were kids and mowed her yard we had to be sure and place these birds right
back in the proper place under the graceful fronds of this Floridian
canopy. I wonder if grandma was dreaming of warmer climes by staging this
non-native display. I'm not sure because grandma never traveled out of Indiana in all of her 92
years so maybe she was dreaming. Being a gardener I believe I have an
acute sensitivity to landscaping and the way people present their front
yards. I was certainly surprised to have noticed something along my daily
route to work the other day that I had apparently "overlooked"
previously. Yes there she
was in all her splendor standing in the bed of petunias....the Virgin
Mary. A very nice rendition I must say. It was not the icon that I
found unsettling but her choice of bed fellows for companionship shall we
say. There stood the fantasy of every 3 year old male for
generations....that's right Snow White! Now we know this soprano pariah
never goes anywhere without her band of roadies. They were all
there...all seven of them. Whistling and working in reckless
abandon. Not a one of them having the good sense to know they would never
grow up to be over 18 inches tall. What do you expect from a group of guys all
named after their individual character flaws. While this scene played out the
Madonna is standing in a reverend prayerful stance. Is she praying that
the hollow tree up the road will become vacant so this band of simple minded
midgets will move or is she giving thanks for the fact that Mickey and Goofy
didn't tag along as well? If this wasn't bad enough standing to right
hand of Mary was such a spectacle of inapproriate behavior like I have never
seen. The notorious Dutch boy and girl were kissing right in front of the
Holy Mother. Acting just like a couple in the back row of the balcony at
the Bijou. Most disturbing. I then tried to
understand perhaps what the home owners were trying to say with this unlikely
menagerie. Perhaps they were stating that regardless of physical
limitations or weakness in morality we all have a place in the kingdom of
heaven. All of these figures were painted brightly so maybe the message
is we are all different colors and we all have an equal role in the spectrum of
life. Then again maybe the Virgin Mary was a gift from the
mother-in-law. She thought it was only fitting as that is what she said
when her son brought home his new bride ..."Holy mother of Jesus".
The valley girl with her entourage belonged to the lady of the house as they
were part of the divorce settlement from her first husband. And the pride
of the Netherlands
arrived as a house warming gift from the guys down at the plant. The
choice of the lip-lockers was made by the secretary as the lads wanted to give
one of those little boys hosing down the yard...if you know what I mean. These thoughts
were fresh on my mind as I turned into my own driveway. As I approached
the house I looked down at the rabbit figure with doe eyes standing up on his
back legs. I reached above his head to yank the painted yard sign reading
"Eat More Possum" out of ground. I slowly turned and made a bee
line down the drive to deposit my statement of self expression and dump it in the
trash. Reflective
moments from down on the farm. (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
The Dating Game
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:37 AM |
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In watching TV
there has been a tidal wave of ads for an internet "matching"
service. This service via the internet will ask you questions and create
a "profile" and then match you with prospective people that are
compatible to you. When these ads appear I say a silent prayer that goes
like this..."I thank you Lord for the fact that I am not having to date
anymore!" To me that is the biggest positive point in staying
married. Not having to date. The other one is not having to worry
about your figure. Well now I know that should still be a concern even
when one is married but hey...I threw caution and my thongs to the wind along
with that bridal bouquet to those single gals. There was a time though
before I was married that I too was one of the lonely...just like in a Roy
Orbison song.
After a break
up of a year and a half relationship I was mid thirties and pretty disgusted
with the whole dating process. I was not into the "meat
market"..a.k.a. bar baiting. For one thing mid thirties was scary
but I was really looking forward to seeing mid seventies so trolling for Mr.
Goodbar was not an option. On a suggestion from a friend and also from my
counselor...oh yeah...did I mention that. Yes...therapy needed after the
last break up. Diagnosis.... severe self-esteem problem. I was striving
to be perfect...felt someone would love me that way. Whoa did I ever get
cured....perfection is flying way out the window now! Back to the
counselor. He suggested a dating service. I went to the service
that everyone recognized in that day. They even had International in
their name...that had to be good. You enrolled for different
plans. Yep...you had the Volkswagen plan...a few referrals but you
probably would really only get in the groove of things when your options run
out. You had the Olds sedan plan. More referrals than the
"down and dirty basic plan" but I was assured that someone of my
vivacious personality would think this plan a mere appetizer. O.K. they
set the hook and were reelin' me in without a fight. The Cadillac school
bus plan for me! Twenty-five referrals that I could use for the rest of
my life or if I got married I could pass them on to a friend. What a
deal. For a sum that would nearly buy a Cadillac I could be one of the
happy enjoying dating the way it was really intended.
Now this
service did not make a video, they did not show a picture even to prospective
dates. You filled out a profile questionnaire (pretty extensive) and they
would provide this profile to your mystery date. The date would then get
your phone number only and they could call you and you took it from
there. Now I was not fashion model material but I would say I wasn't
bad. Anyway I was really for the dating service a good bone to throw out
to new clients. I was in my thirties...no kids...never been married...no
baggage. My first referral had been in the system for a while...nice
enough fellow but looking back on it now after watching all the decorating
shows on TV, I think he was really probably gay and trying to come to terms
with his sexuality. The next fellow was told to me (by the agency) to
favor Tom Selleck. Well let me tell you the old fantasy mode kicked in
before our meeting. There wasn't a lust novel on the shelf to compare
with the scenario I had played out in my mind. I would resist his
advances...until we got in the car...then he would be ravaged like a
Porterhouse by a pit bull. Well the term "favored Tom Selleck"
must have meant that he had hair on his legs. Not even. HIn
addition he really had some issues shall we say with the ex-wife...Next.....
The next fellow
was an insurance broker. When he called me the first words out of his
mouth were "what is your dress size?" I should have asked him
"before or after Mammy laces up my corset honey chile." Anyway
I met him for lunch. Just as exciting as reading a policy endorsement for
flood insurance...Next. Now, the faint of heart might begin to
wonder...am I really getting my money's worth here...but I answer...
life's an adventure and I was out there to give it the gusto! All this
time I am going to my china painting classes on Monday nights. I am the
only single gal there. These married girls can't wait to hear the latest
installment in my dating chronicle and then what my counselor had to say about
the last looser.
I mentioned
previously that this particular service had "International" in their
name. Well now my next referral was very interesting for a country
girl. He was an Egyptian microbiologist. When the service called
and asked if they could give him my number I said "sure" why
not. I wanted to be free thinking and expand my horizons a little.
This is the part of the movie when the anxious music starts. You then
tell the heroine...No don't do it! I meet this fellow for coffee during
the daytime. When he arrives his son leaves with the car because he had
to attend a wedding. I have never really been exposed to other cultures
so it was somewhat interesting at first to talk with him. His first
marriage was arranged by his family. This did not work out after he
brought her to the states while he did his graduate work. He was a
champion cyclist in Egypt
and still rode competitively here. He had taught previously at the
university in town but had since gone to work for the government at the naval
installment in the next county. All he could say was that he was studying
components and how they affected the human body. Can you hear that
noise....it is the alarm going off in my head. Cyclist...he should recognize
back pedaling when he sees it. I now know that this is not for me. We
were two completely different people. Shortly after this personal
revelation he starts telling me that I can go with him back to Egypt in June
to meet his family. I have only shared a coffee stir stick with him for
God's sake! I won't have to worry about going through customs etc. because his
brother-in-law is a general in the Egyptian army and he will just come aboard
the plane and take us off. At this point my mind flashes to the movie
starring Sally Field and her daughter is taken back to an Arab country and she
has to try and get her back. I also by now have strangled on my latte and
I am afraid that he will feel the need to employ some life saving
maneuvers.
I say it is
getting late and really must go. He asks if I would be so kind as to drop
him off at his house since his son has taken the car. O.K. I
say. He lives in a nice neighborhood in a new house. His younger
son is there when I drop him off. He wants to show me his new
house. I try to be polite and decline but he and his son insist so I say
that it must be brief because I really must go. The house is tastefully
decorated. Except for the painting that hung in his bedroom with the nude
woman with a snake draped over her shoulders! At this moment I am flying
out of the house...my counselor said "apparently he has some issues with
the role of women....totally subservient I would say!" And I am
paying this guy for his professional opinion?
To shorten this
portion of the story known to my painting friends in china class as my
"camel days" this fellow was almost a stalker. He kept calling
me on and on until I finally had to report him to the dating service.
They then told me they had not sent him a referral for 2 years....I asked them
why...and they said because he was Muslim and women always declined. My
counselor urged me to give it another try. So I accepted another
"client". This fellow had a degree in criminology and worked
for the probation office in the next county. He seemed sound enough over
the phone so I agreed to meet him for dinner. That evening when I get
home from work as I prepare for my date there is a terrible thunderstorm and
the power goes off. Well out in the country the power goes off if someone
in Washington D.C. turns on their heating pad so I was use to that...but you
don't have any water out in the boon docks when that happens...so a shower was
out...no chance of perking up the hair with a curling iron...so I'm like...O.K.
buddy you are getting the real me!
The restaurant
where I was meeting him was a very popular place. Finding a parking space
was a premium. It is raining and as I drive around the parking lot I see
this fellow on the porch of the restaurant in a button down cardigan sweater
carrying a yellow umbrella. First thing you should never do. Don't
tell them what kind of car you drive. That way you can always leave after
you case things out. Stupid me.. I had told him! Yellow umbrella
bobbing aross the porch. What kind of guy buys a yellow umbrella? I am
getting sick to my stomach. He was running around the porch as I drive to
and fro trying to find a parking space. I'm the type of person that I
don't pray for frivolous things but I was praying big time...."Lord you
have time to change this.....please do not let this be him...I will make
another pass around the parking lot for you to do your glorious work and change
these events." I find a parking space and as I approach the
restaurant I sort of look past this guy still hoping that fate will be
kind. When has fate ever been kind! It was him. Better
looking than Mr. Rogers but his outfit Bingo right down to the stiff crease in
his trousers. I apologize and explain about my misfortune with the rural
electric co-operative and we actually have a rather nice dinner. I did
feel a bit like I was being interogated though. When I would go out on these
"excursions via the dating service" I would always offer to pay for
my meal or refreshment. I felt this gave me a little autonomy. All
of the other gents even the camel sadist said "oh no!" Well
this fellow said "O.K. you can pay for yours". That really
wasn't what bothered me. I gave him cash for my meal as well as a
tip. He pockets my cash then puts the bill and tip on his credit card and
says..."I can write this off". He works for the probation dept.
for God's sake. What does this fall under....take a sexual predator to
dinner deduction? On the way home I make a vow to myself...no more dating
service....I will not shoot my counselor as much as I would like to..and I will
try to share this experience with any one of my single friends that don't
believe my experiences by giving them remainder of my referrals.
It was a dark
day in china painting class when I made the announcement that I was no longer
accepting prospective opportunities from my dating service. Now that I am
a married woman of nearly eight years I often wonder about my dating partners
and where they are now. The "maybe gay" guy is he working the
perfume counter or is he a hair styling salon mogul. The Tom Selleck
almost...he is probably sitting in a "wife beater" tee shirt and
shorts watching Nascar drinking whatever beer was on sale. The camel
cyclist...I am afraid to even think about him. I may seem him on a
episode of "Crocodile Hunter" since he has such an affinity for
snakes. Then finally there is Mr. Rogers with the tax
deduction. He is probably assaulting convicted felons with his yellow
umbrella instead of a rubber hose. And I....I took the road less
traveled by..and that has made all the difference!
Estrogen
Rules... (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
Ballad of the Hot Flash
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:33 AM |
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I have often
wondered where some of the great songwriters get their inspiration. I
know there are more songs written about love....new love, young love,
lost love, unrequited love, unfaithful love, and eternal love just to name a
few than any other topic. There are songs about trucks, cars,
rodeos, wars, even a favorite food like Jimmy Buffet's "Cheeseburger
in Paradise" for example. I think a
song should be about something that most of the population can identify
with. I have a suggestion. How about a song that 50% of the world
already know about or will experience sometime during their life. That's
right.... "The Ballad of the Hot Flash"! I envision this song
to be reminiscent of Marty Robbin's "El
Paso". Numerous verses detailing one day in
the life a menopausal heroine. Lord knows we could even have a shooting
just like in the desert town. We all know the effects that a hormone rush
has on one's sanity.
The song could have a subtle intro maybe with guitar only (maybe a
little Spanish in theme) and our heroine is described vividly as a raven haired
beauty that makes everyone around her take notice. The verse proceeds to
explain her preoccupation with youth fullness and the way she has cheated
father time to look many years younger than her actual age. Then the
music begins to build and a crescendo booms forth and we hear that she is
beginning to look flushed, her fine silk blouse is showing signs of dampness,
her upper lip has beads of sweat the size of jelly beans. Boom! We
hear mature female voices in the chorus chanting "I told you
so!". That's right. No female is exempt from the penance set
upon them for yielding to temptation in the garden of Eden....The Hot
Flash! Any woman experiencing one of the these surges would relish the
thought of being stripped down to nothing but a few fig leaves I'll can assure
you. The next verse can deal with the embarrassment she feels when making
an important business presentation and she begins to feel the rise in temperature...she
tries to will away the impending heat wave only to find it swelling way beyond
control. She is now fanning herself with her presentation copy and
seriously thinking about ripping the buttons off of her blazer as she tries to
shed it gracefully. I see the mood of this ballad much like a Johnny Cash
song...learn from my experiences...don't make the same mistakes. The only
problem is you can't avoid the inevitable. That will be the closing
"hook" to the song. No matter how rich, smart, beautiful
and well read....no woman is immune from the wrath of the Hot Flash!
The rock and
roll song "Last Kiss" tells of a tragic accident involving two lovers
and the young girl dies in the arms of her young love. She asks for a
last kiss on her dying breath. I really think this ballad should have
that ending of sorrowfulness. The heroine could be sitting listening to
some other women explain that it took years to complete the right of passage
through menopause....and then the music fades. I am getting choked up
just thinking about it. We could find a really prominent artist to record
it. It would be better served to find an older diva but just think of the
video....I would LOVE to see Faith Hill having a raging fire storm and sweating
her lovely outfits through and screaming at Tim McGraw "Don't touch
me!". Big time money maker I say. We could give one of those
battery operated hand fans with every CD.
Can you imagine
when they call my name at the Grammy's as songwriter for "Best Song About
a Bodily Function". I would thank all those strong women that have
gone before me. The women at the turn of the century wearing those long
skirts with bustles and high collars. The true heroines of our
gender. I would be gracious to my inspirational role models and
just as I begin to thank the academy a warm rush begins to climb up my body. As
my ears begin to flame and my face becomes as red as the stoplight on main
street I realize the rented dress I am wearing will definitely have to go to
the cleaners before I return it. And so I leave the podium...not a
person in the audience even questioning whether I have lived through what I had
written about. Sweating the
details down on the farm in Indiana
(c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
Everyone is Equal in a Tiara
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:31 AM |
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My, my how
things have changed since I was little. In reflecting on the fact that I
am due to have another birthday this week and thus push myself ever closer to
the dark abyss of 50 I am pondering how things have been changing at an ever
faster progression. Let's take something that you probably haven't even
considered. The beauty pageant. That's right. The claim
to fame that every former "queen" always considers to be part of her
resume or even heaven forbid her obituary. A right of passage for some
young ladies and bragging rights for many well into the plus sizes of middle
age. When I was appointed to our county fair board several years ago and
one of the first assignments (as one of the token females) was to serve on the
fair queen pageant committee. I felt like a 6 foot tall spouse at a
dwarfs convention. I was definitely out of place here. The gal who
was pageant director was a beautiful and very efficient lady. She really
had brought the pageant from an event in the sawdust of the show arena to a
production with stage lighting and music in a theater type auditorium.
Well I served my internship on this committee and then after a couple of years
the torch was passed to me to serve as pageant director. This has
been my duty for several years now. I have met some very lovely young
ladies and I hope have given them positive experiences for the future.
Just like any
railroad running smoothly there lurks the ever present element that can quickly
assure the train wreck. That's right. Government
intervention. I know, I know....I was a straight A civics and government
student so I am all too aware of the necessity in a civilized society to have
rules, regulations and checks and balances to insure fair treatment for
all. This being said I share with you the latest in the future course of
things to come. Title IX! If they have given it a title you know
they intend to make a big deal out of it...right? I haven't read all the
blah, blah but in essence it deals with fairness to all with no stipulations as
to gender, age, marital status or sexual promiscuity. Our county fair
queen contest uses rules that will enable our winner to qualify and compete at
the Indiana State Fair. Well this Title IX stuff says if a program gets
any kind of federal funding they must comply with this federal edict.
They consider affiliation with 4H as a program receiving federal funds.
Now our county fair has yet to receive that first check that says "just a
little somethin' from your friend the fed'ral gov'ment" but there is talk
that these "everybody's equal" statues might be imposed upon
us. Our pageant criterion is that the "young lady" be
between the ages of 16 and 21, never to have been married, not be pregnant or
have had a child. After all you kind of think of a "queen" as
being a little bit virginal...right? Even queen Elizabeth. Woops sorry about that one
Prince Phillip. But in essence this new progressive thinking of the
all knowing federal government says...maybe some of you manly men out there
would like to be queen. Or perhaps you single moms or married gals over
40 with a whole passel of youngins'. We do not have a swimsuit
competition so the attire is strictly a business suit and evening gown.
O.K. If I have to let a 35 year old male with a full beard compete how do
I advise my judges. "Now judges please do not count off for facial
hair or 5 o'clock shadow." Do I suggest that shaving their legs is
to be optional? What about foundation garments? Does that
include athletic supporters? One of the most important aspects in
the judging is stage presence, walking and carriage. O.K. We have
Miss Candy Do Them All here who is single but "very pregnant with
twins" now should she be expected to walk with a fluid graceful motion or
should she be cut some slack because she is doing good to put one foot in front
of the other at 7 months. We always
advise the young ladies about being tasteful when selecting their evening gown
and remember that it is better to be conservative when addressing the
"cleavage issue". O.K. under title IX what do I do? Chest
hair or wax those pecs. And not to mention when they turn around to show
the judges and the audience the "back features" to their gown.....the
announcer reads...."And here we have Bubba in a lovely clinging silk slip
gown with low cut back, take special notice of the lack hair on his back and
the striking tattoo from his stint in the Marine Corp!" Yikes! I
currently have enough worries about tattoos on young girls and body piercings
as it is. I think we have stampeding buffalo running for the
cliff in this new progressive regulation. What will the schools do about
the proms? You can have your choice...you can run for queen or
king. Ain't life full of endless possibilities?
I guess I
should get prepared for "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy Goes to the County
Fair" and get in stride with the new millennium. Shoot I can even
rethink things. I might consider running for queen myself. A fat,
married over 40 woman with the start of a menopausal mustache. Forget
those high heels I will just wear nice flat Mason shoes with support
hose. The judges can't count it against me for my varicose veins or puffy
ankles or even hammer toes. With the right concealer even those liver and
age spots can be camouflaged. I will have to make a special effort and
pick the correct foundation garments though. Something with lots of
support...you know that lifts and separates like an overhead crane because if
the slit up the leg of my gown is too high I am liable to show some cleavage
and that would never do!
Everyone
should have their own tiara.
From down on
the farm in Indiana (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt
|
Just Another Day Down on the Farm
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:27 AM |
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I have some who
have asked why I haven't written more about farm life. Well it is pretty
much like everyone else's life I guess and I don't really think that
there is a lot that might be interesting, but then maybe I am wrong. Take
for instance the mental picture of farm life. Life on the farm is
probably romanticized about as much as any other way of life. We don't
tend to think of the life as a slum landlord in New York City as romantic, but the rural
country life evokes pictures of rolling pastures and content cows with flowers
and butterflies. Well one look at the grain markets on the Chicago Board
of Trade and the romance of making a living off of the land is shot in the head
with 9 mm. Willie Nelson still has Farm Aid every year doesn't
he. You think the high price of gas hurts when you transport little Percy
to soccer practice? Just think about the fuel needed to plant, maintain,
harvest and dry a grain crop. Not to mention the sprays and chemicals
which are all petroleum based and used to insure a crop. Now we have the
Meth lab concerns and the problems with ammonia tanks that we use in
fertilizing corn. The real life of the urban world has invaded rural America.
There are the
lighter moments to rural life though! Case in point, the motion light you
have in the driveway is not so much to fend off would be thieves and vandals as
it would be in an urban setting but to enable you to walk to the shop in
your underwear late at night when you remember that you left the air compressor
on and you don't want to step on one of the numerous barn cats.
You are glad to have company...no matter who they are. Census taker,
Kirby salesman even the Jehovah Witnesses are considered a friendly face to
talk to. We live on a state highway. Now that sounds very
cosmopolitan but allow me to point out that this is probably the shortest state
highway in the state of Indiana.
Indiana 142
runs for about seven miles between Indiana 39 and Indiana 42. It is so
much a rural highway that we pretty much know most of the people that travel it
from point A to point B. As a matter of fact I feel confident enough to
work out in the front yard in my flower beds in shorts and a tank top.
Now this over the edge physique of mine is outlawed in most providenses. As I
proceed to pull weeds I hear someone honk as they go by. I raise my hand
in acknowledgment not even looking to see if they know me or think I am one of
our brood cows getting ready to pounce onto the roadway.
Raising cattle
has been portrayed romantically quite extensively by the movie
industry. We raise beef cattle. We have all
"colors" of cows. My husband started his herd with Herefords
and to me that will always be the most romantic breed cattle know to man.
I picture the stalwart Hereford
bull "Vindicator" so prominently described in James Mitchner's book
"Centennial". He was the bull to civilize the West.
As an artist they are the most "paintable". Their young
calves are just the reason one should never eat veal. Our neighbor down
the road raises Herefords and Longhorns. That's right Longhorn cattle
right here in the Indiana.
My brother-in law who farms with my husband is a superb cattleman but he is
much younger and has fallen to the black cattle brainwashing that has been so
been so well executed by the Angus breeders. It is a matter of fact that
cattle sent to market will bring more money if they are black....regardless if
they have had any Angus heritage or not. Sort of like being a blond babe
on the beach. Only your hairdresser knows you were born a brunette.
Now we don't move our cattle by horseback like in the movies. We
move them via 4 wheeler or pickup truck with the help of cattle dogs. Now
our Shelty doesn't move cattle...she just sets in the truck and barks at
the other 2 cattle dogs for fun.
Livestock is a
constant commitment. We have friends that farm but do not have livestock
only grain farming. They go to the lake, take off on vacations and
they don't have to cut and bale hay in the summer. The livestock farmer
has to love what he is doing to be tied down as he is. Anyway, when
you have livestock and you live along roadways you need to check these cows at
least twice a day to make sure none have not gotten out of the fence. You
can have a fence like the one in Jurassic Park and some ole' Rip of a cow will
find a way to wiggle herself out of it if she wants that little patch of grass
"over there". The insurance liability of having livestock
is a nightmare. No matter how careful you are there are times that
unfortunately an accident happens. This happened a couple of years ago to
us and thank God no one was injured but this gives you an idea. One
evening after dark my brother-in law called and said he was down the road with
the sheriff because someone had hit one of our cows on the highway. I
jumped in the car and drove just a ways down the road to see vehicles off the
road and flashing lights. I park the car and my husband Leslie walks up
to meet me as I proceed down to the accident vehicle and the sheriff car.
Leslie says to me in a low voice.."Now there is no sign of a cow
anywhere...and this lady says she thinks she hit a cow, but we can't find one
so we are not admitting that she hit a cow...O.K.? She could have hit a
deer or something....O.K?" I make a quick survey of the accident
scene.... a dent in the front of this lady's pickup truck and a great deal of
"cow incriminating evidence". I look at Leslie and say
"Well you can say she didn't hit a cow till you are blue in the face but
all this cow #$*! manure all over the road I think is a dead give away if
I were an investigator." As the story goes we never did find a cow
with an injury so I have come to refer to this incident as the "Night
of the Indiana Big Foot Sighting".
The mental
picture of the cattleman checking his herd on horseback has been portrayed to
every kid watching B westerns on T.V. Well as I said we have advanced
from the lowly beginnings of herdsmanship to use more sophisticated
means. A car. That's right a four door Olds sedan fondly as
referred by me as the "farm car". A hand me down from
Leslie's late father. This 4 cylinder marvel of off -the -road
maneuverability has yet to be matched by any Hummer. Allow me to
enlighten you as to it's multi-terrain characteristics. Every good wife
is a "Shrew". You know you have certain issues that you rag on
until you realize that you are sounding just like your Mom. Well one of
my pet peeves with Leslie is the fact that he doesn't want to put a vehicle in
"Park". Not even an automatic. Whenever he is
driving my car he will turn off the ignition and then place it in park.
Well this leaves the accessories on in my car so he is constantly running down
my battery. I was forever telling him to place it in park. He would
proceed to tell me that all the tractors etc. he was use to driving he would
turn off the ignition and then place it in neutral. I finally
reached the point where I bought a new battery and just gave up "bitchin".
But fate always affords an opportunity....
I was out of
town attending the Indiana
Porcelain Art
School for a week.
I was about an hour away from home and would try to call home every evening to
check and see how things were going. This one evening I called Leslie and
I asked how things were going and he tells me he had a little bit of trouble
with the "farm car". Well naturally I asked what the problem
was thinking an old car is constantly in need of the "part of the
week". He proceeds to tell me that he got some moisture under the
hood. and wouldn't start. The real jist of the story is that he
took the car up in the pasture to check the cows (now why he didn't take the
pickup truck is still one of the great mysteries much like the search for the
holy grail). He was specifically checking on this one cow who had a
sickly calf. He spies Mama and calf at the top of the hill in the
pasture. He decides he wants to catch the calf and take a closer
look.
Now I am sure you all have watched calf roping in the rodeos
and have noticed that most calves are not too receptive to being
"hugged" so the element of surprise and swiftness is of the
essence for success. Leslie throws open the door, shuts off the motor and
jumps out of the car to catch the calf.....Did we miss something in this chain
of events. Yes, you are observant aren't you. We did not
place the herding vehicle in park so since it is setting on the crest of a hill
Newton proved
that gravity is as dependable as the IRS. Said vehicle begins to roll
down the hill. Now on the farm the most advantageous place to locate a
pond in at the bottom of the hill so you may take advantage of all that water
run off. That's right....just as Leslie reaches the calf the all terrain
Olds begins to run down the hill toward the pond. He now tries to catch
the car and get in and stop it (as I might interject here the drivers door is
open). Thank heavens he didn't stumble and fall because this hilarious
incident could have turned tragic. Leslie is certainly not as svelte
or fast as he once was so there really was little chance of catching this
suicide sedan. Physical science prevails and General Motors tested
it's first experimental beach craft of the modern era. Well since the
drivers door was open he told me over the phone "she took on a little
water". Oh yes and he would probably call the Great Chicago Fire a
wiener roast! Those words of "shrewdom" hung in my throat
like a wet sock. But "I Told you so" were never uttered
by my lips. I have learned the smart woman knows when to keep her mouth
shut! I remember the words "I guess I should have put 'er in
park"...YES! YES! Good things come to those who wait. My
relentless badgering did little but in the end revenge was so sweet.
A couple of
years later ....I have had to put another battery in my car because he
continues to shut off the key before he puts it in park. The Olds....she
is still chuggin' away. She had to have some new parts as the water
tended to cause some discord. She is sort of a celebrity.
When the great "Normandy Landing" occured I returned from my trip to
go right to our county fair. I was working at the grandstand and just
happened to make some inference to Leslie's all-terrain vehicle and the
announcer just happened to announce this over the public address system.
The great calf/Olds/cattleman steeplechase has forever been recorded in
local folklore for future generations. Up until now via oral
history but now I have gone and written it down. Well this
keeps the facts accurate and I know Leslie would want role as the athletic
cattle/car wrangler to not be embellished. So hey...that is sort of what
one day on the farm can be like. So if you think that rodeo is
only for those guys in Oklahoma....think
again.
Olympics from
Down on the Farm
(c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt
|
March Down on the Farm
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:18 AM |
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People
unfamiliar with farm life here in Indiana
often ask me about what it's like at various times of the year. It is
definitely a seasonal and calendar driven life. I believe that most
people have a nostalgic impression of farm life and given its realities and the
speculative financial nature it is best to let them think of Lassie and
Timmy. But none the less allow me to tell you about this season and what
you could expect if you came here on the farm for a visit. As the days
begin to lengthen and the thermometer begins to slowly climb the pace on the Indiana farm begins to
quicken. It quickens in preparation for the season ahead and the
excitement if not the unpredictability it brings. I as a farm wife
do my share of the preparations for the changes that will dictate our waking
hours the next few weeks. I shop at the grocery store and lay in the
appropriate provisions....quick energy food, sandwich items, anything that can
be eaten with the left hand while the right hand is doing the major business.
All sorts of beverages are purchased that will quench the strongest of
thirsts. My husband Leslie does his part in making sure that all the
equipment is in working order. When I say working order I don't just mean
it runs when you turn it on...I mean maintenance to make sure that it can run
for hours without stopping because an equipment failure can be devastating in
the overall outcome. He also devours all the latest publication
information so that he is up to date on the latest trends and statistics...because
lack of information can also be the mine that blows everything skyward.
He consults with all his farming buddies and they exchange opinions and
predictions. And let's not forget the experts on T.V. and the print media
because they are never at a loss to express their choices for the coming
season. With the preparations, fortifications and the badge of experience
from previous years we enter the season.......the season.....of..... MARCH MADNESS! That's right
folks! Here in Indiana
the cradle of civilization for basketball there is nothing as important as
filling in your brackets and following your favorite teams. Not
only is college basketball important but as the movie "Hoosiers" so
accurately depicted, high school hoops are the next best thing to marrying off
your daughter to the farm implement dealer! Here is Indiana traveling to a tournament basketball
game is akin to a pilgrimage to temple. Instead of a mark of ash on
your forehead you get a thumbprint of nacho cheese or ketchup. I was
raised with Bobby Knight just down the road. I saw him more than once
show up in a local restaurant for "all you could eat fried chicken"
night. I graduated from the high
school of John Wooden
and I can almost see his birth place in Hall from my front door. I played
basketball myself in high school in the pioneer days of girl’s basketball in
this state. I was going to take my Indiana High School
referee test but the preparation for my upcoming wedding took more
energy and brain cells than I could spare so alas I never wore the black and
white. I have given you MY background credentials but the March madness
maniac at our household is not me...but my husband Leslie. He loves
basketball...boys...girls...college... he would watch more pro ball later in
the season but by that time he has to go to the field. He and his friend
Bob, comrade in basketball passion, use to pick a high school team to
follow for the season. Now this team did not always fall geographically
close to home so they were known to travel everywhere following their
"Cinderella team". I have sat in gyms pretty much all over the
state. I could write a blog on the pros and cons of gymnasium design from
the prospective of a woman with ample cushion. But where the real magic
happens in our house is the NCAA tournament. They named it the "Big
Dance" appropriately because Leslie prepares for it just like he was going
to the prom. I have to tell you that "I am the man"
because I bought him a new wide flat screen T.V. for Christmas, we have
satellite as well so he watching in the highest tech I can afford. He has
the recorder all ready along to tape games so he can go back and watch a
play. He has extra batteries because heaven forbid the remote control
would go down for the count in the middle of a commercial. Oh, commercial
you say....that is when you jump to ESPN and watch the women's college
tournament, the NIT or the Indiana
High School
tournament. It's enough to cause a person to have gender affinity
problems. I needed to do some sewing this weekend so I sat up a table in
the living room while he watched the games. I would sew a little and
watch the men’s college teams, I would then look up and remark that "those
guys don't look old enough to be in college" only to find out that there
was a time out and he had switched to the high school game. When I really
began to doubt myself is when I looked up the next time and all the players had
breasts! You got it; he jumped to the women's games during the Lite Beer
commercial. The living room
is almost like Houston
control and it would be if I let him have a couple more T.V.'s in the
room. Last year he tried to watch the women's college tournament and the
men's at the same time by...now make a mental picture of this...standing in the
middle of the living room so he could see the T.V. there and turning the T.V.
in the bedroom so he could also see it from his vantage point. Both games
were near the end and close in score, I thought I was going to have to get a
crash cart and resuscitate him. He has all his print outs, remotes,
pens and newspaper commentaries. He works on his
"bracketology" like I wish he would work on the porch light I need
installed. He gets up to get nourishment and take care of
necessities. I personally think someone has missed the boat
in not marketing the "Final Four Do It Yourself Catheter, designed so
you won't miss a single moment of the action". I can tell you
the Monday aftermath around command central looks much like the Snake Pit use
to at the Indy 500 after race day. I have to say
that I am thankful that he chooses to indulge his passion at home and not go to
some bar and watch the games surrounded by bar babes....like he would even
notice a babe when a well executed hook shot has just sent the game into
overtime. I will continue to cheer on my team of choice and try and stay
focused as the channel changer jumps from game to game. I will not be
seeing much of him as the planting time starts so I will treasure these
intimate moments...when a player suffers an injury and they break away to an
update...that we share this wonderful time of year. Go Team! All decked out
in team colors down on the farm. (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
Indiana Winter Tourism
Posted on April 4, 2013 at 10:16 AM |
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Greetings from the Indiana Dept. of Tourism. We would
like to invite all our friends from Southern climes to come and visit us during
this most enjoyable time of the year. Why slather on suntan lotion hoping
to add some color to that jail pallor. When you are here in Indiana just leave some
skin unexposed to the elements and in no time you will have a rosy glow like
you did when grandma scrubbed you with lye soap.
And what about all the lovely ice sculptures. The trees are just breathtaking
with sparkle and so visible from your vantage point at the side of the road
awaiting the tow truck. Our capital city would like to welcome you with a
blizzard warning. There's no better way to meet new people than sleeping
on a cot in a storm shelter. Or better yet enjoy one of our farm bed and
breakfasts when you get stranded out in the country far from the
interstate. You may even have the option to help with farm chores to
offset your lodging fee. For a taste of history simply venture out into the rural areas where you take a
step back in time. Heat and meals are prepared on a wood fire and the
stories and games played by oil lamp light because of power failures. And
don't forget those nice therapeutic baths from cold water drawn earlier in the
day because the well pumps and water heaters are electrically dependent.
And romance...make your Valentines Day trip to the Hoosier state and have an
evening you will always remember. Start off with a delectable meal of
cold pork and beans and progress to a night cap of Old Grandad to ward off the
cold before you put on 3 layers of clothes before climbing into bed. What
adventure for amore` with those Carhart coveralls ,Granny Flannels and battery
operated hunting socks. Make scenic wintertime Indiana your next tour destination. No need to let us know you are coming...we
can guarantee all the wintertime enjoyments we mentioned. Just fill up
the car with gas, batteries, first aid kit, blankets, clothes, food, water and
lots of cash to pay for the wrecker service. We are easy to find.
Just head North until you start to see cars and trucks slid off the road and
you will be here. We look forward to your visit. Your Tour Guide, (c) 2013 Ellen Wilson-Pruitt |
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