Winter Ballet

I needed to go to the bank.

My landlord, for some unknown and probably not a good reason, demands cash for rental payment. Carless, I headed out for the long walk to the bank. 

A cold breeze snapped at my face like a wet towel at the beach, bringing a blush of color to my cheeks. It's long fingers reached into my coat looking for any breach in it's protection. It was cold. It was darn cold.

I felt exhilarated.

The cold brought my tired soul to life. I sucked the crisp air deep into my lungs and walked along briskly.  Snow boots protected my feet and I trudged through the snow with feet warm and snug in pillow soft comfort.

Hatless, I enjoyed the freedom of my hair blowing in the wind. It fit my mood, giving me a sense of independence. Man, or in this case woman, against nature, on an equal basis.

Leaving the protected sidewalks which were buffered by homes and high rise buildings, I walked along the lake shore, watching ice thick waves slapping encrusted shores.  

Living at the western end of Lake Ontario where the lake narrows as it curves, the distant shores are usually visible across the water. Usually it was a dark horizon caught between two blues. But not today.

Today everything was grey in fifty shades and more. The words "lake effect snow" had meaning now as I watched a storm pirouette over the lake water. It's fringe was edged a white grey but it's center was a charcoal swirl. The storm twirled away from the distant shore heading due east, in complete unrestricted abandon.

As I walked I encountered others strolling in the sunshine and cold. I smiled at each and said hello... happy new year... good day! Some smiled and responded back while others seemed startled as they emerged from intense, internal worlds. Others gruffly mumbled a reply, looking down to avoid personal contact while they hurried on.

I reached the bank, entered, and with accounts settled, headed home. Outside the storm had moved closer to shore. It now skimmed the shoreline very close by. I could almost touch it's grey damask. The sun disappeared and snow streamed in ribbons of white. 


The wind tore at my coat and lashed my face. My skin stung with the sharpness of the cold and with tiny ice pellets. The freedom of a hatless head was now regretted.

As suddenly as it came, the storm reversed and twirled due south to center lake. Here the dark grey mass twirled as it blithely crossed international borders at will. Then, just as suddenly, it raced back.

I huddled deep within the hood of my coat and bent myself to face the wind, right arm raised to keep the hood from blowing off. Gone were the greetings to passersby, everyone too deep into the business of keeping warm to acknowledge others. 

The frigid lashings were endured, block after block. Everything was a blur of white. At last I reached the safe haven of home.

As I opened the door to my building, the sun appeared once more. The storm was gone. Hummingbird like it hovered only a moment here and there in it's perpetual dance. Sometimes it raged in a primitive dark harmony, sometimes it danced lightly over the water and sometimes it tickled the land in delicate delight. Never in one place long, forever on the move but always performing nature's winter ballet.
 


 

Thanks Mom

This morning my world changed.

Last evening I went to bed in the grey world of early winter. Gone were the brilliant leaves of fall, the beds of flowers, the soft breezes of summer. Last night I went to sleep in a world of drab.

I awoke to a brightness in my room. A shimmering light that was pleasant but unfamiliar. Intrigued I climbed out of the warm comfort of my bed and went to the window. A sea of white stretched as far as I could see.

It was beautiful.

A thick blanket of snow had, and was still, falling. Big flakes cascade from the sky. Six inches have fallen but enough to change the construction site next door into a world of mysterious shapes. Enough to change the rusted garbage dumpster into an intriguing vision of beauty. Enough to change the drab of my world into a winter wonderland.

The wind came. Weaving its way between the apartment buildings of my complex and whipping snow into streams of frozen torrent. My basement windows now peered out at a world of whirling white. Visibility reduced to almost nothing yet the bright glow remained in my room.

I made coffee and with a steaming cup in my hand sat on the edge of my bed to watch the storm unfurl. Chilled I wrapped an afghan over my shoulders and slowly sipped the warming brew.

The dancing flakes and whirling streams were beautiful. Mesmerising. Entrancing. Delighting.

I turn on the TV for news, watching national reporters tell of the large storm in the east. They show snow in various places with promise of more. Yet my nearby American neighbor Buffalo only calls for 4 inches. I laugh at how misleading it all is. The city of Buffalo may have missed a direct hit but the areas around it had been having heavy snow for several days. To the south of the city they already had 44 inches on the ground, all thanks to lake effect snow.

Yet the people of New York state love it. Born and bred winter people, they prepare to celebrate the season with skiing, snowmobiles and skates. I wondered if we, neighbors to the north and only a few miles aways would do the same.

So I sat and watched. Thinking and remembering winters long gone, of snow storms past. Of family gatherings while waiting each one out. Of being snug and safe and seeing Nature do her worst or her best depending on point of view.

Sadly the snowfall lightened and finally stopped. The magic moment of watching flakes drift to the ground was now gone. Yet the huge piles of white remained, virginal, untouched as yet by any hand human or animal. So beautiful, so pristine.

I rushed to dress and head out. I wanted to be the first to leave my mark in the snow. Too old for snow angles, I could however, leave my tracks anyway. I searched for warm clothes... looking urgently for thick warm socks. I found a pink one, a blue one, a two-tone one, a black one... I found one of every color but not two. Giving up I put on a turquoise sock and the other pink knowing a matching set remained hidden from sight.

Now out in the cold, I frolicked in the white wilderness. A squirrel scolds from above, a crow caws but few people are here to play. I feel energized and excited and with cold hands take photos to capture the moment. Nature has given me a gift and others too if only they choose to look at this way. It is a beautiful moment courtesy of Mother Nature.

Thanks mom.

The Canadian Way, Eh!

Want to laugh... or cry about government? Canadians will cry, everyone else... will laugh.

The Canadian government has officially decided to stop delivering mail. Yes that is correct, you heard right (or rather read right.) If you want your mail you will have to go get it.

By now I'm sure the bulk mail people have picked themselves up off their many floors and the disposal people have ordered extra large trash bins for the post offices and the Internet people have finished the champagne but for the average person it means you must now make that extra effort to get your bills cause nobody writes letters these days.

How nice to be forced to travel to get your mail. Such a thrill to fight traffic and pay for Canadian gas which averages about $5.20 a US gallon. For me it's a bus trip and a cost of $7 bucks to do so. Do I really want those bills that much? I must give this some thought... hmmmmm how can I spin this so when those collectors call and I can still say it's in the mail? Can I deduct the cost of travel from the bill?

Of course in these rather hard times and high unemployment rates, the fact that 8,000 postal employees just delivered their own pink slips hasn't fazed the government at all. They (the government) will be saving money on the postal service BUT since jobs are few these days, those savings will increase social services demand by 8,000. It is after all, a numbers game.

On paper the government looks good but then we all know that most governments are better on paper than in real life. Here is a thought. Maybe the government should invest in a public relations and marketing service. Maybe they could hire Rob Ford as a consultant or even a spokesperson since he single-handedly put Toronto on the map. I don't think there is a place on this planet that hasn't heard of the city by the lake, thanks to Mr. Ford.

Maybe too, the government might consider Crack and Booze as a way of improving job performance and since the Canadian government is so rocked with scandal these days, maybe... just maybe... a TV series could be crafted from it all. Reality TV Canadian style eh!

Canadians are so numbed by government intruding in their lives that this new change will hardly be noticed. Maybe the government actually has stock in cable... that would explain all these changes. Hmmmmmm I do believe that there are overseas orders going in, God forbid we send business to a Canadian plant,  for Canadian logo-ed government suits with extra large pockets and for smaller faux beaver hats to fit small Canadian heads.

Yet with all adversity there comes opportunity and opportunities abound with this government decision.

Unemployed workers could start computer security companies since everyone will be forced to online banking. Getting a statement from the bank is difficult enough and not often timely with the present system... but then whose fault will it be if you discover your account was emptied weeks after it happened, all because you didn't pick up your mail. Banks could seriously increase revenue with fees for new improved notices to this effect.

Maybe all this will drive up cyber crime as the unemployed become more creative in their job searches. Canadians are nothing if not creative... we did after all think to combine beer and hockey with police camera surveillance of all roads outside stadiums.

Maybe those same unemployed postal carriers could form a new company called Post Eh! Patterned after Fed-Ex/UPS and actually deliver mail to a person's door!!!! What a concept! Oh, wait a minute... we have that now... or had that.

But then some government official would say that too much money was being made from this service and find ways to tax it. Oh look... a new delivery tax on letters! Hey don't we have that now? Did I mention that the cost to mail a local letter will go to almost $1 buck?

Enlightened government would suggest that too much was being spent on salaries and suggest ways to cut the work force using drones instead. Imagine little hovering devices outside your doors and windows... delivering all those flyers, toss newspapers, pizza coupons... and maybe taking a picture or two as they do.

How Canadian! Multi-tasking... keeping the watchful eye of Big Beaver where it needs to be, peeking in your bedroom window. How Canadian to make money by doing so.

Too bad Canadian ingenuity can't invent a drone to replace government officials... but I'm sure it would only give them more time for holidays at our expense. After all don't we have a treaty or something to supply Cuba with escapees from winter?

It's the Canadian way Eh!

My Thanksgiving

My Thanksgiving

Well here it is... Friday... the day after Thanksgiving. I feel terrific. I have a sense of well being that I haven't felt for some time. A sense of expectancy... something wonderful is about to come my way. Something wonderful also happened yesterday.

I haven't had the means to celebrate with a Thanksgiving dinner for several years, Christmas either for that matter. Times have been a little tough and it seemed a waste to spend much needed funds on my own celebrations. Yet on Wednesday I said "no more"... I wanted to honor those I love and to thank the Good Lord for giving me the blessings I have and will have and yes... those blessings I once had too.

The first order of the day was to stop with the Kraft dinner and move on to a more traditional feast. I bought a small turkey breast, some little round potatoes and one rather large, sweet potato. Sadly I forgot cranberries but they are hard to find at this time here in Canada... and for this old girl, out of sight is out of mind.

I spent some time preparing stuffing... sauteing mushrooms and onions, then mixing into diced bread with chopped apples. Ouuuuuuh this was going to be gooooood! 

I finished the stuffing and laid the turkey breast on it in a rather large roasting pan. I only have the one pan so there was no fuss over what size I needed. I filled the pan with cut up sweet potato and the little round, yellow potatoes. My initial plan was to make mashed potatoes but I forgot that I only have one pot and I wanted to save that for making gravy. Oven roasted potatoes seemed a fine alternative.

Now there is only me to eat this feast but I cooked for all my friends and family... of course in spirit only... as there was and is only me. My Canadian parts were off working, it is no celebration here, and my Arizona parts were far away and my Tennessee part was busy and far away too. 

The turkey wrapped in a cocoon of tin foil went into the warmed oven. Soon tantalizing scents stirred my soul.

Ohhhhh it smelled so good. Can there be a finer fragrance than roasting turkey???... I could hardly wait yet I slow cooked my turkey and let the fragrance tease me all afternoon. I decided to act like it was a traditional American celebration and spent part of the day watching TV yet somehow I missed one of my favorite shows... the Eukanuba dog show!!!! I actually cried out in frustration when I saw on the news that I had missed it... I was watching The Young and The Restless tribute show for Jeanne Cooper who passed away in May. I've seen it three times now and cry at each. An English foxhound won best in show this year... fine dog... bet he doesn't get Alpo.

When dinner was ready I dashed to the stove and lifted my treasure out. I let it rest for a few minutes... I was pacing the floor like an expectant parent... or like a Christmas morning when your parents won't wake up... I couldn't wait a moment longer. 

The time came when my meal was ready. I made my gravy and sliced my turkey... ahhhh so-o beautiful. I spooned out the stuffing, potatoes and sweet potato chunks and covered all with the gravy.... bliss!!!!

I put my filled to overflowing plate upon my simple table and sat down to eat. The goal being not to be able to stand up when I was done. This may sound like gorging but I have trouble standing even on good days. I sat for a moment and stared at the beauty of the plate. I inhaled the fragrance... the gravy, the turkey, the potatoes... the sage scented stuffing.

I glanced up and could see everyone around me. All those I love were there... each with a smiling face... I imagined a plate for each and the turkey never ran out. I felt the love... multiple sets of arms hugged me... both those in the present and those who have gone on. I felt comforted, protected and above all cherished.

This was a dinner I will never forget... it wasn't the food or doing nothing all day. It was those who I love that made it so special.

I am grateful for that special day. I am grateful for those I love and who love me. I am grateful for being able to share that special moment. This is the true meaning of Thanksgiving.

And there is more... I am grateful for...

LEFTOVERS!

Ghost Leaves

Ghost Leaves

Autumn is over.The leaves which turned from green to the many brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow and in so doing created a world of brilliance, are now gone. Winds pull the leaves from their tree hosts and in a whirling rain of color, spilling them to the ground below. Here the riot of rich color slowly turns to softer shades and then to a thick carpet of brown.

The air is sharp and cold. It bites when breathed in and brings a flush of color to the cheeks. The fragrance of the fallen leaves fills the senses. It is an intense earthy smell, clean yet a bit spicy and awakes a primal spirit.

Men with machines screaming at intense, ear-splitting decibel's, blow the leaves into huge piles along the roadside. In the old days it was a ritual of autumn to rake the leaves but modern life has pushed that aside. In times past, hours would be spent raking, creating leaf mountains. All to be ready for composting or mulching but now the landfill is to be their future home. 

Children had rituals also. They would bury themselves in fragrant leaf blankets or jump into the pillow-like softness that only a large leaf pile could provide. Handfuls of leaves became weapons and were tossed in abandon. Bodies became clothed in leaves and once imbedded in hair, leaves became hats of distinction. Giggles fill the air with joyous melody.

 
Dogs too, love the leaves. Darting in and out of the piles as the children do, tails high and tongues dropping from mouths. Dogs and children play together in glorious abandon. The leaves provide happy bodies with glowing faces and later, a night of deep sleep and sweet dreams.

But even as the children play, deep under the piles, ghost leaves are being born. 

Along the pile bottom and the top of the sidewalks, leaves are pressed into the concrete surface. The chemical reaction of autumn rain decaying the leaves etched copies of the leaves on the pavement. Darkened stenciled images of what was once living color.

Soon the physical leaves are collected and taken to landfills, yet the ghost leaves remain. Maple leaves, oaks, beeches and more leave behind a xerox-like image of themselves along every sidewalk.

The images remain through the rainy times of fall, when dark storms drench the town and bring cold winds. They remain when snow falls and covers them but the ghosts always reappear when the sun warms the pavement and melts a window to peak through. 

Winter grows stronger and more storms come. The cold becomes deeper as does the snow but it is the ice which the ghosts fear. The routine of cold nights and warm days make ice form on sidewalks and to protect those who walk upon them, the sidewalks are dusted with salt.

The salt bleaches the ghosts, each day making them a little lighter. Each day they became a little more ghostly until they finally fade away entirely. With their demise the snow fades too and in time, the days grow warm and new life returns. Soon grass becomes green and trees bud, it is the birthing time for future ghosts.

The cycle renews, for with each green leaf that appears on the tree, the future of the ghosts is assured. The ghost leaves will return again, they will come each autumn and disappear each spring in a perpetual dance that is their destiny.

Weather or Not

Weather or Not

I will be a weatherman in my next life.

Truly I think I have always meant to be a weatherman... or more accurately a weather woman. Weather has been a part of my life from almost the beginning, weather in extremes. I am connected in a mystical way.

My first real encounter with weather was at the age of 4. At this tender age I met my first hurricane head on. For whatever reason I was left alone in my parents home on that fateful day. My babysitter had gone off and I'm sure she left instructions to remain in the house until my parents returned from work.

I, being a kid, totally ignored those instructions.

The wind was blowing hard, the trees were whipping back and forth and my childish mind ignored the warnings and went out the back door. The winds were the precursors of much worse to come. The problem came when I tried to go back inside, the screen door was held tightly shut by the wind and a mere 4 year old didn't have the strength to move it.

My first encounter with extreme weather left me huddled against the side of the house for what seemed like hours. Terrified, dealing with Hurricane Hazel as a mere tot and facing weather's wrath alone.

As a young woman I dealt with the storm of the century... a title given to every large storm that seems to come along. This one was different and deserved the name... it was the heart of winter and this storm brought intense wind and snow. Nearby bodies of water (Lake Ontario, Lake Erie) presented the storm with the opportunity to become a star and it did. Yet no matter how ferocious, winter storms don't receive names and this one is remembered only as... the winter of '75. 

At that time I cared for horses and their safety and welfare was my great concern. Roads were closed, completely impassable... some used snowmobiles to get about and the drifts were so high that they had to duck not to hit phone and electric wires. Snow drifts were to the second floor of the barn, there was no way to enter or exit from below. It was a nightmare few days but the horses and I survived and as with all storm events, time heals all.

A few years later I went camping with a girlfriend. Two more unequipped camping buddies you never did see. Inept would describe us perfectly. Yet God protects fools and idiots. 

My friend and I drove from Canada to Vermont. As horse-aholics, we visited every public horse farm on the way, totally oblivious to the forecasts of dire weather to come. As day neared end we found a park and set up a campsite. It was dark when we arrived and the wind was blowing hard. We would have provided a comedic show to other campers if we had been able to see any about. Our tent suspended from a wire form which consisted of two arching poles which criss-crossed in the middle. This gave us one leg at each of the four corners of our tent. Problem was one of the arching poles was shorter than the other, having lost one segment of the pole. Our giggles were lost in the wind as we assembled our tent.

We set up our three legged, lopsided, leaning tent and went to bed. Tired from the drive and all the talking only two girlfriends are capable of doing. The wind grew stronger and stronger and we slept blissfully unaware.

Morning arrived and we staggered out of our tent to look look for the bathroom... only to discover that what was left of our camping community was gone or blown to pieces. We were the only tent to survive. Not because of our deep knowledge of the universe but because in the dark we set up our camp in the only protected spot around. God was doing his watching over idiots that day. It turns out our choice of campground helped too... our choice was based on what we could find late at night. The tent site was in a hollow with tall hills around. There was also a forest of tall trees at one end, the place we were given to camp. Together these combined to save two fools where many others suffered from the wrath of Hurricane Agnes.

Later I would move to Arizona and to a small ranch in the Tucson Mountain foothills. To get into town (Tucson) we drove down Ina Road into the valley created by the Santa Cruz River. A wide bridge spanned the barely three foot wide river.

A perfect storm came to be, one which killed many and destroyed a good part of the area. Many days of rain from a stalled low combined with the effects of a hurricane to the south hit the city hard. Deluges of rain fell from the storm and water rushed northward from the southern hurricane as the Santa Cruz river, like many Arizona rivers, flows north from Mexico.

Our sleepy 3 foot wide river was now a mile wide and... raging. The water saturated mountains couldn't absorb the rainfall and it rushed down to the valley below. The river was at flood already from what came from the south. Hundreds of homes were lost as river banks gave way and buildings plunged into the torrents of water. Bridges were swept away including most of ours and our only access to town. I watched from the safety of the foothills wondering at the power of it all and knew I would remember the storm of '83.

Summer in Arizona is a special season. It is very hot but that heat is what brings the life giving rain to the desert. Yet the heat has incredible power as well. The ground dries, all moisture is gone and desert breezes begin to twirl. As it gets hotter and drier the whirls become mini tornadic spirals which race across the landscape. Some grow into immense destroyers of all before them. 

One such storm arrived at lunch time on the ranch. We were in the ranch house but heard it coming. It sounded like a jet airplane outside the window or a train roaring past. My partner and I ran out the door in time to watch as the storm touched down in the middle or our stable yard. Our barn lifted straight upward, 50 feet in the air, and blew to pieces. Fence posts sucked out of the ground and flew everywhere, the shed row roof disappeared... a giant saguaro cactus was sliced in half by flying roof metal shrapnel.

It lasted about 3 minutes... but seemed a lifetime. All our ranch buildings were destroyed yet the horses were not injured. Seventeen ran terrified into the desert but 10 more remained. None had more than simple scratches when it could have been so much worse. We gratefully rounded up our lost animals and made plans to rebuild.

I moved with my other half to a ranch between Florence and Tucson. It was an idyllic life, at least for me, as my love of wild things and wild places was at it's peak. Life here was isolated and self reliance was the only way to survive. One hot summer morning upon awakening, we smelled smoke in the air. It drifted in on a soft morning breeze.

Summer here is hot and dry... moisture is sucked out of the earth and every living thing. Not until the summer rains arrive does the desert get any relief. Summer weather brings it's own dangers.

We climbed the hills behind our home to view the land around us and saw nothing. No plume of smoke from any direction. The whiff of smoke scent had drifted away as well. We felt secure.

Business called us to leave the ranch and drive to town, 35 miles away. The dusty two mile dirt driveway led us to a sleek paved highway which let to civilization. There was no traffic at all.

Fifteen miles into our trip we crested a hill and before we could react we were in a forest fire. The highway was clear but on each side trees exploded into flame. My partner being a stoic cowboy... continued on. I not being so stoic began to pray. Breaks between the flaming trees showed hills being devoured by fire. We sped through the inferno at speeds exceeding the limits goaded by the possibility of what could be. Finally we ascended the Catalina foothills to burst out of the inferno and to safety. Later we learned that the roads had been blocked to traffic and that we were the last truck to safely make it through. The fire, small by Arizona standards and having no name devoured 35,000 acres of desert grassland and almost two humans as well.

My life has been such that weather events were a large part of who I am. Weather governed by a hand both unseen and powerful. Weather gives us life and takes it, weather feeds us and starves us... weather stirs my soul. Yes, weather is in my blood. Is it in yours?

So Sorry Goodbye

So Sorry Goodbye

After a few days of trying, frustration is winning out. I have written to many people but nothing has developed. I'm talking about helping my guy Mike. I fear I have failed.

Mike Randall is my favorite weatherman. He works for WKBW Channel 7 (ABC) in Buffalo, New York. Mike has had his work hours reduced... cut down to almost nothing... all because he grew a few grey hairs (at least he has hair), clocked in a few too many years and generally made the newly hired staff of the morning show look like what they are... youngsters.

The morning show crew are all fresh faced and bushy tailed journalists eagerly seeking careers in broadcast television. Yeah, yeah... this is fine an dandy, the kids have to learn someplace and at sometime, but not at the expense of seasoned professionals like Mike.

Seasoned professional is a cover word... what it really means is someone who has been around the block a few times and hopefully by all that travel, has learned a few things. Mike has been there and done that but it is of no value in WKBW's world of today.

I supposed Mike could take advantage of some of the services that WKBW promotes. He might get a discount on a "Quick Lift"... to hide the fact that he wasn't just out of the womb. He might try "Just For Men" to disguise his silver tresses. He might ever get substantial discounts by doing so AND become a spokesperson for these products. He could... but then he wouldn't be who he really is... a professional, a journalist and a weatherman.

Funny how the station has all this advertising on products to stay young... but just who exactly are they marketing too. Does a 20 something need wrinkle cream? Do they need to hide their grey? Do they need to have a face lift? Come on... 

The people these products are being marketed to are those same people that WKBW is laying off because of age. So why are 50 somethings supporting this? Would be nice if all those this pertains too would stop buying and start being who they really are... but give me a minute... I'm coloring my hair.

I thought I could somehow make a difference and help my guy Mike. I won't stop trying but I feel that I am a failure... sorry Mike. No one is listening, maybe the batteries are dead... or maybe I need to get it on You Tube! (Mike do you have a video of you with cats?)

Mike, I did have some thoughts for when you are doing all those things that WKBW says you are eager to do, but having a job prevented you... things that probably won't bring in much money (who needs to eat anyway) but lots of satisfaction. 

Over the years I've noticed just how great you are with kids... and thought why not make that strength something to build upon.

My thought was to start a new educational (site, feature, account) on social media. A place... where you can teach, especially kids, all about weather. You are a gifted actor and educated weatherman so are perfect for this.

Imagine a You Tube network, going into the schools... segments to teach the kids and anyone else too... all about weather. You could call it "Weather ED... from Mike." (Of course if you changed your name to Ed it would have a ring to it.) You could even make in person visits to area schools. I did a quick look on You Tube and no one has thought of this as yet.

Who knows... WKBW might even be interested in a roving weather ambassador such as you. (But get it in writing first.) AND really... isn't Buffalo the weather capital of the US?

My favorite phase is this, "change the way you look at things and things you look at change" from Wayne Dyer. Mike look at this change ahead in a new way, who knows you might become the Mr. Robert's of generations to come.

Heck yeah... Welcome to the Weather Neighborhood! Mike Randall's weather neighborhood.

LMC

 

More About Mike

More About Mike

Well 24 hours have passed since I wrote about my guy Mike. To refresh memory, Mike is Mike Randall of WKBW Channel 7 (ABC) in Buffalo, New York. My recent post was about how Mike had his work hours reduced and his being pushed out of the station.

I talked with Mike, or rather chatted via Facebook. He was flattered that I cared but basically said he was hurt to be shoved aside as he had been, but that it was a fact of life. He was gracious and never once said a negative thing about his employer. In fact he was completely and totally loyal to his employer even though that employer wasn't loyal to him.

Mike Randall is a consummate professional to the very end.

Me on the other hand, well I'm not so generous. I began some research and it appears that I am late to the game. I guess I must have had my head in a hole because all this began in August. From what I am reading, from the various newspaper articles online, various media posts and then the various comments from people it is a case of "so sad goodbye".

Why is it not being screamed that this is blatant discrimination? Why is every person in the area over the age of 50 just letting this happen? Mike Randall is not old, he is in his late 50's, and is a very good weatherman. The main comment from the station management is that the NEW chief meteorologist is better with the weather computers... Mike was working the weather computers before this guy was born!

Sure technology changes but it surely doesn't mean older people can't master it... I get that all the time. Little smirks from younger folk about working the computer... I happen to be great at it, better than most in fact. Yet I didn't attend schools, I did it all the hard way... I worked my way up to what I can do today. I learned by doing... making mistakes, fixing them and going on.

I am a graphic artist, a computer designer and superb typesetter. In the early days I apprenticed and learned my trade (Graphic Arts International Union) when it meant something. When my field began turning to computers, I learned each one as it appeared. When the desktops showed up, I bought one and spent every evening after working a full day, learning this new skill.

I got many different programs and learned each one. I spent hundreds of hours teaching myself the art of drawing on computers, of working with photos, video, flip books and so much more. I taught myself Mac's and PC's. I can work data bases with ease and I am one of the best researchers around. Yet I still get the smirks when I apply for a job...

The... 'how can an old person like you possibly do this kind of work'... smirk.

Well world, guess what... I can, I do and I'm great at it!

Same goes with the likes of Mike Randall. He has been a weatherman for years and he has been a feature reporter for years. He learned his craft by doing, just as I learned mine. He is good at it and he is loved for it. So it comes down to the age... 

Well world age is only a number. Tell me would you prefer your president/prime minister to be 61 or 16??? How comfortable would be be if your surgeon was 25 not 52??? 

Age brings life wisdom... you see things totally differently, from a place of experience. You have learned to balance enthusiasm with measured paces, to balance raw youthful power with careful strategy, to balance the good for one against the greater good for many. 

To willfully discard this life wisdom, this essence of what creates human history... just for youth is wrong, totally wrong.

Why are we so afraid of aging? Is it that we are just afraid of dying and if we put it out of our minds, it won't happen? Well I have news for you world... it happens and will happen to each and every one of us.

Mike Randall is just a weatherman on TV, he is not a super hero or a rock star. What he is, is a person who is being discarded for growing older, yet we all are growing older and we can't stop that fact. What we can do is say enough of taking a segment of our society and pretending they don't exist anymore. I for one will not willing go find an ice flow and disappear and you world... shouldn't let that happen to anyone.

It is wrong to discriminate for race, religion, sex, preference, nationality and yes, it is wrong to discriminate for age.

Mike may want to spend more time doing those "things" he always wanted to do... but I'm sure that was in his retirement plan. He is not retired though, he is still trying to earn a living and caring for his family. Mike has paid his dues, he gave for 30 years. As long as he does his job well Mike deserves to be allowed to continue working. I wonder just how well WKBW management are doing their own jobs?

The Mike Randall's of this world deserve more... as do all who have made it through life to reach this point in time. WKBW is wrong to remove an employee because of how old they are and we need to tell them so. Let them know...
https://www.facebook.com/pages/WKBW-TV/60388086891

Maybe together we can save my guy Mike's job... and maybe our own jobs too!

If you have the time, please let Mike know we are rooting for him! https://www.facebook.com/MikeRandallwkbwtv7

SAVE my guy Mike

My Guy Mike

Today I received some bad news... I hate getting bad news. Today I learned that my favorite weatherman was on the way out. Goodbye, adios, see ya around. My guy Mike was having his hours reduced at the station where he worked.

Lately I have been living in southern Ontario, Canada. This was a big change for me coming from Arizona. I was miserable with this change, ever so homesick, and for the life of me I could never figure out Canadian measurements. Canada is metric.

The worst was weather... I never knew if I should dig out sweaters, boots or shorts until I actually went outside. Just how hot is 29 degrees Celsius anyway?

But God is good and He sent me to Buffalo... not physically but through the wonders of the universe I could access Buffalo TV stations on my TV. Yeah!!!

I was always an early riser and happily watched the ABC affiliate Channel 7 WKBW station. I loved Ginger Geoffrey and my guy Mike... my wonderful weatherman Mike Randall.

One day this past summer, Ginger moved on. Shortly after that the station announced a "whole new morning show redesign"... so instead of replacing Ginger with seasoned pros they brought in kids from school. Oh I know kids have to start some place and I was willing to let them settle in, learn the ropes and grow... but little things began to irk me. I hate irks.

The irks were minor at first but grew until I actively began to dislike the juveniles hired as morning anchors. The final straw came one morning when the kids were discussing birthdays... that particular day it was Kelly Rippa's birthday. Kelly of the Live With Kelly Rippa and Michael Streahan show.

"Gosh... she really, really looks good for her age," said the teenybopper anchor.
"I hope I look as good when I get to that age."

Well that was it... I had had enough. Kelly Rippa just turned 42.

I was disgusted but held on for there was still my guy Mike... Mike told me things about the weather I never knew I wanted to know, he told me when to wear shorts and when to wear boots. He told me the real temperature not this Celsius stuff. He was funny, charming and I surely did wish he had a single brother. I was a happy clam when he was on.

Last month WKBW celebrated my guy Mike's 30 years at that station. Hooray... he needed to be honored. He was "chief meteorologist" so let the world know... but then something changed. 

I first noticed one morning when the teenyboppers signed over to him saying "senior meteorologist" instead of "chief"... hey what's up here... hmmmm

Next a new meteorologist appeared... another "baby" to break in.

Then he began disappearing from broadcasts... missing out reporting at noon, missing days. Ohhhhh something was up for sure. I became suspicious.

Today I saw a posting from the Buffalo News... a print newspaper with an online service. A long story told the grim tale... my guy Mike was having his hours cut... his pay too probably... my guy Mike after giving his all for 30 years was being officially relieved of duty... whether he wanted it or not.

Now this hits home on another front for I am the victim of age discrimination. I have been struggling to live in this "youth obsessed" world since my hubbies passing. I was forced into the work force after watching my official retirement disappear in a sea of wall street greed and corruption.

Now my guy Mike was facing it too. 

Well I have had enough... I am tired of the world thinking because you have a little age that you are useless. I can do more now than I could as a kid. I am better in every way. I survived the long road to get to this age, survived great loss, great disasters and great suffering and yet here... I... am. I am strong, intelligent and ever so creative.

OK I admit a few things changed... maybe I'm not as fast but I use my noggin and make up for it. Maybe I'm not as nimble... but here is a use for those teenyboppers so let them be nimble. I'm great on the computer so who cares if I have 2 million friends on Facebook... the ones I have actually mean something, they are "real" friends.

STOP trying to put me out to pasture... I don't like grass! Stop trying to put my guy Mike out there too!

It is time the world stopped glorifying youth. It is time that business stopped chasing them and the superficial lives they are now leading. Yeah kids may have a little more spending money these days... ours is tied up in mortgages, college funds and caring for the family. We don't waste what we have, we worked too hard to get it. We don't glorify violence, we fought the wars and know it first hand. We don't ignore people, we talk face to face. WE ARE THE REAL WORLD.

So ABC WKBW Channel 7... wake up and stop the age discrimination. Look at who your real viewers are and what we stand for. Give my guy Mike back his slot on morning/noon weather and remember greytoppers outnumber teenyboppers AND remember who really puts the bucks in your and your advertisers pockets?

WKBW bring back my guy Mike!

Rituals...

Rituals

Have you even wondered just how much rituals control our lives?

My life certainly is. I awoke this morning and was snuggling in my bed. It was warm and pleasant and I was just luxuriating in the moment. Suddenly I sat upright.

"Crap!!!!" I shouted as I bolted out of bed, grabbing my robe and a pair of shoes.

It was garbage day!

As I ran, I tried to put the shoes on, hopping on one foot and crashing into walls and furniture.

I made it to the garage and pressed the door opener. My rushing dramatically stopped. Cautiously I peered out... looking one way and then the other. I had to get the garbage out before anyone SAW me. An extra week with stinking garbage a lessor threat than being seen without make-up.

In my community refuse pick up comes once a week but although it is a necessity of life, it must always be discrete. It is a fact of life that must never be discussed or worse, seen. Garbage must "appear" on the morning of pickup.

In the old days, it was just garbage. It was relatively easy, everything went into one big can. No problem. It was a weekly chore that I was up to, that I could handle. Now, as if lives are not complicated enough, it must be sorted. We recycle.

As a recycle novice I had much to learn. As in all things there are rules.

The first day I put out styrofoam... a faux pax! Styrofoam is never recycled. There is no technology to do so and probably never will be. It is one of those great human creations which has come back to bite us. Styrofoam has a half shelf life of a billion years... that and cockroaches will be around long after humans are forgotten.

My refuse engineer (formerly garbage man) carefully removed the styrofoam packing material that I had placed into the recycle container, placing it on the ground. And then left it.

There are more rules... recycles can't be dirty. Tin cans, bottles need to be clean... washed of all residue. I now spend much of my time washing garbage. Oh I do miss the old days!

There are plastics and papers too. It gives a person a headache... and yes medicines are considered toxic waste and must be sent to special collection centers. Remember when you could happily flush toxic materials and dead goldfish down the toilet with no remorse.

Recycle bins now take up more room than do garbage bins. You need a "staff" and a "dayplanner" to manage it all. For me recycle pick-up comes at 6:30 am (5:30 in summer) and garbage at 9 am. If you are off by one minute you are out of luck.

I have been forced to write myself a note to remember garbage day. My memory was the second thing to go... the first was my waistline. It is a large note, one that can be seen from space. I put it on my kitchen counter in the hopes I can't miss it. Yet I can.

Since refuse containers are not permitted on our street curbs in daylight, we are forced to do so in the dark hours. In the dark hours, I am zombie like... a sleep deprived coma-like state I'm often in. Just ask my cats. So I must put the note out at a time when I can both see and remember it.

Fortunately  I can ignore anything. A quick look at my housekeeping would attest to this. I can walk by, cook a meal by and do dishes (ha, ha) by and never see it. Even if it jumped out and poked me... I could ignore it. I was married for years and learned from the best.

My cats are useless at helping... only if it involves food do they remind me of anything.

I am often forced to react as today, with shear terror at missing the week's pick-up. I am forced to perform this weekly ritual in my night gown and robe. I really do need to update my wardrobe.

It is said that man has come a long, long way... I just wish it was shorter to the curb.

Sleep... It's Over-rated...

Have you ever awakened in the morning with a cat on your head?

Two cats let me live with them, provided... I meet certain requirements. I must offer gourmet food, maid service and a valet service upon demand.

Sometimes I sleep in... sometimes I am late meeting my daily morning commitments. At those times my cats are required to go to extremes in dealing with me. Hence sitting on my head.

Mister is my male, a black and white feral cat who discovered me and knew a good thing when he saw it. Life in the desert is usually very short but life with me is never ending. Mister is going on 15. His life revolves around naps... with the odd meal and bathroom visits. Mostly he naps.

He likes to think that he's the big Kahuna... like all males he struts... but usually he passes the chore of training me to his partner in crime. 

Magic on the other hand almost never seems to nap. She was also a stray and upon checking the "sucker hotline", a cat listing of humans to tap for handouts, she decided I was the perfect mark.

Magic is a tiny, completely black female who has tolerated me for 12 years.

I am ashamed to say... Magic is smarter than I.

She doesn't have any degrees but few can match her intelligence and few can match her ability to eat.  Her day revolves around just how much she can pack into her petite body. She likes breakfast served around 6 am.

Me... I like to sleep until 7.

Big mistake.

Magic, my cat, begins her cat alarm clock around 5:30 am, she starts scratching on a chair near the bed. I have an instinctive reaction to this and usually respond with an unintelligible garbled shout. Should this not do the trick, Magic moves on to the bathroom nearby. She puts a paw under the cabinet door (which has  automatic closing) and pulls it out slightly, then lets it slam shut. The resulting "whump, whump" has me throwing something handy, shoe, pillow, clock it doesn't matter.

I know what you are thinking... get a weapon. I've tried.

I thought I'd outsmart her with a spray bottle of water by the bed. Yeah right! Try to find it in the dark and try not to spray yourself in the face in your sleep muddled mindset. I've thought of a gun... but I like my feet, my furniture and my pictures on the wall, besides the neighbor's would complain.

Sometimes none of this works and Magic must resort to mental telepathy. She should be a government weapon... she can send mind pictures to rival the best the CIA could ever muster.

She sits on the nightstand, next to my sleeping head... and stares.

Reacting is a primal response. My inherent Sixth Sense kicks in. There is the sense that a predator is staring at me and I bolt. It's a case of flight or fight and who wants to fight with a Sabre Toothed Tiger!

"Get up, get up," her mind is saying.

Usually when this tactic is used, I bolt out of bed.

"Ah-h... you're up!" she sends back.

Still... there are the very, very few times when it doesn't work. Like last night.

As a last resort... a final, cat desperate attempt to wake the dead... she sits on my head. It is both hard to sleep and to breathe with a cat on your head.

So I get up... stagger to the kitchen and put down, two artfully arranged bowls of gourmet tidbits with proper garnishing... and wait. All this before my first cup of coffee.

If all goes well, I get my coffee. If it doesn't,  I get to open another can.

I've often thought of getting a dog but really... do I want to sleep in?