carallel
carallelworld
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Carallelworld has always existed in parallel to mainstream society. All of the word games that evolved into Carallel may become evident to interested onlookers. Folks need to be open minded when visiting this world. I promise to reciprocate in kind.
Age: Not provided.
Gender: F
Location: Ohio and Florida
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True story-only one of many in the Carallel way of life
Posted 11/12/2007 9:31:12 AM
Five Cats in Mourning
The best times with mom happened where I moved about a two-hour drive from my hometown. Taking turns visiting back and forth, we shared my new life in the country.
We took walks and napped in the neat sunroom my husband built onto his house for me. Most of mom's life was about sadness, and when she lost dad, her sadness grew immensely. Hopefully the sunlight in my sunroom helped cheer her.
Before one of her next visits, I had inherited a litter of orphaned kittens. I nursed them back to health, and naturally they grew attached to me. When I went hiking they lined up behind me and trekked through the cornfields, and in the woods behind our acreage never leaving me out of their sight.
During her next visit, mom seemed to bond with the black and white kitten whom I named Pierre, because his markings made him look like a garcon. He had a little pencil mustache, and very charming social graces.
Suddenly a light bulb illuminated in my head. I felt that if mom could have a pet roaming around the house it would help alleviate some of her grieving. Mom always told me that I was like an old, wise soul dwelling in a youthful body. This is how I became her confidante beginning in early childhood. Listening to my advice, she took Pierre home with her that day.
Soon after, the competitive sister one-upped my gesture by bringing mom a pregnant cat. Quickly growing to full size, mom's house became filled with playful sounds of five cats thundering in a herd on hardwood floors. Yes, of course, this became a distraction from her grief. How could it not?
At night, all the cats piled into bed, nestling comfortably around mom's full figured form. But the comfortable part only lasted until they became old enough to be territorial. When she shared an anecdote about their new nighttime ritual it became an oasis in the desert of sadness.
I laughed till I cried envisioning her less than peaceful bedtime of cats hissing and spatting all around her. Eventually they worked out the nocturnal disputes, with only an occasional lapse of the delineated territories.
Next visit, it was my turn to go to mom's house, which I hated because the competitive sister loved to wreak havoc whenever she had the opportunity. She only lived next door to mom, which was far too close for me.
Strangely enough, while I was there, I got a premonition that mom would be going to wherever dad went. She had found forgiveness for dad, and seemed to get some of her earthly relationships straightened around. She spoke happily about these uplifting events.
On the same visit, she got obsessed about finding a house key for me. I couldn't understand this, since I had never had a key to her house. And why all of a sudden this concern about a key? This is what alerted me to the fact that we both felt something ill omened casting the fate of our not so distant future.
We sat on her couch holding hands and listening to Tommy Dorsey, and the Glen Miller Band, both of us reminiscing and steeped in sadness.
After that visit, I wasn't even home for one day before I got the phone call from my brother. Seemingly trying to hold back tears, and sounding angry, he told me about mom's stroke.
I joined the other four siblings at the hospital, and saw mom alive for the last time. When I walked into her room in ICU, I thought I saw recognition in her eyes when she gestured to her mouth as if she were hungry or thirsty. To this day I wonder what that gesture meant, and whether or not she recognized me.
We waited for a couple of hours for her doctor to return from out of town. Should we try a surgery to remove the clot in her brain?
The same precognitive state of mind must have carried over from two days earlier, because somehow I knew the doctor wasn't going to make it back in time.
My two sisters drove back and forth to the hospital to find him, and they were mad at me for not going along. I just wanted to be in mom's house, and be around her lovely colors, and things, so that's where I went.
When I first unlocked the door, I could see the cats moping around. They no longer tromped the hardwood floors. I just left them alone, and wandered through the house, cherishing what memories I could.
I went into mom's little bath off her bedroom where we used to put on our makeup together. In the background from the mirror view, I saw one of the cats jump onto mom's white bedspread. All a sudden came another, and one more, till they were all there. They formed into their nighttime gathering positions, leaving white bedspread to show through. It was the form of my mother in the negative space between. I knew then, it was time to go to the hospital to say goodbye.
Posted 11/12/2007 9:31:12 AM
Five Cats in Mourning
The best times with mom happened where I moved about a two-hour drive from my hometown. Taking turns visiting back and forth, we shared my new life in the country.
We took walks and napped in the neat sunroom my husband built onto his house for me. Most of mom's life was about sadness, and when she lost dad, her sadness grew immensely. Hopefully the sunlight in my sunroom helped cheer her.
Before one of her next visits, I had inherited a litter of orphaned kittens. I nursed them back to health, and naturally they grew attached to me. When I went hiking they lined up behind me and trekked through the cornfields, and in the woods behind our acreage never leaving me out of their sight.
During her next visit, mom seemed to bond with the black and white kitten whom I named Pierre, because his markings made him look like a garcon. He had a little pencil mustache, and very charming social graces.
Suddenly a light bulb illuminated in my head. I felt that if mom could have a pet roaming around the house it would help alleviate some of her grieving. Mom always told me that I was like an old, wise soul dwelling in a youthful body. This is how I became her confidante beginning in early childhood. Listening to my advice, she took Pierre home with her that day.
Soon after, the competitive sister one-upped my gesture by bringing mom a pregnant cat. Quickly growing to full size, mom's house became filled with playful sounds of five cats thundering in a herd on hardwood floors. Yes, of course, this became a distraction from her grief. How could it not?
At night, all the cats piled into bed, nestling comfortably around mom's full figured form. But the comfortable part only lasted until they became old enough to be territorial. When she shared an anecdote about their new nighttime ritual it became an oasis in the desert of sadness.
I laughed till I cried envisioning her less than peaceful bedtime of cats hissing and spatting all around her. Eventually they worked out the nocturnal disputes, with only an occasional lapse of the delineated territories.
Next visit, it was my turn to go to mom's house, which I hated because the competitive sister loved to wreak havoc whenever she had the opportunity. She only lived next door to mom, which was far too close for me.
Strangely enough, while I was there, I got a premonition that mom would be going to wherever dad went. She had found forgiveness for dad, and seemed to get some of her earthly relationships straightened around. She spoke happily about these uplifting events.
On the same visit, she got obsessed about finding a house key for me. I couldn't understand this, since I had never had a key to her house. And why all of a sudden this concern about a key? This is what alerted me to the fact that we both felt something ill omened casting the fate of our not so distant future.
We sat on her couch holding hands and listening to Tommy Dorsey, and the Glen Miller Band, both of us reminiscing and steeped in sadness.
After that visit, I wasn't even home for one day before I got the phone call from my brother. Seemingly trying to hold back tears, and sounding angry, he told me about mom's stroke.
I joined the other four siblings at the hospital, and saw mom alive for the last time. When I walked into her room in ICU, I thought I saw recognition in her eyes when she gestured to her mouth as if she were hungry or thirsty. To this day I wonder what that gesture meant, and whether or not she recognized me.
We waited for a couple of hours for her doctor to return from out of town. Should we try a surgery to remove the clot in her brain?
The same precognitive state of mind must have carried over from two days earlier, because somehow I knew the doctor wasn't going to make it back in time.
My two sisters drove back and forth to the hospital to find him, and they were mad at me for not going along. I just wanted to be in mom's house, and be around her lovely colors, and things, so that's where I went.
When I first unlocked the door, I could see the cats moping around. They no longer tromped the hardwood floors. I just left them alone, and wandered through the house, cherishing what memories I could.
I went into mom's little bath off her bedroom where we used to put on our makeup together. In the background from the mirror view, I saw one of the cats jump onto mom's white bedspread. All a sudden came another, and one more, till they were all there. They formed into their nighttime gathering positions, leaving white bedspread to show through. It was the form of my mother in the negative space between. I knew then, it was time to go to the hospital to say goodbye.
This poem is so cool:
Posted 11/12/2007 9:16:08 AM
Think Like a Tree
by Karen I. Shragg
Soak up the sun
Affirm life's magic
Be graceful in the wind
Stand tall after a storm
Feel refreshed after it rains
Grow strong without notice
Be prepared for each season
Provide shelter to strangers
Hang tough through a cold spell
Emerge renewed at the first signs of spring
Stay deeply rooted while reaching for the sky
Be still long enough to
hear your own leaves rustling.
Posted 11/12/2007 9:16:08 AM
Think Like a Tree
by Karen I. Shragg
Soak up the sun
Affirm life's magic
Be graceful in the wind
Stand tall after a storm
Feel refreshed after it rains
Grow strong without notice
Be prepared for each season
Provide shelter to strangers
Hang tough through a cold spell
Emerge renewed at the first signs of spring
Stay deeply rooted while reaching for the sky
Be still long enough to
hear your own leaves rustling.
When People Die
Posted 11/11/2007 12:19:38 PM
Funerals, and Memorials have a positive side too. Funerals allow for a viewing, and memorials only allow remembrance of the wholesome person that was there in your life in the past. Both ways, we all examine the significance of an entire lifespan.
The passing of someone who has been close, or someone who has been in your life for a long time can often lead to introspection. We talk about the accomplishments of the deceased, and happily make conclusions one way or the other.
We might say, ”Ah, this was a good person.” After which we may want to emulate the earmarks of that person’s life.
The interesting journey down memory lane is a wellspring of surprise, because this is a new you, an older you who views events from a new perspective, and you are somehow changed in this process. You are shaken from complacency, or stagnancy.
You can decide that you would like to be like this person, and that you’d better hurry, and get started with the self improvement program you’ve had in mind. It is also possible that you may need to glean the fields of that person’s life to find the good. You may use the perspective in this case, to decide who you don’t want to be like.
In any event, you cannot escape being changed when someone you know passes on.
Posted 11/11/2007 12:19:38 PM
Funerals, and Memorials have a positive side too. Funerals allow for a viewing, and memorials only allow remembrance of the wholesome person that was there in your life in the past. Both ways, we all examine the significance of an entire lifespan.
The passing of someone who has been close, or someone who has been in your life for a long time can often lead to introspection. We talk about the accomplishments of the deceased, and happily make conclusions one way or the other.
We might say, ”Ah, this was a good person.” After which we may want to emulate the earmarks of that person’s life.
The interesting journey down memory lane is a wellspring of surprise, because this is a new you, an older you who views events from a new perspective, and you are somehow changed in this process. You are shaken from complacency, or stagnancy.
You can decide that you would like to be like this person, and that you’d better hurry, and get started with the self improvement program you’ve had in mind. It is also possible that you may need to glean the fields of that person’s life to find the good. You may use the perspective in this case, to decide who you don’t want to be like.
In any event, you cannot escape being changed when someone you know passes on.
Why it's Important to be an Individual When in a Relationship
Posted 11/3/2007 11:53:35 PM
The most pertinent problem that women I know have with men begins before meeting that signifigant other. Behavior patterns that we learn cling onto us through adulthood, helping a woman sabatoge her own endeavors. Sometimes this may be true for men, too.
After comparing notes in a conversation with a girlfriend, I found it quite interesting how through different paths, we found ourselves at the same place. Searching for our own identity, we both had begun changing things in our lives. I stumbled around with writer's block after this. Bumped into a book I had laying around, and opened it to the exact page that shed some light on the phenomena of losing oneself.
In any event, when a person loses her/himself, and begins to search for the true self that seems to have gotten lost, here is a clue for getting back to who you really are:
"We reactively live the scripts handed to us by family, associates, other people’s agendas, the pressures of circumstance – scripts from our earlier years, from our training, our conditioning. These scripts come from people, not principles. And they rise out of our deep vulnerabilities, our deep dependency on others and our needs for acceptance and love, for belonging, for a sense of importance and worth, for a feeling that we matter.
Whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are in control of it or not, there is a first creation to every part of our lives. We are either the second creation of our own proactive design, or we are the second creation of other people’s agendas, of circumstances or of past habits.. . .we go into managing with efficiency, setting and achieving goals before we have even clarified our values
Spouse centeredness:
We become highly dependent on the relationship with the spouse. Vulnerable to the moods, feelings, the behavior and treatment of our spouse, or to any external event that may impinge on the relationship – a new child, in laws, economic setbacks, social success, and so forth.
When responsibilities increase and stresses come in the marriage, we tend to revert to the scripts were given as were growing up. Different ways of handling financial, child discipline, or in law issues come to the surface. When these deep seated tendencies combine with the emotional dependency in the marriage, the spouse centered relationship reveals all its vulnerability.
When we are dependent on the person with whom we are in conflict, both need and conflict are compounded. Love hate overreactions, fight or flight tendencies, withdrawal, aggressiveness, bitterness, resentment, and cold competition are some of the usual results. When this occurs, we tend to fall ever further back on background tendencies, and habits in order to justify and defend our own behavior and we attack our spouses.
Inevitably, anytime we are too vulnerable we feel the need to protect ourselves from further wounds. So we resort to sarcasm, cutting humor, criticism – anything that will keep from exposing the tenderness within. Each partner tends to wait on the initiative of the other for love, only to be disappointed but also confirmed as to the rightness of the accusations made.
There is only phantom security in such a relationship when all appears to be going well. Guidance is based on the emotion of the moment. Wisdom and power are lost in the counter dependent negative interactions."
from: Seven Habits of Highly Effective People-Stephen R. Covey
Does any of this sound familiar?
Posted 11/3/2007 11:53:35 PM
The most pertinent problem that women I know have with men begins before meeting that signifigant other. Behavior patterns that we learn cling onto us through adulthood, helping a woman sabatoge her own endeavors. Sometimes this may be true for men, too.
After comparing notes in a conversation with a girlfriend, I found it quite interesting how through different paths, we found ourselves at the same place. Searching for our own identity, we both had begun changing things in our lives. I stumbled around with writer's block after this. Bumped into a book I had laying around, and opened it to the exact page that shed some light on the phenomena of losing oneself.
In any event, when a person loses her/himself, and begins to search for the true self that seems to have gotten lost, here is a clue for getting back to who you really are:
"We reactively live the scripts handed to us by family, associates, other people’s agendas, the pressures of circumstance – scripts from our earlier years, from our training, our conditioning. These scripts come from people, not principles. And they rise out of our deep vulnerabilities, our deep dependency on others and our needs for acceptance and love, for belonging, for a sense of importance and worth, for a feeling that we matter.
Whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are in control of it or not, there is a first creation to every part of our lives. We are either the second creation of our own proactive design, or we are the second creation of other people’s agendas, of circumstances or of past habits.. . .we go into managing with efficiency, setting and achieving goals before we have even clarified our values
Spouse centeredness:
We become highly dependent on the relationship with the spouse. Vulnerable to the moods, feelings, the behavior and treatment of our spouse, or to any external event that may impinge on the relationship – a new child, in laws, economic setbacks, social success, and so forth.
When responsibilities increase and stresses come in the marriage, we tend to revert to the scripts were given as were growing up. Different ways of handling financial, child discipline, or in law issues come to the surface. When these deep seated tendencies combine with the emotional dependency in the marriage, the spouse centered relationship reveals all its vulnerability.
When we are dependent on the person with whom we are in conflict, both need and conflict are compounded. Love hate overreactions, fight or flight tendencies, withdrawal, aggressiveness, bitterness, resentment, and cold competition are some of the usual results. When this occurs, we tend to fall ever further back on background tendencies, and habits in order to justify and defend our own behavior and we attack our spouses.
Inevitably, anytime we are too vulnerable we feel the need to protect ourselves from further wounds. So we resort to sarcasm, cutting humor, criticism – anything that will keep from exposing the tenderness within. Each partner tends to wait on the initiative of the other for love, only to be disappointed but also confirmed as to the rightness of the accusations made.
There is only phantom security in such a relationship when all appears to be going well. Guidance is based on the emotion of the moment. Wisdom and power are lost in the counter dependent negative interactions."
from: Seven Habits of Highly Effective People-Stephen R. Covey
Does any of this sound familiar?
The Bitch Brunch At Mangrove Mattie's
Posted 8/8/2007 6:14:16 AM
Fifteen women plus myself went for brunch at a fabulous place called Mangrove Mattie’s. This was the so many eth quarterly meeting of women who understand. We all need ventilation of our feelings. Our men call it bitching. In complete yet amiable indifference, this gathering took on the name of “Bitch Brunch”.
I took an end seat at our long banquet table due to having a head cold and hoping to minimize exposure to others. The woman next to me had just quit smoking. The one across from me lamented losing the second daughter who moved out of town with a grand baby in tow. We all sympathized.
There were three of us that filled seats at that end who didn’t have anything to bitch about. Could that be because we were too busy stuffing our mouths with the fabulous items from the buffet? Or did we all feel a certain contentment about our lives?
Across the table a little blonde woman was grateful to have survived cancer. The one to the left of me was happy and in love. She found a stray pup of a man who is grateful for her presence in his life. And judging by her gracious and serene countenance, I could easily understand why her new significant other seems to be in high spirits as well.
The star of the party, it seemed, was an elderly black woman with sun bleached white hair, and lots of finesse I’m still hoping to find out her age. The only black person the midst of southern company, her presence was a marker. Intellectually sharp, Betty’s imprint of refinement gave the rest of us younger women something to model ourselves after.
Betty was funny and poised when the windy day blew her dress up in the parking lot. We all got a laugh when she said it was o.k. about the wind. As a few of us valiantly stepped up to help her get her dress back down she told us not to worry, she had just gotten several pairs of new panties that no one else ever gets to see.
Although, I don’t have photos for this event, I can offer the perspective of “misty water color memories,” to compensate. Our “Bitch Brunch” was all the center of attention at Mangrove Mattie’s as the anonymous group of women who were all so comfortable with one another. People in the seats next to us queried. I got to brag about being the honorary snowbird, most grateful at having been invited to the “Bitch Brunch.”
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/339380/two_women_in_spring_and_winter.html
Posted 8/8/2007 6:14:16 AM
Fifteen women plus myself went for brunch at a fabulous place called Mangrove Mattie’s. This was the so many eth quarterly meeting of women who understand. We all need ventilation of our feelings. Our men call it bitching. In complete yet amiable indifference, this gathering took on the name of “Bitch Brunch”.
I took an end seat at our long banquet table due to having a head cold and hoping to minimize exposure to others. The woman next to me had just quit smoking. The one across from me lamented losing the second daughter who moved out of town with a grand baby in tow. We all sympathized.
There were three of us that filled seats at that end who didn’t have anything to bitch about. Could that be because we were too busy stuffing our mouths with the fabulous items from the buffet? Or did we all feel a certain contentment about our lives?
Across the table a little blonde woman was grateful to have survived cancer. The one to the left of me was happy and in love. She found a stray pup of a man who is grateful for her presence in his life. And judging by her gracious and serene countenance, I could easily understand why her new significant other seems to be in high spirits as well.
The star of the party, it seemed, was an elderly black woman with sun bleached white hair, and lots of finesse I’m still hoping to find out her age. The only black person the midst of southern company, her presence was a marker. Intellectually sharp, Betty’s imprint of refinement gave the rest of us younger women something to model ourselves after.
Betty was funny and poised when the windy day blew her dress up in the parking lot. We all got a laugh when she said it was o.k. about the wind. As a few of us valiantly stepped up to help her get her dress back down she told us not to worry, she had just gotten several pairs of new panties that no one else ever gets to see.
Although, I don’t have photos for this event, I can offer the perspective of “misty water color memories,” to compensate. Our “Bitch Brunch” was all the center of attention at Mangrove Mattie’s as the anonymous group of women who were all so comfortable with one another. People in the seats next to us queried. I got to brag about being the honorary snowbird, most grateful at having been invited to the “Bitch Brunch.”
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/339380/two_women_in_spring_and_winter.html
Froggie in the Window
Posted 8/2/2007 6:13:54 PM
Post hurricane life was a tough one for creatures, too. Government assistance was never an option for them. Just on the outskirts of town, our friends were inundated with a yard full of huge, migrating frogs. Maggie and Rick told of how, after dark, whenever they switched on the back porch light, they beheld nothing but a sea of shining frog skin.
These huge frogs were bounding out of the canal, heading for some mysterious destination away from alligators, possibly? In short order, the big frogs were finding their way into the house. They hid in unfathomable places, bouncing and plopping all through the house. The preferred habitat of these benign home invaders turned out to be the bathroom, especially the shower stall.
Some time went by, and finally the backyard frog imagery dissipated, thank god for Maggie and Rick. One evening at my house, when performing a favorite part of an ordinary bedtime ritual, I toggled the nightlight on the dresser. When it came on, it cast a soft glow onto my collection of antique perfume bottles. I automatically noticed something different in the collection. It was a lovely piece of jewelry perched on the flat top of a Channel atomizer. Surprised and then instantly mesmerized, I looked on with awe.
The barely discernible, opalescent shape glowed with indescribable beauty. I automatically knew it was a surprise gift from my husband. He had outdone himself this time. Still transfixed, I dimly wondered whether it was it a pin, or a bracelet charm.
In the faintly illuminated room, curiosity began to take over. It was an interesting shape, and I just had to pick it up to see it better. I left the room to wash my hands first, to assure that I wouldn't mar the perfect surface with my fingerprints. When I returned and I finally reached to pick it up, it went airborne. Like a tiny fairy in flight, it sailed gracefully off of the dresser and into the evening shadows of my room. Multiple searches failed to turn up the little fairylike frog. I only hoped he found his way out of the house.
A few days later, Pete and I noticed a grouping of these iridescent frogs climbing the wall of the house toward one of the window awnings we hadn’t opened yet. After watching them for a while, we observed that they changed color from pale, greenish brown to that bejeweled iridescent effect like the tiny one on the perfume bottle that night. Pete started to pick them off, and put them on the ground. I wondered if they could really hurt anything, and sadly walked away.
Alas, I later found that two of these had found their way into the framing of the awning, where they set up housekeeping for the season. They lived there all that season, and only left during the night, or on overcast days. What I learned to be albino tree frogs, have no pigment to protect their innards from the sun.
After noticing this phenomenon, I realized I would be able to anticipate the weather with more accuracy than the TV forecasts. I’d always know the best days for beachcombing, because I could see the little tree frog nestled in the framework of the awning with half closed, drowsy looking eyes. They are most welcome to be part of the family. Their housekeeping leaves much to be desired, however.
Posted 8/2/2007 6:13:54 PM
Post hurricane life was a tough one for creatures, too. Government assistance was never an option for them. Just on the outskirts of town, our friends were inundated with a yard full of huge, migrating frogs. Maggie and Rick told of how, after dark, whenever they switched on the back porch light, they beheld nothing but a sea of shining frog skin.
These huge frogs were bounding out of the canal, heading for some mysterious destination away from alligators, possibly? In short order, the big frogs were finding their way into the house. They hid in unfathomable places, bouncing and plopping all through the house. The preferred habitat of these benign home invaders turned out to be the bathroom, especially the shower stall.
Some time went by, and finally the backyard frog imagery dissipated, thank god for Maggie and Rick. One evening at my house, when performing a favorite part of an ordinary bedtime ritual, I toggled the nightlight on the dresser. When it came on, it cast a soft glow onto my collection of antique perfume bottles. I automatically noticed something different in the collection. It was a lovely piece of jewelry perched on the flat top of a Channel atomizer. Surprised and then instantly mesmerized, I looked on with awe.
The barely discernible, opalescent shape glowed with indescribable beauty. I automatically knew it was a surprise gift from my husband. He had outdone himself this time. Still transfixed, I dimly wondered whether it was it a pin, or a bracelet charm.
In the faintly illuminated room, curiosity began to take over. It was an interesting shape, and I just had to pick it up to see it better. I left the room to wash my hands first, to assure that I wouldn't mar the perfect surface with my fingerprints. When I returned and I finally reached to pick it up, it went airborne. Like a tiny fairy in flight, it sailed gracefully off of the dresser and into the evening shadows of my room. Multiple searches failed to turn up the little fairylike frog. I only hoped he found his way out of the house.
A few days later, Pete and I noticed a grouping of these iridescent frogs climbing the wall of the house toward one of the window awnings we hadn’t opened yet. After watching them for a while, we observed that they changed color from pale, greenish brown to that bejeweled iridescent effect like the tiny one on the perfume bottle that night. Pete started to pick them off, and put them on the ground. I wondered if they could really hurt anything, and sadly walked away.
Alas, I later found that two of these had found their way into the framing of the awning, where they set up housekeeping for the season. They lived there all that season, and only left during the night, or on overcast days. What I learned to be albino tree frogs, have no pigment to protect their innards from the sun.
After noticing this phenomenon, I realized I would be able to anticipate the weather with more accuracy than the TV forecasts. I’d always know the best days for beachcombing, because I could see the little tree frog nestled in the framework of the awning with half closed, drowsy looking eyes. They are most welcome to be part of the family. Their housekeeping leaves much to be desired, however.
In Defense of Egotism
Posted 7/27/2007 8:07:47 AM
“In most books, the I, or the first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. . . .I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.” - Henry David Thoreau
I had a talk with my favorite tree, Annie Oakleaf, the other day. She’s sort of like my alter ego. “Annie, can you figure out why these web site people don’t like creative stories?” I asked.
“Why you askin’ me? You know I don’t have a hankering for that indoor stuff,” she answered.
“Come on now, you always seem to have your feet rooted firmly on the ground. That’s why I asked you,” I retorted.
“You should have asked Sylvia, or somebody else.”
“Okay, how would you like it if someone came up to you and started cutting on your roots to make you go into a cookie cutter shape.?”
“What’s a cookie cutter? Sounds pretty scary,” she answered with a flutter.
“Believe me, you don’t want to find out the hard way like I did,” I came back, baiting her to listen to my vent.
“Well, alright. Lean up here on my trunk and tell me all about it.”
So I did, and I had a moment of reverie while I was at it. I must have aroused Annie’s curiosity, because she rustled into my thoughts wanting to know more about it. So then I proceeded.
“So many people seemed to be grouchy, almost flaming on the community boards that night. I had requested for one of my stories to be critiqued, and the authoritative lady who did the critique said ‘lovely stories’. Barely a week went by, and she criticized the use of the word ‘I’. The intimation that I read into her message was that using the word ‘I’ makes the whole context of the story about the author.”
Well, then I cited some famous authors that write in first person using the word ‘I’. Then one thought lead to another and it was decided that the right cookie cutter for my stories would be creative writing. Well, you know me, I’m not a category person, and I can’t see why creativity and information cannot go into the same mix? You know what I mean?”
“Turn the page, sweetie,” said Annie.
“Well if she thought of ‘I’ as being wrong, self centered, boring or whatever, why didn’t she say so in the original critique? I’m still learning. Up until recently, I never thought of questions like these. So, I asked another fellow his feed back based on his earlier post about the same topic. He said ‘I’ has no place in an article. I asked him what is it that bothers him about it. I didn’t know of any feasible rules that would be applicable against it. These nay Sayers against ‘I’ who spoke so authoritatively were unfamiliar with the works of historically famous authors Nathaniel Hawthorn, Edgar Allen Poe, and Henry James. For people with such strong opinions, they certainly lacked the knowledge to back up what they talk about.”
Annie Oakleaf rustled again, so I took it that she was following my line of reasoning. “Then what happened?” she queried.
“You won’t believe it, but the whole community board shut down after that. I think it was off for about a day. When it came back on, all of these posts had disappeared – poof!”
“And so now what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m going to write down this conversation between you and I. Then I’ll enter an excerpt from Henry David Thoreau about the reason he uses the word I in his writings. It’s a classic.
“I think my deceased cousin made a few pages for a Henry David whatever-you-said-book. But let’s get back to the point. What’s all this got to do with our little talk, and those cookie cutters you were talking about?”
“I digressed, but now I’m back. At some point, she determined that using ‘I’ is appropriate for creative writing,” I answered, and then drifted off back into thought. “Oh, yeah, the authoritative lady said that would be okay for a columnist, but that the writer should have a lot of experience in writing columns.” I thought some more. “The authoritative lady wants to shuffle me off to an island surrounded by a sea of poetry.”
“And so, what’s wrong with that?”
“Oh nothing. I love the poets, but I want to be more mainstream than that. Besides, I have a different plan for my creative work.”
“Oh, no, you’re not going to cut down another tree for yet another book in the world are you?”
“Well no, I was thinking something more like an internet book. They are called E books. That would be more ecological.”
“Isn’t that like cookie cutter?”
“Yeah, but it would be more like a filling a mold than having something pressed upon me, you know?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve heard the screams when the saws are running at the lumberyard. Ouch.”
Posted 7/27/2007 8:07:47 AM
“In most books, the I, or the first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. . . .I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.” - Henry David Thoreau
I had a talk with my favorite tree, Annie Oakleaf, the other day. She’s sort of like my alter ego. “Annie, can you figure out why these web site people don’t like creative stories?” I asked.
“Why you askin’ me? You know I don’t have a hankering for that indoor stuff,” she answered.
“Come on now, you always seem to have your feet rooted firmly on the ground. That’s why I asked you,” I retorted.
“You should have asked Sylvia, or somebody else.”
“Okay, how would you like it if someone came up to you and started cutting on your roots to make you go into a cookie cutter shape.?”
“What’s a cookie cutter? Sounds pretty scary,” she answered with a flutter.
“Believe me, you don’t want to find out the hard way like I did,” I came back, baiting her to listen to my vent.
“Well, alright. Lean up here on my trunk and tell me all about it.”
So I did, and I had a moment of reverie while I was at it. I must have aroused Annie’s curiosity, because she rustled into my thoughts wanting to know more about it. So then I proceeded.
“So many people seemed to be grouchy, almost flaming on the community boards that night. I had requested for one of my stories to be critiqued, and the authoritative lady who did the critique said ‘lovely stories’. Barely a week went by, and she criticized the use of the word ‘I’. The intimation that I read into her message was that using the word ‘I’ makes the whole context of the story about the author.”
Well, then I cited some famous authors that write in first person using the word ‘I’. Then one thought lead to another and it was decided that the right cookie cutter for my stories would be creative writing. Well, you know me, I’m not a category person, and I can’t see why creativity and information cannot go into the same mix? You know what I mean?”
“Turn the page, sweetie,” said Annie.
“Well if she thought of ‘I’ as being wrong, self centered, boring or whatever, why didn’t she say so in the original critique? I’m still learning. Up until recently, I never thought of questions like these. So, I asked another fellow his feed back based on his earlier post about the same topic. He said ‘I’ has no place in an article. I asked him what is it that bothers him about it. I didn’t know of any feasible rules that would be applicable against it. These nay Sayers against ‘I’ who spoke so authoritatively were unfamiliar with the works of historically famous authors Nathaniel Hawthorn, Edgar Allen Poe, and Henry James. For people with such strong opinions, they certainly lacked the knowledge to back up what they talk about.”
Annie Oakleaf rustled again, so I took it that she was following my line of reasoning. “Then what happened?” she queried.
“You won’t believe it, but the whole community board shut down after that. I think it was off for about a day. When it came back on, all of these posts had disappeared – poof!”
“And so now what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m going to write down this conversation between you and I. Then I’ll enter an excerpt from Henry David Thoreau about the reason he uses the word I in his writings. It’s a classic.
“I think my deceased cousin made a few pages for a Henry David whatever-you-said-book. But let’s get back to the point. What’s all this got to do with our little talk, and those cookie cutters you were talking about?”
“I digressed, but now I’m back. At some point, she determined that using ‘I’ is appropriate for creative writing,” I answered, and then drifted off back into thought. “Oh, yeah, the authoritative lady said that would be okay for a columnist, but that the writer should have a lot of experience in writing columns.” I thought some more. “The authoritative lady wants to shuffle me off to an island surrounded by a sea of poetry.”
“And so, what’s wrong with that?”
“Oh nothing. I love the poets, but I want to be more mainstream than that. Besides, I have a different plan for my creative work.”
“Oh, no, you’re not going to cut down another tree for yet another book in the world are you?”
“Well no, I was thinking something more like an internet book. They are called E books. That would be more ecological.”
“Isn’t that like cookie cutter?”
“Yeah, but it would be more like a filling a mold than having something pressed upon me, you know?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve heard the screams when the saws are running at the lumberyard. Ouch.”
Riptide @ Ripway
Posted 6/28/2007 8:20:02 AM
Step up on the boardwalk, and read the posting for the water conditions. Possible rip currents is all it says. Rip currents are easy to recognize, because they rip harshly across ankles and feet. I know this because one time I waded into one in New Jersey near Atlantic City. They kind of sting when hitting the ankles and feet. Cadmium yellow flags along the beach are waving a quiet welcome. These are displayed every day, and of course it’s always prudent to exercise caution.
Lay out the blanket for a dreamy day on the beach, and imagine the most perfect breeze. Feel the soft, springtime rays of tropical sunshine. The water is perfectly bath temperature, and the waves are only gentle three footers, and mostly swells. It's too inviting to resist.
Dabbling first isn’t necessary on this most perfect day, and it’s time for a dip. People are on the sandbar throwing a Frisbee, so it’s obviously not the right place to swim. The Frisbee Players are only in water up to their knees. Next to the sandbar is a little opening of deeper water.
Move on in till shoulders are surrounded with that undulating sea water swirling, cooling, and so relaxing. Waves coming in always return to the shoreline, so float with them. Worries can easily drift away on a beauteous day like this. Evidently, the possible rip current isn’t meant to be part of such an ideal day. There’s nothing dangerous in sight. Eyes closed and the body is soon floating. The sun penetrates warm glints right through eyelids.
Now, try springing off the bottom of the sandy floor and catch the next wave with a sidestroke. Wait, where’s the bottom? There’s no bottom to land on, and the next wave passes over, splashing, and a little foamy. In this deeper spot something is stronger than the buoyant wave above it. It’s pulling, softly rushing faster than the wave. It’s dangerously pulling away from the shoreline instead of back in. With the sudden realization of a natural phenomenon comes recognition of how far it’s becoming to fight this thing and get back into shore. Now panic sheers into that perfect day. Fear cuts into every part. The breath is gone momentarily in the darkness of the suddenly deeper water.
Shallow water is just nearby, but it’s impossible to get there. Lungs are stating to fill with air again. Ah! Finally, breathing returns. Go under again in the deep part, and touch, and then spring as has hard as possible. Kick and swim hard toward that area just three feet away. Fight that dangerous rip current. Once more down and under, feel for that sand to greet searching toes, and hope for the foothold to spring once more. Touch bottom and walk hard against that subtly heaving pull. At last another foothold. Swirling water stills gives invitation to Neptune’s den. Don’t go there, it’s a dangerous place.
Once on dry land, thank god, and bid the king of the sea, for sparing life, this time. Plan on heading home, and to remember always, rip currents can be there, churning yet imperceptible and dangerous in their movement. They can be lurking between sandbars where the returning tidewater flushes through in the wrong direction. Remember always that rip currents are dangerous, and not to be taken lightly.
LINK TO OTHER STORIES:
www.associatedcontent.com/article/291808/autism_perceptual_challenge_or_cosmic.html
Posted 6/28/2007 8:20:02 AM
Step up on the boardwalk, and read the posting for the water conditions. Possible rip currents is all it says. Rip currents are easy to recognize, because they rip harshly across ankles and feet. I know this because one time I waded into one in New Jersey near Atlantic City. They kind of sting when hitting the ankles and feet. Cadmium yellow flags along the beach are waving a quiet welcome. These are displayed every day, and of course it’s always prudent to exercise caution.
Lay out the blanket for a dreamy day on the beach, and imagine the most perfect breeze. Feel the soft, springtime rays of tropical sunshine. The water is perfectly bath temperature, and the waves are only gentle three footers, and mostly swells. It's too inviting to resist.
Dabbling first isn’t necessary on this most perfect day, and it’s time for a dip. People are on the sandbar throwing a Frisbee, so it’s obviously not the right place to swim. The Frisbee Players are only in water up to their knees. Next to the sandbar is a little opening of deeper water.
Move on in till shoulders are surrounded with that undulating sea water swirling, cooling, and so relaxing. Waves coming in always return to the shoreline, so float with them. Worries can easily drift away on a beauteous day like this. Evidently, the possible rip current isn’t meant to be part of such an ideal day. There’s nothing dangerous in sight. Eyes closed and the body is soon floating. The sun penetrates warm glints right through eyelids.
Now, try springing off the bottom of the sandy floor and catch the next wave with a sidestroke. Wait, where’s the bottom? There’s no bottom to land on, and the next wave passes over, splashing, and a little foamy. In this deeper spot something is stronger than the buoyant wave above it. It’s pulling, softly rushing faster than the wave. It’s dangerously pulling away from the shoreline instead of back in. With the sudden realization of a natural phenomenon comes recognition of how far it’s becoming to fight this thing and get back into shore. Now panic sheers into that perfect day. Fear cuts into every part. The breath is gone momentarily in the darkness of the suddenly deeper water.
Shallow water is just nearby, but it’s impossible to get there. Lungs are stating to fill with air again. Ah! Finally, breathing returns. Go under again in the deep part, and touch, and then spring as has hard as possible. Kick and swim hard toward that area just three feet away. Fight that dangerous rip current. Once more down and under, feel for that sand to greet searching toes, and hope for the foothold to spring once more. Touch bottom and walk hard against that subtly heaving pull. At last another foothold. Swirling water stills gives invitation to Neptune’s den. Don’t go there, it’s a dangerous place.
Once on dry land, thank god, and bid the king of the sea, for sparing life, this time. Plan on heading home, and to remember always, rip currents can be there, churning yet imperceptible and dangerous in their movement. They can be lurking between sandbars where the returning tidewater flushes through in the wrong direction. Remember always that rip currents are dangerous, and not to be taken lightly.
LINK TO OTHER STORIES:
www.associatedcontent.com/article/291808/autism_perceptual_challenge_or_cosmic.html
Intercepted letter from a soldier in Iraq
Posted 6/23/2007 5:55:51 AM
I always like to circumvent the news on television. To me the best way to find the real scoop is to connect to the actual people involved in the story. I'm always looking for that lucky opportunity to do so. Here's an article I wrote when I had a lucky find like that:
A letter from Art Grimaldi touched me where I needed it. All that ever comes around is bad news about the war in Iraq, but this letter said something that was a ray of light in darkness. Who is Art Grimaldi? He is a citizen of Ft. Pierce, Florida and he is a Lieutenant Colonel, U.S. Reserves.
“Hello to everyone from lovely Irbil,” he greets. It’s cold where he is. The differences in climate can be compared to the differences between Buffalo and Miami here in the states. Iraqis are training in the North, and Kurdish soldiers will be ready soon to help fight in the south, closer to or in Baghdad. Mr. Grimaldi states that the trainees are very much looking forward to moving southward to serve the cause.
The Lieutenant paints a very different scenario than what we get most of the time on the evening news. He tells of how the citizens are elated to be rid of the horrible and terrifying regime of Sadam Hussein.
“I can tell you that everyone we’ve met supports the United States and they are elated that we freed them. It is so great to drive through these little towns and to have people smile and wave. . .”
He goes on to tell how the local kids can hear the HMMVs coming down the road, and how they come running out to greet the U.S. soldiers and wave and smile. After a few times of this, the soldiers decided to bring candy which they threw out the gun holes watching for the delight of joyful expressions that come about when children and candy are united.
Later on in his letter Grimaldi scoffs Barrack Obama saying NO, the sacrifices he and the entire Grimaldi family are making are NOT in vain. He sounds obdurate, and goes on to explain why.
“. . .we are over here, living it every day. Our sacrifice and the sacrifice of our families back home see everything that so many people have fought for, and some have died for, just be abandoned, resulting in no gain for the security of our family and friends back home.”
His interpreter, Big Mac, brings news from Baghdad telling of how the good people of Baghdad scurry around like mice in the attempt of doing everyday sorts of activities. They come out of their homes, scurry around to get to work or market, and then scurry back home before the cat (terrorists) can get them. Mac was there for a week. When he returned home, he had to call back with the news. Apparently the new Baghdad security plan brought about optimism. “It’s like a new day,” says Mac after having been gone for that week. Regular people interchanges were happening as if once again in normalcy. He reported that the difference is night and day. The reason this is such good news is because of the belief that as Baghdad goes, so does the rest of Iraq.
The end of Grimaldi’s letter can only say that Baghdad is a safer place than the week before. So, do we dare to hope? When the mention of children comes about, I become quite softened on the issue of non violence, and anti-war demonstrations. The truth of the matter is that we can only be so far removed from the lives of our world neighbors. Passivity kills, too.
Posted 6/23/2007 5:55:51 AM
I always like to circumvent the news on television. To me the best way to find the real scoop is to connect to the actual people involved in the story. I'm always looking for that lucky opportunity to do so. Here's an article I wrote when I had a lucky find like that:
A letter from Art Grimaldi touched me where I needed it. All that ever comes around is bad news about the war in Iraq, but this letter said something that was a ray of light in darkness. Who is Art Grimaldi? He is a citizen of Ft. Pierce, Florida and he is a Lieutenant Colonel, U.S. Reserves.
“Hello to everyone from lovely Irbil,” he greets. It’s cold where he is. The differences in climate can be compared to the differences between Buffalo and Miami here in the states. Iraqis are training in the North, and Kurdish soldiers will be ready soon to help fight in the south, closer to or in Baghdad. Mr. Grimaldi states that the trainees are very much looking forward to moving southward to serve the cause.
The Lieutenant paints a very different scenario than what we get most of the time on the evening news. He tells of how the citizens are elated to be rid of the horrible and terrifying regime of Sadam Hussein.
“I can tell you that everyone we’ve met supports the United States and they are elated that we freed them. It is so great to drive through these little towns and to have people smile and wave. . .”
He goes on to tell how the local kids can hear the HMMVs coming down the road, and how they come running out to greet the U.S. soldiers and wave and smile. After a few times of this, the soldiers decided to bring candy which they threw out the gun holes watching for the delight of joyful expressions that come about when children and candy are united.
Later on in his letter Grimaldi scoffs Barrack Obama saying NO, the sacrifices he and the entire Grimaldi family are making are NOT in vain. He sounds obdurate, and goes on to explain why.
“. . .we are over here, living it every day. Our sacrifice and the sacrifice of our families back home see everything that so many people have fought for, and some have died for, just be abandoned, resulting in no gain for the security of our family and friends back home.”
His interpreter, Big Mac, brings news from Baghdad telling of how the good people of Baghdad scurry around like mice in the attempt of doing everyday sorts of activities. They come out of their homes, scurry around to get to work or market, and then scurry back home before the cat (terrorists) can get them. Mac was there for a week. When he returned home, he had to call back with the news. Apparently the new Baghdad security plan brought about optimism. “It’s like a new day,” says Mac after having been gone for that week. Regular people interchanges were happening as if once again in normalcy. He reported that the difference is night and day. The reason this is such good news is because of the belief that as Baghdad goes, so does the rest of Iraq.
The end of Grimaldi’s letter can only say that Baghdad is a safer place than the week before. So, do we dare to hope? When the mention of children comes about, I become quite softened on the issue of non violence, and anti-war demonstrations. The truth of the matter is that we can only be so far removed from the lives of our world neighbors. Passivity kills, too.
Astral Travel
Posted 6/20/2007 7:18:34 AM
I experienced out of body travel, I think, during a phase when I prided myself on being able to sleep on the end of a tree limb. As a yoga practice, I endeavored to sleep on the floor with nothing more than a little straw matt. Eventually I learned that I should have been raised in an ashram to be ale to reap the benefits of this austere sleeping tradition.
All my friends were involved in yoga and meditation, and all things cosmic, and so was I.
Every Friday, we all gathered for a meditation meeting and snacks. My whole life was filled with otherworldly interests. Still, I had always taken a bit of a skeptical view of some of the theories, and bizarre tales that came out of these meetings. All the same they were interesting.
I had just gotten back from living in California for a year, and I was staying with my friend, and occupying the attic bedroom. It was an old farm house, and the attic ceilings were shaped with the typical hip roof design. The angular ceilings were the first thing I’d see upon waking each morning. On that particular morning of the out of body experience, I remember looking up as usual, but this time feeling disoriented for some reason. The whole room had a foggy grayish cast, and I thought I would turn over so as not to view the ceiling. When I attempted to move, I was frozen as if paralyzed.
I was scared, and alone. What could be making this happen? As I laid there motionless, I could remember the dream I had had during the night. My old art professor and his wife were in the dream, and we met in some sort of a beautiful meadow. The dream was in full Technicolor, and incredibly realistic. Both my professor and his wife had been killed in a car accident while I was away in California. I had been thinking about them a lot. So, in this way, the dream synchronized with my daily waking life. The only out of the ordinary parts of the dream were the color, and the realism.
Since I couldn’t move, I mulled over the whole dream, and still remember it to this day. There were other people on the opposite side of the beautiful meadow. I couldn’t see them very well, but I remember feeling as if somebody else I knew was in their group.
I could see them strolling away when Mr. Shock leaned over to whisper in my ear. I remember feeling as though he told me something profound about art. Frustratingly, I could never remember his words. So this part f the dream was like an empty vessel, although I believed I would eventually have total recall. I also thought that perhaps the message somehow went directly to my subconscious mind. I was laying there thinking all kinds of things with my active imagination running on auto pilot. Once I had really began to scare myself, I noticed a form silhouetted in the east facing window.
The form seemed to be a concentration of that grayish floating matter that I’d noticed earlier. I wondered what this person was doing in my room? In the next moment, I wondered if whoever it was had come in to shut the window. When I asked the person about it, I got no answer.
Finally, I was quite relieved upon discovering that I was able to move. When I got out of the invisible grip that had held me, I immediately searched the house for that grayish form I had seen. The search proved I was indeed in the house alone.
Stymied, but glad that nothing was wrong with me, I got on the phone and called Madeline, the leader of our meditation group. In her usual calm and earthy voice she said,
“You were astral traveling. Nothing to worry about.”
“Astral traveling?” I queried.
“Yes, it’s nothing to get concerned about. A lot of people have had this occurrence. What happened to you is also known as an out of the body experience,” she told me.
Posted 6/20/2007 7:18:34 AM
I experienced out of body travel, I think, during a phase when I prided myself on being able to sleep on the end of a tree limb. As a yoga practice, I endeavored to sleep on the floor with nothing more than a little straw matt. Eventually I learned that I should have been raised in an ashram to be ale to reap the benefits of this austere sleeping tradition.
All my friends were involved in yoga and meditation, and all things cosmic, and so was I.
Every Friday, we all gathered for a meditation meeting and snacks. My whole life was filled with otherworldly interests. Still, I had always taken a bit of a skeptical view of some of the theories, and bizarre tales that came out of these meetings. All the same they were interesting.
I had just gotten back from living in California for a year, and I was staying with my friend, and occupying the attic bedroom. It was an old farm house, and the attic ceilings were shaped with the typical hip roof design. The angular ceilings were the first thing I’d see upon waking each morning. On that particular morning of the out of body experience, I remember looking up as usual, but this time feeling disoriented for some reason. The whole room had a foggy grayish cast, and I thought I would turn over so as not to view the ceiling. When I attempted to move, I was frozen as if paralyzed.
I was scared, and alone. What could be making this happen? As I laid there motionless, I could remember the dream I had had during the night. My old art professor and his wife were in the dream, and we met in some sort of a beautiful meadow. The dream was in full Technicolor, and incredibly realistic. Both my professor and his wife had been killed in a car accident while I was away in California. I had been thinking about them a lot. So, in this way, the dream synchronized with my daily waking life. The only out of the ordinary parts of the dream were the color, and the realism.
Since I couldn’t move, I mulled over the whole dream, and still remember it to this day. There were other people on the opposite side of the beautiful meadow. I couldn’t see them very well, but I remember feeling as if somebody else I knew was in their group.
I could see them strolling away when Mr. Shock leaned over to whisper in my ear. I remember feeling as though he told me something profound about art. Frustratingly, I could never remember his words. So this part f the dream was like an empty vessel, although I believed I would eventually have total recall. I also thought that perhaps the message somehow went directly to my subconscious mind. I was laying there thinking all kinds of things with my active imagination running on auto pilot. Once I had really began to scare myself, I noticed a form silhouetted in the east facing window.
The form seemed to be a concentration of that grayish floating matter that I’d noticed earlier. I wondered what this person was doing in my room? In the next moment, I wondered if whoever it was had come in to shut the window. When I asked the person about it, I got no answer.
Finally, I was quite relieved upon discovering that I was able to move. When I got out of the invisible grip that had held me, I immediately searched the house for that grayish form I had seen. The search proved I was indeed in the house alone.
Stymied, but glad that nothing was wrong with me, I got on the phone and called Madeline, the leader of our meditation group. In her usual calm and earthy voice she said,
“You were astral traveling. Nothing to worry about.”
“Astral traveling?” I queried.
“Yes, it’s nothing to get concerned about. A lot of people have had this occurrence. What happened to you is also known as an out of the body experience,” she told me.
FeedBack
imthelady
11/12/2007 8:06:03 AM
good morning....didnt know u saw u on so i stopped by before i got off.....come visit
pollyrose
8/31/2007 12:43:58 AM
Thanks for you comment on my page...you seem like my kinda woman!....
carallel
7/27/2007 8:17:24 AM
Comments are more than welcome. Please let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Me
Ogmug
6/23/2007 11:11:43 AM
So basically you demote him 3 ranks when you call him just Lieutenant. LOL
Ogmug
6/23/2007 11:11:17 AM
In the army it goes:
2nd Lieutenant
1st Lieutenant
Captain
M
ajor
Lieutenant Colonel
Colenel
Brig
adier General
Major General
Lieutenant General
General
(and occasionally, General of the Army).
TheRedhead
6/19/2007 3:08:19 PM
thanks for the comment on my page.
11/12/2007 8:06:03 AM
good morning....didnt know u saw u on so i stopped by before i got off.....come visit
pollyrose
8/31/2007 12:43:58 AM
Thanks for you comment on my page...you seem like my kinda woman!....
carallel
7/27/2007 8:17:24 AM
Comments are more than welcome. Please let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Me
Ogmug
6/23/2007 11:11:43 AM
So basically you demote him 3 ranks when you call him just Lieutenant. LOL
Ogmug
6/23/2007 11:11:17 AM
In the army it goes:
2nd Lieutenant
1st Lieutenant
Captain
M
ajor
Lieutenant Colonel
Colenel
Brig
adier General
Major General
Lieutenant General
General
(and occasionally, General of the Army).
TheRedhead
6/19/2007 3:08:19 PM
thanks for the comment on my page.
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