What Time Is It?

What Time is it?

By

B.D. Adams  ©2015

It’s

 been the best of times … it’s been the worst of times. That could describe most any decision to move to or from a place. I am not Lucie Manette, in A Tale of Two Cities. I’m not perfect and nowhere near ideal, according to Dickens description of his heroine.

            The tale of two cities was about what went on with London and Paris around the French Revolution. Two decisive cities.

My story would be more a tale of why would two modern day twenty-year-olds even think about moving to a place so different from how they currently lived. Not during a revolution, unless you count the generation revolution. My tale happened many years ago and could have been a horrible disaster for me.

            This was when I was in Columbus, Ohio, in 1972. I was 22 and in college at Ohio State University. Ed, my boyfriend, was 24 and at OSU, also, and a senior. I was working on my sophomore year – hadn’t begun my major’s classes; Fine Art. In under a year, Ed would graduate. His major was philosophy.

Ed was a guy who liked to dress casually, not dumpy, but blue-jeans and flannel shirts --kind of like mountain attire. Would roll his own cigarettes (tobacco only) and liked rock-n-roll and Bluegrass music. So did I, however, I didn’t smoke.

We lived in a small bungalow house that was behind a larger house in the campus area; a Victorian style, rather old. The backyard was long and narrow, as was most of the older homes in this area. The big, main house was divided into smaller apartments. Two first floor and two second and one attic studio. Not every apartment was occupied, but the ones that were had tenants who were good people. All students.

This particular year, the cost of food was horribly inflated. With some of the other tenants, we made a big garden, a communal-like garden. The cost of meat was more than outrageous, as well. Ed and I decided to raise rabbits for our meat. He built the hutches. I fed the adults rabbits and the young ones and helped to keep under the hutches clean.

The rabbit’s droppings were fertilizer for the garden and we sold some to other houses with gardens. Fairly profitable.

Ed killed and skinned the rabbits, I gutted and cooked. A bit gruesome, but rabbit was good eating and only cost the fee for their food.

The bungalow was actually, at one time, the garage for a vehicle and the above was the living quarters for the “help.” I lived in the quarters. Ed’s open apartment was the one-time garage.

We kept our separate homes because we both needed our space. My homework, his thesis work. All in all, our relationship went pretty well.

Then, our conversations began to sound more serious. It kind of went like this:

Ed:       I’m graduating next Spring. (Spring 1973)

BD:      Yes, I know.

Ed:       You want to stay in school?

BD:      Probably. Why?

Ed:       Wanna stay in Columbus?

BD:      OK, Ed. What are you getting at?

Ed:       Oh … I’ve been thinking.

BD:      Yes … about what?

Ed:       Going to Kentucky.

BD:      Kentucky …

Ed:       Yeah, Kentucky. They have “hollers” there, deep in the hills.

BD:      Hollows … like in Sleepy Hollow?

Ed:       Sort of. (a small giggle) No headless horseman.

BD:      That’s a relief.

Ed:       In the Hollows, nobody bothers you. (points to antique musket rifle, still worked)

BD:      You want to shoot hillbillies in Kentucky?

Ed:       (small laugh) Of course not.

BD:      Whew. (wipes forehead with fingers)

Ed:       I’ve checked it out – I can teach there with my degree.

BD:      Teach. Teach philosophy in Kentucky – like in Louisville?

Ed:       No, silly. Teach children in whatever Hollow we decide to live.

BD:      Live in a Hollow in Kentucky? Teach children?

Ed:       Yes.

BD:      Hmmm … let me ponder that idea.

Well, that was how it all began.

Oh, yes … it was made known that there would be no electricity where we’d live. A well, but no running water. We’d need to cart water from the well and heat the water at the fireplace for baths or to wash clothes or dishes. I couldn’t have any of my “dry-cleaning” garments. Ed would build a loom so we could weave cloth.

We would have animals, but not for pets … for survival. A few head of cattle (beef and milk), pigs, sheep, chickens and ducks. It might take five or so years to truly become self-sufficient.

I checked books out of the OSU library to learn how to make candles, how to do canning, how to weave cloth, even how to spin wool to make thread or yarn.

The Hollow we looked at, near the Daniel Boone National Forest, had a small, general store. We could buy or trade for whatever we needed.

And, there was a log-house, not just a cabin, for sale that had caught our eye. Measured about 1,100 square-footage. Had a fabulous fireplace for warmth, plus a wood cook-stove with a separate chimney. The main, big-room had a few support posts that held up the roof, with a cozy upstairs bedroom. All the windows, that opened outward, were glass, but had the look of age.

There was a barn, but not all that big. Ed said he’d add-on to it, maybe attach it to the house. Also, there was a room built connected to the house, but somewhat separate. Could be used for Ed’s pre-school to teach the Hollow’s children.

In all honesty, the idea was intriguing. Rather romantic. Live in the wooded hills where things were still not all that up-to-date, modern. Be secluded from the mainstream. My imagination took over rational decisions.

We had long discussions of our ideas for this new way of living. We would keep his Dodge Mini-van, only for emergencies. Our bicycles would be used as we used them now. I could ride mine to the country store; albeit a more bumpy ride.

However, things began to unravel. All our ideas were workable and detailed for 2 ½ seasons, but not for the rain and winter seasons in those hills. Carting the children to Ed’s school would almost be impossible for the parents. The snow drifts were very high at times, Ed learned. The snow, ice, slush and mud were not calculated in our plans.

Even for our situation, it would be a hardship to maintain the animals, keep them warm and dry, along with their feeding and water. The barn was not insulated – the water would freeze overnight. Even the well could be ice-covered which made it hard to break. There were many stories of hens and ducks that would not lay in the winter. We had planned for the eggs to be our staple.

Well, Ed and I faced the idea of our new way of living without blinders. Could we truly live all winter inside that house? Would we go bonkers with “cabin-fever?” Reality slapped us with the words of, “Snap out of it!”

We weren’t Kentuckians of the 1800s. Daniel Boone and Davey Crocket had died at the Alamo over a century ago. Who were we kidding? Ourselves, of course.

As I said before, it was a romantic idea.

Ed and I discontinued our romantic relationship, but we did continue as friends. He graduated and went to work for the Ohio EPA. His degree was in philosophy, but any degree was good for the EPA. He got a good wage and a new girlfriend.

A few years later, after I left college, I became a commercial photographer. That was a good move for me.

In my present way of living, in 2015, I live in a cut-out area of a forest in mountains in New Hampshire with a fellow I plan to marry next year. With this house, we have electricity, hot & cold running water from a well, propane gas oven and a wood stove for winter heat, plus a kerosene heater. Also, there is a two-car garage we call a barn.

Roads are plowed in the winter after a New Hampshire snow storm. Rustic living, but not like what I envisioned back in 1972, but it definitely has that romantic feel.

Right now … it is the best of times.

An Author

To Be An Author

by B.D. Adams ©2015

 

 

 

“A

nd, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

 

Most of my young life, I was asked that question by older folks who thought they were being wise or studious. Mostly, they just wanted to show they were wiser than my little self.

How I hated that question. Once, being in a bratty mood, I answered, “I want to be the president.” That brought snickers and looks from the men that said, “In your dreams.”

The women were no better with their answers. Always, they would piously smile and offer, “You want to be a Mom. Right? Or a secretary or nurse first – and then, marry the boss or a doctor!”

Bull-pucky!! I was a Texas girl and wanted to be the boss! I was born in Ft. Worth and lived in Texas until I was 18. Then, moved to Columbus, Ohio, to attend Ohio State University.

Because of the social stigmas, I lived my life according to “Hoyle.” My mother was an avid Bridge player in the ‘50s. I never learned to play that card game. I was more into Poker and Pool and Tennis. Because my father taught me to fish, swim and play tennis, I developed a competitive personality. I learned how to play pool/billiards all on my own. I played pool in any bar or hall I’d go to. Still have my cue. (check out my Blog for “The Rolling 8 Ball”)

Because of my tenacious/competitive nature, I became a pro photographer. My longtime male friend trained, educated me in photography. He knew I was an artist and wanted to use my artistic know-how to be in his studio.

For over 25 years – in different studios around the country – my career was in the photo arts.

As the direction of my “luck” went, however, I had a hemorrhagic stroke in June of 1998. My right side was taken from me. I was in Columbus surrounded with my friends and competitors. Most didn’t know how to be with me, once I was out of the hospital.

Talk about a change! I was forced into “early retirement” from photography. Oh, I tried to
maintain my vocation, but when you had limited, and I mean very limited use of your right leg and hand/arm, photo equipment was more than a struggle.

I had a few friends who encouraged my continued reconnections with photography. My dear friend who taught me photography, gave me a recorder to possibly write about my condition. However, even I knew my limits. I needed more physical therapy to better become mobile, more regular.

My condition became as better as it could with all the therapy. However, I became tired of all “pity” I heard from people, especially from many I knew. I needed a change. I relocated to New Hampshire to live with the encouragement of a woman I had met on-line in a Chat-Room way before the stroke. I loved NH!

Once in NH, my friend introduced me to the fellow I now live with. How nice.

Since I had been able to type – took typing in high school – I trained my left hand to do ALL the typing. Forget “blind typing.” Because I could type, I was able to get a few jobs in NH. Unfortunately, though, I was always too slow because of the stroke’s condition. My “nice” bosses would lay-me-off, so I could get unemployment.

I was not happy with this treatment, but I didn’t begrudge them. This was business. Even the last job I had in a hospital, through Community Action for senior citizens, I knew why the supervisor wouldn’t allow any “real” training for me. “This was NOT a training hospital,” so I had heard her say. I guess she never heard about the Ohio State University Hospital. They were proud of that description.

Well, all the other employees were constantly going through “additional training.” I hadn’t had education in “medical coding,” but I did have a couple of years of liberal arts education at OSU. Didn’t graduate, but I was trainable (my time with photography). When I left the university, I had a 4.0 GPA. I believed she didn’t like that I attended a liberal arts university. Perhaps, she didn’t. I had had enough of her attitude, so I decided to really become “retired.” I left that position. That supervisor, I begrudged.

At this age, I was 62. Tired of banging my head against all the preverbal walls for employment, I went back on Disability and decided to try my hand at writing.

I had already gotten my Blog going and had written a few stories. I really enjoyed this. However, a novel had rattled around my brain ever since I was in the hospital’s rehab when I had the stroke. Something took place in my hospital room that gave me the idea for the novel. A nurse and a patient came into my room one night. I woke up and asked them why they were in my room. They left. Hmmm … I thought to myself. This could be a story.

I began to write my novel in 2006. Once I decided to be retired – stopped trying to be employed -- I worked daily on the manuscript. It is NOT the Great American Novel, but is the novel I felt compelled to write. My dear photo mentor had given me the idea to write about my stroke’s story while I was in the hospital, but when I tried to write the non-fiction version, it bored me! I felt the need to make it juicy, which I did. Therefore, it is a work of fiction.

Of course, writing a full-length novel is much different from writing a two to three page short-story for the Blog. The story entails true accounts of medical situations for me. So, there is some reality.

Mostly the novel is a suspense/thriller, with a touch of romance. Not all, but many stories need a hint of romance … and some humor. I kept it as much PG-13 as I could, with a bit sex.

 My heroine is Liz Jacoby (me), a stroke survivor rehabbing in the hospital’s Rehab Center. Of course, I have written her differently from how I actually was in the beginning of my hospital stay. My antagonist is Pete Young, The Spider. He’s a small man, a jerk of guy, who is in the rehab from an accidental, self-inflicted gunshot wound. He refers to Liz as “not all there” because of the stroke. Pete was supposed to kill a man, but he was shot by his target, instead. He and Luke, his boss, pick my room to “talk” about why Pete was in the hospital (see the thread?).

 If you read my book’s description and/or the first chapter, you might be surprised how a still stroked mind thinks/writes. Hence, the old saying, “Different strokes for different folks.”

I have been lucky here in New Hampshire. My live-in boyfriend, soon to be husband, has been my steadfast fan of my writing. He reads everything I write. Within the last year, I became involved with the Gilman Library Writer’s Group in Alton, NH (where I live). A small group, but should increase soon.

The Group’s monitor has been very encouraging for my novel! She has offered her “grains of salt” to add to or change the manuscript to make it better. Plus, one of the Library’s following authors, Anura Gurugé, who lives in Alton, has guided me to publish the manuscript, once I felt it was worthy.

On June 4, 2015, the Gilman Library had a program on “How to Self-publish You Book,” given by Anura. He chose my novel to show how it is done and how easy it is to do. I became a published author on Amazon! It is a full-length novel, an eBook for Kindles. I’ve been on cloud 9 since June 4^th!

Without the ability to do things physically, I retrained my brain to continue to think, to mentally create, to write. It is believed, by me and others, I have accomplished this.

“What do I want to be when I grow up?” Right now, an author sounds very good.

 

“The Spider Sat Beside Her”

A Novel

by B.D. Adams --- on Amazon

 

 

Dear Reader,

Please buy the eBook (99cents) to show Amazon that I have people who will buy my work. If you read what you buy, you will be entertained.

Article --- What is Art?

Article – What is Art?

by

B.D. Adams  ©2014                                         

                                                                              MS Clipart

             Since my last story/article of “What Makes an Artist,” I have been pondering, and pondering how best to handle the next inquisitive dilemma ... “What is Art?”

            Art is in the eye of the beholder ... or so it goes. Is all good art only in museums or galleries? Are all paintings -- be they oils, watercolors, pastels, etc. -- actually art, good art? Do only antique paintings aspire in the realm of real art, or do contemporary pieces fall short in that category? Or do the contemporary art pieces need to be of vintage status before they acquire that designation! If you receive a painting/drawing from a child, is that real art? If a dear friend invites you over to view his or her latest artwork from their art class, should you be honest and try not to vomit at the sight of this piece of “art?”

            Besides the question of “What is man?,” philosophers have also debated “What is art?”

            Many years ago, when I was an under-graduate at Ohio State, I dated Ed, a graduate student in philosophy. Ed actually commented that I should change my major from fine arts to philosophy because I would give him really good arguments! Honestly, I never believed that.

            Anyway, one evening, we had supper at a pizza restaurant, nothing fancy ... a student hang-out. We had finished our supper, so as usual, our conversation became verbally combative! I cannot remember what brought it up, but we were questioning “what is art.” Sometimes the closer the friend, the farther away you’d wish they’d go.

            “You really think we need art?” Ed asked.

            “Of course, I think we need art,” I answered. “It’s all around us!” I motioned with my hands.

            “So, everything you see is art,” he concurred. I nodded. “What about trees, plants?” he quizzed.

            I smiled because I knew where he was going. “Are you asking, who made the trees?” He nodded. “You know that is natural art! The art of nature. And, it’s not necessary to bring up hybrids, manipulated botany!” I warned him.

            Ed gave me that bout, but said, “But everything in this room is an art form. Yes?”

            I nodded.

            On our small table, there was the round cardboard bottom that had held the pizza, used napkins complete with tomato sauce, a few uneaten pieces of crust, bowls that had had salad, and a few beer cans, Miller and Bud.

            He decided to really mess with me, so he began to pile what he could on the cardboard pizza disk. He smoked, so he crushed out his cigarette onto the “clutter.”

            “Here ... here is your creative art,” he pronounced. He sat back with his fingers entwined behind his head and waited for my reaction.

            I inspected what he had done. He just watched my face. All I did was nod my head.

            “What? You can’t call this art!” Ed chortled in surprise.

            “This is an example of modern art. Fairly abstract, but art, nonetheless,” I observed. This is why art is determined by the eye of the beholder!

            “Com’on, B.D. – this is garbage, not art!” Ed stated firmly.

            “Ed, that’s what you see,” I honestly affirmed.

He waved the waitress over to us. I had an idea what he was going to do, but I kept quiet. The waitress was an art student in sculpture. No classes together, but we would acknowledge each other on campus very often.

            He asked her the definitive question ... “Is this art?” He pointed to the object he had created.

            She studied the piece for a few moments. It only took her another moment to move one beer can to a different spot, and then said, “Now, it’s better.” She smiled to Ed and asked, “You guys need anything else?” She tore the ticket from the pad and handed it to Ed. Then, she went back to the register.

            I perused the change she made on the art and nodded my head in agreement.

            “I can’t understand what you two see,” Ed attested.

            “Maybe you should take some art appreciation classes. Don’t look at everything as only black or white.” I grinned at my friend and gave him a wink. He was disappointed that I had bested him at his own game.

Actually, the pizza shop art piece did get made in to a sculpture by the waitress. Not with real food, but in bronze with real beer cans. I tried to get her to sell it to me, but she kept it. I had told Ed about the sculpture; don’t know if he ever saw it. She got a great grade for that piece. Wish I knew what happened to her. So goes college.

When I have been asked, through my lifetime, what I think of a piece of art for their home, I have always nicely asked, “Why are you asking me? It’s for your home, not for mine.” A person should ask if they like it or not! That might be the hardest question to ask yourself.

            Art is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder! Is there art that would make me cringe? Hey, I am human.

         We are all individuals, even though we seem to need approval from others.

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Friendly Smiles

Friendly Smiles

By

B.D. Adams

© 2010

     Friendship! Ah, yes ... the comradeship of friends!! I have had oodles of friends and several stories come to mind that include different groups of my friends ... past and current. It always seemed that my groups would be in threes ... me and two others. Not really mysterious, but to me ... it always struck me as curious.
     Of late, one story seems to pop in my now elderly mind that regarded dining with two friends on a spur decision. I had the money for a burger or bratwurst, and the other ladies said they were game, but nothing fancy, also. They met at my off-campus apartment so we could decide where to go. I didn’t have a car, so I’d need to be picked up, in any event.
     Let me set the era, the thread of the friendship and introduce my friends, with a ditty about yours truly.
     If memory served me, this dinner took place in the summer of 1972, on a week day that we were not working. Because it was summer, it was sunny until late.
     At this junction in my life, I was a college student (not quite a Sophomore, yet), who just wanted to stay alive and well in Columbus, Ohio ... as so many other students wanted to do!! This was Buckeye Land ... you know, Ohio State University. My apartment was just 2 ½ blocks from the main campus ... easy access.
     My friends were students, as well, but with rooms in the dormitories. They had family near, but they wanted to experience life more on their own. I was a transplant from Texas and had an apartment off-campus, so I needed to work fulltime to take care of my living expenses. The girls enjoyed my apartment because it was more like living as “independent adults.”
     We had met at one of the large, classy department stores in the downtown of Columbus, where we were employed. They were part-timers, as I was a full-timer. Since we were employ-ees, we bought all our clothes and accessories with our employee discount ... for which I was so glad to use! We were college students and enjoyed playing tennis (with an invited fourth), so our quick, lithe structures were about even. This was our era of being early twenty-year-olds ... away from home and struggling to stay independent. This was a good time, albeit a learning time.
     As I remembered, the first to arrive at my place was “Sally,” the tall one (there was a song called “Long, Tall, Sally”). She was a sweet person, who I dubbed as the better friend. She wore her light brown hair long, past her shoulders. And, her hazel eyes were definitely the mirrors of her soul! Sally was quick to laugh or wink (or both), when she heard something that struck her to do so. Her emotions were usually light and quickly delivered ... be it, her humor or her irritations (like with certain co-workers).
     Within moments, “Lady M.” arrived. Now, please do not misconstrue ... Lady M. was a fantastic person, as well. Her name was because her childhood and up-brining was way different than mine or Sally’s, and she took the ribbing like a sport. We would tease her, good naturedly, that she was a rich brat. Don’t worry ... she got her digs in to us, with no problem!
     Lady M. was more to my height ... just over 5 foot. She had blue eyes, as I had, but her hair was Irish red ... with the length just above her shoulders, which she usually wore off her neck. And, everything she wore matched ... from a hair barrette to the color of her shoes. Even though she was a red-head, she was quieter than me and Sally. She would always come up with the definitive question, however ... like, “Who do you think really killed Kennedy?” Stuff like that. And, she was one heck of a tennis player! Many times, I felt she was bored playing with us because she was so much better. However, we were friends with all the pros and cons.
     I would have been dubbed as “average” in any circle ... dark, brown hair about the length of Sally’s and blue eyes (already mentioned). One very good thing that my mother did for me was get me to a dermatologist, during my teen years, to clear up all that wicked acne all over my face. Good skin, but nothing outstanding!


(Sorry ... I digress. Let’s get back to the story.)


     As they showed up, and had access to my refrigerator, each got their drink of choice. Sally would be the chauffer, so she had a soda. Lady M. and I both opted for a Miller High Life ... our favorite. We sat in my living room, located on the second floor of my vintage apartment building, to make our restaurant decision. The conversation went like this.
     “What’re you guys hungry for?” I asked.
     “Something affordable,” Lady M. giggled.
     “You’re rich ...,” Sally teased.
     Lady M. rolled her eyes to say, “Oh, come on!”
     All I did was smile. This was pretty typical.
     “Let’s go to German Village! We haven’t been there for a while,” Lady M. suggested.
     “Bratwurst!” I salivated.
     It was decided. German Village had several restaurants with mostly German cuisine, but with menus that would abide all tastes ... like hamburgers or spaghetti. We decided on one restaurant, finished our drinks and trekked out to Sally’s little Pinto, that rambled the three of us to our destination.
     As we made our way through the downtown to German Village, we gabbed, gossiped and guffawed about work. School was a big subject, along with the lack of funds for anything (except food), which was always in the forefront of our minds.
     We were able to find a parking spot right away at the Whittier Restaurant. We got there at the right time because the softball teams hadn’t finished their games to attack all the German Village restaurants and bars!
     Everything was as it had been several times before. We talked, we ate, we drank (Sally had a of couple beers with her food [This was before the days of ridge alcohol restrictions], we laughed and just remained happy to be friends!
     Since we were satiated (stuffed), it was about the time to pay our bills, so Sally and I dug our wallets out of our purses. Lady M. just sat and finished her beer. After a short moment, she appeared to be a little ... nervous.
     “Hey, guys?” Lady M. got our attention, “Uh ... can I borrow some money?”
     Borrow money ... from us? That did not compute coming from her silver-spoon mouth. I looked at Sally, as she looked at me. We both merely shrugged and made the noises that that would be all right.
     “How much you need? One ... two ... more?” I asked with a grin.
     This was the first time that I could think that she was ever embarrassed!! I mean, her cheeks were rosy, and not from her make-up!
     She commented quietly, “Uh ... all of it.”
     Mentally, I was laughing hilariously at her, but in reality, I merely checked my wallet to see if I had any small bills to help her out. Sally did the same.
     “All I have is fifteen dollars ... and, I had an extra beer,” I informed.
     “I have a ten to pay for mine with the tip. My five is for lunch tomorrow,” Sally admitted.
     “How much is your bill?” I asked the question.
     “Nine-fifty-three,” Lady M. said shyly. “I really thought I had money, but I forgot about buying something earlier.” She was perturbed with herself.
     “Can’t you use your credit card?” Sally asked.
     “I didn’t bring it. Like I said ... I thought I had the money. Will I have to wash dishes?” Lady M. asked almost in tears. She took the paper napkin to dab her eyes.
     Sally and I looked at each other, and then I fessed-up, “Don’t worry ... I have enough to cover you.”
     I was afraid she was going to try to kiss me on my lips! She smiled, so relieved, and just kept thanking me.
     I went to a different compartment in my wallet and out took out a crisp ten-spot and handed it to her. We knew Sally’s ten would cover her bill, so I told Lady M. that I’d make her tip, as well.
     “This is my “insurance” money ... when I need it,” I explained. I just hoped she’d pay me back ... soon.
     “Tomorrow ... I’ll give it back tomorrow!” Lady M. promised. Her smile was sincere!
     That was what I wanted to hear.
     With handing Lady M. the money, Sally and I really had no idea about her next person-ality twitch. I, for one, almost fell on the floor by laughing!!! I’ll do this in slow-motion, to paint the humor of this situation. This is what happened:


     Once Lady M. was composed, the waitress came to collect our payments. The waitress had her calculator and stated what our change would be. In turn, Sally and I paid our bills, and then it came to Lady M.!
     Now, just imagine, you’re watching a comedy about royalty ... about pompousness in Columbus, Ohio. As Lady M. extended her little hand ... that held the money ... she reacted like she was being greeted by a peasant of her realm. Her nose was so up-in-the-air that she’d drown if it was raining! I mean, if she had royal lineage, this would have been the telling hint!
     So, smooth ... so, regal ... she made it seem that she was the one with the money. How could anyone ever think that she could ever be penniless?! (“Money? You want money ... from moi? Oh, well ... here’s some.”)
     Oddly enough, Sally saw the same thing I saw and we just burst into laughter with tears!! Lady M. was at a loss, so we tried to enlighten her, which seemed to embarrass her, yet again.
     As I ponder on my memory, this story might sound a bit harsh, or a form of ridicule to Lady M., but what friend, among all the friends of the world, have never experienced embarrassment at some point that induces good-natured laughter?!  I know that I have been the brunt of laughter with embarrassing situations of my own.  Tis merely life, my friends.
     I think this was one of those lessons that cannot be taught in classes, but to teach us ... we are what we are and not so much what we perceive of ourselves!
     And, she did reimburse me the next day ... as a good friend.


     Oh, Lady M. ... I know not where you are today, but that memory will be with me until the day I die ... a long time from now.  I so hope you are well with friendly smiles!

(As the reader can guess ... the names have been changed to protect the innocent.)