Bringing In Fall

Posted on September 29, 2018 by Sheila Moss

leaves

Are you in the mood for fall yet? I begin to start thinking autumn when the leaves need to be raked, and the days get a little nippy. It is “sweater weather.” Soon it will be time for cleaning out the closets, and checking to see if my sweaters survived, or whether they have “angel wings” on the shoulders from being on clothes hangers all summer.

My world has taken on an earth-tone hue, reflecting the colors of changing leaves, brown grasses, and dried up vegetation. Something about the bright oranges, yellows, and reds causes my blood to run a little faster and my heart a little slower – at least until I remember the leaves to be raked.

For some unknown reason, I have the urge to go for a walk, observe and enjoy the changes of nature. There is nothing quite as satisfying as the rustle of dry leaves as I walk through piles gathered by the wind and watch as the wind scatters the rest of the leaves that need to be raked.

If my spirit is not revived by now, there is always the harvest, besides the leaves that need to be raked. How anyone can look at a pumpkin patch with its bright orange fruits and remain sad is beyond me. I always think of autumns past, when pumpkins were carved into jack-o-lanterns to make smiling lanterns in late October.

Change is all around. There is certain sadness in seeing the death of a million leaves, the withering of flowers, not to mention all the leaves that need to be raked. The long cold winter looms ahead with trees naked to the bark, and bending in the icy wind.

But that is even more of an inspiration to cling to the last remains of summer, revel in the splendor of falling leaves, and order fireplace wood. I think of children returning to school, of football games, of Halloween. The lazy days of summer are behind me, and I have plans to make, as well as leaves to be raked.

What is “in the mood for fall” anyhow? Could it be that feeling that comes with the passage of time, with loss, and with change? But with loss, there also comes the opportunity for renewal. Fall is the motivation for renewing energy and zest. I am forced to see reality, in spite of the leaves that need to be raked.

I never believe that it could possibly be October already. But, just look at the rolled up bales of hay in the fields, not to mention the mountains of leaves to be raked. I’m never quite ready. Each passing season forces change, for better or for worse.

The brightly colored leaves are here for only a brief period of time before they wither and die. I try to learn from them and be willing to accept changes gracefully, to know that change is something beautiful that can create awe and wonder, as well as leaves to be raked.

Fall is the splendor of nature in all its glory. But autumn, like life, is bitter sweet. It smells of the smoke of burning leaves and tastes of the sweetness of apple cider. Fall is glorious to behold and should be enjoyed for what it is. Like life, it is but a season, changing too quickly and gone too fast – unlike the leaves to be raked that hang around forever.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Environment, Holidays, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Walking Horses

Posted on September 26, 2018 by Sheila Moss

walking horse

Several years ago we decided to go to Shelbyville to see the Tennessee Walking Horse National Celebration. Just like country music stars, these horses have their own award shows, and a following of enthusiasts, most of who drive campers and pull horse trailers. The event is the biggest thing going in a town so small that the stadium complex holds more people than the entire population, including the horses.

I began to suspect that we might have trouble finding parking when I noticed that the Celebration Complex was located right in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Never missing the chance to make a fast buck, redneck neighbors were renting out front yards to campers.

We refused to pay the inflated price to park on a lawn and so we ended up doing some creative parking on the side of the road and walking a country mile to get back to the horseshow grounds. I was beginning to wish that I had a horse myself.

Inside the fenced complex was a maze of stables, horses, people, horse trailers, pickup trucks, and golf carts all stampeding to the show. We decided to take a short cut through what looked like a barn, but turned out to be the horses’ warm-up area. “There has got to be a better way to get there,” I grumbled, as we waded through mud trying to avoid stepping in anything awful.

Seeing the price of tickets, we decided that novices like us could see just fine from the general admission seats. Actually, I didn’t care how high we had to climb in the bleachers as long as we could get away from the smell of horses.

In case you care, Tennessee Walking Horses are a breed valued for their beauty, gentle temperament, and the smoothness of their ride. They are called walking horses because of their very peculiar gait, which is totally unrelated to the boot-scooting boogie. The horses lift their front hooves high into the air when they walk in a prancing motion, and their heads bob in unison. When running, the horses maintain the same unusual gait and simply shift into high-speed overdrive.

Walking Horses have been victims of severe abuse in the past due to a variety of training practices, the worst of which is called “soring.” The horses’ legs are injured with caustic chemicals making it painful to walk. This causes the animals to lift their legs even higher when walking to take pressure off, and thus perform better in the ring. This abusive tradition has been outlawed, but is still allegedly practiced by some. Federal inspectors stay busy looking for violators.

There were different events for different types of horses: professional, novice, juvenile, over 5 years old, under 3 years old, hobby horses, rocking-horses, brooms and any
other category they could think of. We saw black horses, white horse, gray horses and horses of every shade of brown. Riders wore traditional riding attire of long coats and derby hats. These odd outfits also came in black, white, gray and every shade of brown.

The horses went round and round like a carousel as the organ played on and on. Their legs went up and down, heads bobbed, and riders floated smoothly along. I became more and more mesmerized as the horses whirled around. After a while, I could almost swear I was seeing same horses in every event.

“Isn’t that the same gray horse?”

I may not know much about horses, but I do have a little bit of horse sense. I figured out that when they all begin to look alike, it was probably time to go home.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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The Hardware Hike

Posted on September 22, 2018 by Sheila Moss

Home_Depot

In case you’ve missed me, I’ve been lost at a big box hardware store for three days. Why do they make those stores so big? I know they need a lot of room for their lumber, lawnmowers, and ceiling fans, but a body could go in one of those stores and never find their way out.

I needed a package of screws. Screws, a two-dollar item. To find screws I had to go through aisles and aisles of more stuff than you will ever need in your lifetime. I didn’t know what some of it even was, much less what it might be used for.

This was not my usual hardware store. I go to another store because it is closer to my home. But I was right next door to it anyhow doing another errand. It seemed silly not to go in and get the screws while I was there.

I decided to go in through the garden center entrance since it was close and the front door was three miles in the hazy distance. After wading through acres of petunias, begonias and assorted bedding plants, I finally came to the real door, the one that goes inside the store.

How on God’s green earth are we expected to find anything in that giant-size toolbox of nuts and bolts? I’m spoiled by the Internet where you just type it into the search engine and go straight to where you want to be. I needed a GPS to zoom in on the screws.

After a quick surveillance of the area, I knew it was totally hopeless. I would have to ask someone. The problem is that asking someone meant finding someone to ask. The friendly orange vests suddenly all disappear when you need them. I think they don’t know where anything is either and would rather not be asked.

After dodging a 20 foot stack of boxes on wheels being pushed down the aisle by an invisible person, I finally cornered an orange vest long enough to get directions. I didn’t understand the directions, but I got them. “Turn by the lawn mowers and cut though the paint, and hardware will be right there.”

I’m sure there must be people who turn by the lawnmowers, cut though the paint and are never seen again. When you file my missing person report, just say, “Last seen in a hardware store looking for screws.”

I finally, at last, found the right area, and then it was a matter of finding the right item. There are hundreds of screws… millions of screws… long screws, short screws, fat screws, skinny screws, wood screws, metal screws, Phillips screws, slotted screws, concrete screws, stud screws, and screws for which no name has yet been invented and probably never will be.

I needed four screws. I finally found a package with a dozen, plus some mysterious plastic holders. At this point, I didn’t care. I’d just wanted to buy screws and go home before I collapsed from fatigue.

Finding the front door took another two days and even then I had to tackle an orange-vested employee and put him in a strangle hold until he agreed to show me where it was. I crawled up to the row of cash registers and put my screws on the counter gasping.

“Is that all,” inquired the clerk as she waved them across the scanner. “Is that all?” Is she kidding? It took me three days to find those screws. I could only think of one other thing that I could possibly need – a search and rescue helicopter.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Citation from the Fashion Police

Posted on September 17, 2018 by Sheila Moss

fashionNOTE FROM AUTHOR: I received a warning from the Fashion Police this week. Apparently, I am not up to codes with my fashion choices. I really must shape up before the Fashion Police drag me away.

———-

Greetings: This is a citation to appear before the Fashion Police to be criticized.

It’s fashion week in New York, the only reason needed for the Fashion Police to be out in full force. The clothes you think are cool are not cool at all. “Comfortable” is not a word in our vocabulary. Comfortable does not make a fashion statement. Your must learn to value being fashionable over being comfortable.

Starting at the bottom, you should wear high heel shoes. These flat shoes that you find comfortable are unacceptable. You’ve been seen at a store buying shoes with rubber bottoms like a tennis shoe. Next thing, you will be at the shoe store trying on Naturalizers.

If you must wear jeans, they should be tight, and slim to show off your derriere, not loose in the seat to because you have a fat bottom. Jeans with elastic tops should be avoided like a Goodwill store. Just because a stretchy waist is comfortable does not mean it is in style.

Remember the golden rule of fashion: Thou shalt not forsake a designer label for the sake of comfort.

That swimsuit with a little skirt attached gave us Fashion Police a good laugh. Don’t worry, we will not tell anyone about it. Designers would not believe that anyone would be caught dead wearing a granny swimsuit anyhow. Wear a two-piece or stay off the beach.

Tops that are long and loose are not in style. Blouses and sweaters that are belted are in fashion now. If you were not wearing those (cough) elastic waistbands, you wouldn’t have to worry so much about covering them up.

Wearing longer skirts and dresses so you can sit down and not have to worry about what’s showing is ridiculous. Even more ridiculous is thinking that if you wait long enough, hemlines will go back down. You should know by now hemlines will only go down after you to cut off all your skirts and make them short.

Fashion week in New York brings out all the designers, models and beautiful people. You should pay more attention to what’s hot and what’s not, who designed what is in the media. Convincing people to wear over-priced clothes and make designers rich is what fashion changes are all about.

Clothes have become so revealing that CBS had to issue a “dress code” to keep women from showing too much at the Grammy Awards. Isn’t that the job of the Fashion Police? Many ignored their suggestions and barred it all anyhow. From now on, let the Fashion Police decide what is appropriate.

Ladies purses are getting larger. Women need a $500 purse with a designer’s name written all over it. Never mind if they are so big and heavy they need luggage wheels. You need to impress people. Otherwise, your friends will think you are too cheap to splurge on a good purse

What about coats and jackets? Don’t get us started. Warmth might be a consideration, but not necessarily the first consideration. Those bulky coats that zip up and have a hood are just plain tacky. You can do better. The little black jacket is this year’s fashion hit. Get one if you hope to be at all chic. Black is in, black, black, black.

Warning: Failure to heed this fashion citation can and will be held against you. We will humiliate you on Yahoo OMG by showing someone else wearing the same outfit, and looking better in it.

Fashion Police are everywhere, just like cheap designer knock-offs. You can try to avoid us, or ignore us, but you cannot escape the unsolicited opinions of the Fashion Police.

Copyright 2013 Sheila Moss
Posted in Fashion, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Water, Water Everywhere

Posted on September 12, 2018 by Sheila Moss
Hurricane

The hurricane coming towards the East Coast reminds me of the “vacation” we took several years ago to Myrtle Beach, one of the target cities mentioned in the current weather reports. It was about as close to being in a hurricane as I ever want to be.

Due to rain, the entire vacation was almost a washout, and we had only two clear afternoons to do anything other than drive in the rain and wade through puddles. When we started the vacation, we were looking forward to dry weather and sunshine like the vacations you see in the travel brochures.

As bad luck would have it, the weather forecast said a hurricane was headed for South Carolina. The good news: It would not be a direct hit. The bad news: It would travel along the eastern coast and cause a lot of rain. We decided to go anyhow. With the hurricane not even coming ashore, how bad could it be?

Really bad we found out when we came to the first roadblock where the Interstate was closed due to flooded roads and washed out bridges. We were rerouted by the highway patrol to another road, which also was blocked. From there, we were sent to another road, and another, and another, about five times. Each road was smaller and, sooner or later, barricaded.

South Carolina law enforcement did a great job of getting barricades across roads and redirecting traffic. By now we were running out of gas and there were no gas stations open. We were worn out and what should have been a 5 hour trip turned into a 10 hour nightmare.

Trying to get through Columbia, SC, was terrible. We saw abandoned cars with water up to the roof. Homes and businesses were flooded, and the rain was coming down in buckets. My sister screamed as a tree fell on top of a restaurant, a transformer exploded with a flash, and the stop lights shot sparks like the Forth of July and shorted out.

I’ve never seen so much rain – ever – and apparently neither had South Carolina, as we found out later on the news. It was a disaster movie. Somehow it is so much worse when you see it with your own eyes and know you are helpless against the forces of nature. We decided that every road to the coast was closed and we couldn’t get there. We called ahead to the resort office to see if the roads there were flooded and were told they were not. Liars.

Nothing like a vacation in a disaster area.

Eventually we accidently stumbled onto an out-of-the-way highway that was passable and were able to reach our rain-soaked destination. After a few liquid days, the rain ended. Most roads were reopened, and we were able to leave the condo. “Don’t drive around barricades.” and “Don’t try to drive through water over a road.” tourists were told. Really? People actually do that?

Trying to salvage what was left of our “vacation”, we decided to check out a botanical and sculpture garden which my sister and I remembered from our childhood. After a tour of the well-watered gardens, we took what was supposed to be a wildlife tour on a boat. We didn’t see much wildlife, only flooded rice fields. We did see a black log in the grass that the tour guide said was an alligator. It didn’t look like an alligator to me, but by the time we came back, that log had crawled about 30 feet through the grass along the bank.

Eventually, the sun came out and we had two entire days of good weather. We had almost forgotten what the sun looks like.

BTW, if you are planning a trip to the ocean anytime soon, don’t go.

Copyright 2015-2018 Sheila Moss
Revised
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In the Pink

Posted on September 10, 2018 by Sheila Moss

pinkphone

I’ve never understood people’s thing with cell phones. I don’t care what kind of cell phone I have. I don’t care if it is a smart phone or a brick. I don’t care if it can take pictures or access the Internet. I only have a cell phone for emergencies, in case I break down on the interstate or need to call home when I’m late.

I’ve never had any patience with people who have to stay on the cell phone all the time just because they have one. They talk in the car while driving, in the grocery store while shopping, at work while supposedly working, in restaurants, airports, and everywhere else where phones are not strictly forbidden.

I have a phone not because I especially want it, but because it was a leftover that my honey no longer wanted after he got his ultra-thin, deluxe model that can do everything but tap dance and play the fiddle.

Then it happened. My old phone died. I thought it was the probably the battery, but regardless, I needed a phone. It isn’t safe to be out these days without one of some sort. I figured that I would go to the phone store and get it fixed.

My honey, bless his little heart, volunteered to drop by the phone store for me since he was out and about and going in that direction anyhow. I should have known better, but I figured he could get it fixed just as well as I could. The technicians are the same as they
would be if I went. What could go wrong?

Later he called me. “It isn’t the battery,” he said. “It’s the phone. So, I got you a new phone. You are going to like it.”

“I am going to like it?”

I was worried. With his addiction to gadgets, no telling what sort of phone I would end up with. But what did it matter as long as it worked? Probably he got another one like his? I was NOT going to like it. I knew already that I didn’t like gadgets.

When he came home, he put a cell phone box on the table. I was afraid to look, but curiosity got the best of me and I opened it. It is pink. A tiny PINK phone! A HOT PINK phone! All my I-don’t-care values went out the window and I instantly become a cell phone addict. I love it! It’s CUTE! It is tiny, thin, and hardly weighs anything at all. Plus, it takes pictures and has all the other bells and whistles that they can load on a cell phone.

I carry my new phone everywhere and try to think of excuses to use it so other people can see me. I look at other people’s ordinary phones and wonder why they don’t upgrade to a newer model.

But, wouldn’t you just know it? I found out that my old phone can be fixed after all. I can give up my new phone and go back to the old one. I don’t think so. Who wants to use an ordinary phone after having a snazzy, hot pink model?

I’m just as bad as the rest of them, showing off my status symbol as frequently as possible, looking for reasons to use it and hoping everyone will notice how cute my pink
phone is.

Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve just remembered something and I have a call to make.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Technology | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Mad Elevator Ride

Posted on September 5, 2018 by Sheila Moss

skyscraper

I was in a hurry. The office building was large and I need to go to another floor. I hopped on the elevator and pressed the button for the 5th floor. The elevator went to the 4th floor and opened. “No, I want the 5th floor,” I insisted, pressing the button again. Stupid elevators. Why can’t they work right? I don’t have time to play elevator games.

This time the elevator went to the 15th floor. What is going on here? I looked out to see if I saw anything unusual, but all was well. I suppose I should have stepped off right then and waited for another elevator, but I’m the die-hard type.

Thinking hard, I decided maybe the elevator was stopping one floor below where it was supposed to stop. I would trick it. I pressed the button for the 6th floor, but the elevator didn’t do anything.

Now I’ve confused it, I thought. I pressed the 5th floor button again, nothing happened. I pressed the “open door” button. Nothing. “I’m stuck!” I looked for the red emergency button, but there wasn’t one.

About that time the elevator started moving. “Oh, good,” I thought. I didn’t care what floor it stopped at by this time — I was getting off. It went to the bottom floor and stopped. But the door didn’t open. I was still stuck. By now I was starting to feel a bit of panic.

“Stay calm,” I said to myself, but obviously, I was anything but calm. I tried to make a deal with the elevator. “Okay, elevator, if you will just open up I will get off and never ride you again.” Nothing happened.

I pressed every single button and they all lit up, but the elevator didn’t move an inch. I banged on the door and yelled hoping someone would hear me.

All the buttons suddenly went out.

I pressed the 5th floor button. The elevator started moving, but it didn’t stop on five. It went all the way to the top and then all the way to the bottom, again and again. I was feeling a little dizzy.

“Okay, elevator, you win. Just take me to whatever floor you want.” I banged on the door and yelled, “Let me out!” The elevator went to the basement.

Okay we are all the way at the bottom. At least it won’t fall. But the elevator kept going down, or at least it felt like it. Down, down, down, down. This is impossible, I thought. We can’t go past the basement. There are no more floors.

Finally it stopped. Where am I? This time I was glad when the doors didn’t open. I pressed all the buttons again. “Please, elevator, get me out of here! Please, I want to go UP, not down.” The elevator shuddered and then shot upwards like a rocket being launched.

I jerked and woke up in my own bed. It took me a moment to realize that it was only a dream. What a relief! It must have been an elevator anxiety dream. I hate elevators anyhow.

When I got on the elevator that morning, I felt a bit nervous, but the elevator went right to my floor and opened, just like it always does. “It is all in my mind,” I thought. “It doesn’t know. It’s only a machine.”

But, I’m wondering if maybe I should just walk down the stairs from now on?

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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Another Year, Another Reunion

Posted on September 3, 2018 by Sheila Moss

 

Wheadon Family FInal copy!-2

It was the weekend for our big family reunion in Tennessee. My mother’s family and my aunts and uncles from around the country meet in a town so small that the population is probably doubled by our presence. I get lost every time I try to find it. Did you know there are still actually towns that do not have an Interstate?

Anyhow, we only got lost once when we turned at 2.5 miles like the GPS said instead of going to the next corner where there was a large sign saying to turn right. So much for getting directions.

All my kinfolks were there. I think I must be getting old as I actually enjoyed seeing them. I used to hate going to these things. Now it is the next generation that whines and refuses to come instead of mine.

All my children and grandchildren were there. We are almost a family reunion without any other relatives. It was the first time all my grandchildren have all been together that I can recall. I was in grandma heaven.

My parents don’t travel much any more, but they had driven down with my sister from St. Louis, so it was a rare opportunity for all of us to be together. My mother is always hyper when around her relatives and had just realized that I write. “Watch what you say or it will end up in one of her columns,” she told everyone. That was really conducive to conversation.

Actually, I don’t remember anyone saying much that was worthy of repeating. My cousin reminded me that when we were in high school, he had to do a book report on “Lord Jim”. He didn’t read the book, but I apparently did and told him what it was about. He got an A and “Well Done” written on his paper in red. Don’t tell anyone.

I didn’t remember that incident, but I did remember that I never could do math, especially word problems, and I always had to go to his house for help with homework. We both went to the same high school. He also had a little sports car that I thought was cool because it turned corners at high speed without leaning.

A different cousin mentioned that we only live 50 miles apart but see each other only at the family reunion. That’s true. If it were not for reunions I wonder if we would never see each other at all, or if we would make the effort to get together more often?

There was a good turnout this year, probably over a hundred people. My grandparents sure did their share to create a population explosion. Most of the people there I didn’t know. They were children or grandchildren of distant cousins. Sure makes you feel old. We started a new tradition this year, name tags.

The cousins of my generation remember when we were all little children and went to my grandparents’ house for the reunion. We slept on featherbeds or quilts on the floor and thought that was a great thing. There was also the proverbial outhouse, which we didn’t think was so great. Later my grandparents moved to a house with a real bathroom and an attic to sleep in with peeling wallpaper and a curtain on a string for a door.

Big Papa and Big Mama are long dead now and two of the older aunts are in nursing homes. We used to talk of not having a reunion any more due to age, medical conditions and distance, but the reunion just keeps on happening. I didn’t used to care one way or another, but the older I become, the more it seems to matter.

Like I said, I know I must be getting old when I start to actually enjoy seeing relatives.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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I’m Not Big Enough

Posted on August 31, 2018 by Sheila Moss

RollerCoaster

I’ve just returned from Dollywood for a brief visit to introduce my grandson to the joys of theme parks. We waited until we felt he would be old enough to enjoy it and big enough to ride most of the rides.

They have this wonderful device there and at most other theme parks I’ve ever visited. It is a stick with a yellow strip at the top that lets kids know whether they are big enough for a particular ride or not. If the child is not as tall as the yellow stripe, they are not big enough to ride.

This was a point of contention with some children. However, yellow rules. I saw one or two children, who were overly-tired and whiney anyhow, crying and declaring they were big enough regardless of what the yellow stripe said.

Like the little kids, I didn’t think the yellow stripe knew much, but for a slightly different reason. The yellow stripe thought I was tall enough to ride some of that stuff, but I knew better. I only had to take one look at the twisted tracks of metal and the loops and twists to know that I was definitely not big enough.

You should have seen the face on my chiropractor when I told him we were going to Dollywood. “That won’t be good for your neck and back,” he mumbled. I didn’t really need a doctor to tell me that. Or a yellow stripe.

I did stand on my toes and reach the yellow stripe to ride the wooden roller coaster. I suspect that I’m probably not big enough to ride it either, but I rode it in the front seat with my hands up most of the way anyhow. There’s this code among roller coaster enthusiasts that you must keep your hands up and not hold on.

I probably should have bought the picture to prove that I did it, but, oh well, you will just have to take my word for it. Wooden coasters are one breed, steel monsters another. I am not big enough to ride anything that turns me upside down. Enough is enough!

We met one family of coaster enthusiasts there who belong to an association of coaster riders. They go park to park just to ride the coasters. Dollywood is not especially known to this group like some other parks with the biggest, fastest, or largest number of coasters. I don’t know what they were doing there.

I’ve seen all the TV specials about thrill rides. The thrill has something to do with pushing yourself to the limits of endurance, facing fear and surviving, and all that kind of stuff. I don’t really need to ride a roller coaster to do that, thanks. I do that every day out on the Interstate. Talk about thrill rides! Too bad there is no stick with a yellow stripe to keep people off the Interstate who are not big enough to know how to drive.

There are all sorts of other yellow stripes, though, come to think of it. There is the yellow stripe in the middle of the road that tells you which side to drive on and when you can pass. Those yellow strips are becoming obsolete along with two lane roads. Interstates have only white stripes, which do nothing to help people know how to drive, apparently.

Then there is the imaginary yellow stripe down your back, which tells you whether you are brave enough to do something. Come to think of it, maybe that is the yellow stripe that told me whether or not I was big enough.

I had plenty of time to watch other people getting on rides while I waiting for my group to get off. I heard some people mumbling that they wanted to ride the big coasters once just to say they had.

Personally, I have nothing to prove. I’m brave enough to admit I’m yellow. But when it comes to riding a steel roller coaster upside down at 70 mph, I’m not big enough.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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School Daze

Posted on August 28, 2018 by Sheila Moss

school

It’s almost September and the kids are going back to school. Wait, let me look at the calendar again. Its August — not September! Why do the kids have to go back to school when summer is still in full force, it’s hot as the blazes outside, and the water in the pool is just now beginning to feel nice?

They can’t seem to leave anything alone. Now they have even spoiled the beginning of school. I seem to remember that back in the olden days, school started after Labor Day and went to Memorial Day, after which kids might go back to school, but just to pick up report cards and turn in books.

Who is in charge of school calendars now anyhow? Has some bug caused mass insanity by biting every school board member in the entire country? Kids now are going back to school while it is so hot that they have to wear shorts.

Where are the plaid dresses and plaid shirts that used to always mark the beginning of school? It is so hot that wearing a plaid dress would be like committing suicide by heatstroke. Where are the squeaky new penny loafers? Kids now wear athletic shoes that don’t even cause blisters.

Worst of all, they have taken away metal lunch boxes. When I was a kid, if we were lucky, our metal lunchbox might even have a matching thermos bottle with a glass lining. We carried this until the glass liner broke from either dropping the lunchbox or hitting another kid with it.

Of course, we didn’t really need a thermos bottle as we could purchase little boxes of milk for a few cents per day. This was probably part of a school nutrition program of some kind. Now nutrition programs consist of removing the soft drink machines from the school cafeteria.

Kids would probably die if we even suggested such a thing as a metal lunch box. They carry nylon lunch boxes with Velcro fasteners. Gone too are the book satchels of olden times that we carried until the plastic handle broke off. Kids now have nylon backpacks to match their nylon lunch boxes. I don’t know how they get rid of bullies without a metal lunchbox to hit them with.

I suppose I’m just an old fogy who doesn’t understand. In fact, I’m sure I am. There is probably some very good reason why school has to start in the middle of summer when kids ought to be out riding bicycles and swimming while they relish the last few weeks of freedom from responsibility.

Maybe kids retain more knowledge with a shorter break and stay out of the trouble that they might get in from having too much free time. I don’t know. Maybe the earlier school beginning allows kids to get out of school earlier in the spring. Why that is better, I’m not sure.

I supposed educators could explain all of this in a very logical manner. But to my way of thinking, school should not start until after Labor Day. Kids should wear plaid dresses or plaid shirts and carry metal lunch boxes instead of iPods and cell phones. Sending kids back to school in the middle of summer is an atrocity of American tradition!

All I can say is it’s a good thing I don’t have kids in school any more. I would, without a doubt, embarrass them to death in front of their friends by making them wear plaid shorts to school if they absolutely have to go back in the summer.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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