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Published on Leave a comment on A Bad Case Of The What Ifs

Ever have that thing happen where you are minding your own business, maybe in your car or doing some other mindless repetitive task and your mind just wanders, then out of nowhere something triggers your imagination, and before you know it, you have cooked up some grand paranoid fantasy that gives you a huge case of the heebie-jeebies? Happens to me all the time. I call it the What Ifs.

Example: Once upon a time, on a trip out of town to a soccer tournament, one of the other parents drove my son and some friends to the local mall. Later that same afternoon, I was wandering around the hotel after they returned, wondering where my son was. Down to the game room; no Riley. Okay. How about the arcade by the pool? A group of boys from our team was there, but no Riley. I get a little mental frisson, which is the precursor to a probable onslaught of possible horrifying scenarios of my son’s whereabouts. I keep it under control for about 10 minutes (okay, 30 seconds), but then the cranial floodgates open. Isn’t there a pool in this hotel? What If he was horsing around with his friends and fell and hit his head on the pool coping and fell in and his friends thought he was fooling around when he lay on the bottom for so long but then they figured out he wasn’t fooling and they got scared and left him there because they didn’t want to get in trouble and that siren wailing outside is the ambulance coming to haul him out?

Whoa. Deep breath. Don’t be silly. He’s probably fine. But What If he did go down to the pool, but some of the hotel guests were actually predators staking out hotel because they knew a soccer tournament was that weekend and they figured lots of teams would be staying here and they also figured the kids would be unsupervised in the closed environment of a name hotel and so they staked out the pool and waited for a kid to come along who was obviously unsupervised and used the old ‘I’m with the hotel staff would you please come with me, son, your mother asked us to come and get you’ and poof! before you know it he’s whisked away in an unmarked black sedan with darkly tinted windows.

Black SUVs always trigger a robust What If response in my brain. What are they doing in there that the windows need to be tinted so darkly? What happened to the bike's rider? Why is the mannequin missing a head?

Whoa!! Stop it! Don't be ridiculous! But What If he was fooling around with his friends playing hide and seek and was tearing up and down the stairwells and turned an ankle and flipped over the railing and landed a whole story down on that hard concrete and got the breath knocked out of him and can’t call for help and nobody missed him for so long the bump on his head put pressure on his brain and he’s still lying there?

I can go on for days with the grim scenarios, but I think you get the picture. This is an example of the kinds of things that flow through the tortured mind of those of us with overactive imaginations. Being afflicted with the What Ifs is definitely a good news-bad news situation. The bad news is, you can really get yourself worked up over the most insignificant things. That thump you just heard downstairs that no one else seemed to notice, in your mind becomes the serial killer from three states away finding that broken latch on your basement window. The good news: it is a dream come true for a writer.

Scientists believe creativity and imagination are dictated by nature; that some of us are able to conjure up the fantastical more easily than others. My husband is a prime example of the have nots, as it were. He would think nothing of leaving our son home alone with a box of matches and a Bowie knife. His response to my objections is usually something like “He’s twelve years old, for crying out loud,” or “You worry too much”. It used to anger me that he was such an irresponsible caregiver. But now I understand that his brain is wired differently, that he sees what IS more easily than what COULD be. He is an educated and literate man, but he's definitely not cut out for writing fiction.

Put to a more practical application, the talent of conjuring infinite What If scenarios can stimulate fresh plot ideas for your fiction. The key is to let your imagination run wild – anything goes.

Let’s say you have a middle grade novel in the works with a young female protagonist. You have a solid plot outlined but your story seems a little flat. Your critique group determines your story does not pass the ‘who cares’ test (“Who cares what happens to your heroine?”). Here’s where the What If talent comes into play.

Perhaps you need to build a more intriguing background for your heroine. Instead of being the shy loner, What If your character is seen as shy because she doesn’t cultivate close friendships? Common enough, but What If she doesn’t make friends easily because she is not Katie from Schenectady but Katya from Sebastopol who was sent here as a sleeper agent to be groomed throughout childhood until she is ready to be released as an adult superspy on the unsuspecting public? What If she is the other kind of alien, jettisoned from her home planet, receiving weekly communications to guide her home planet in taking over Earth? What If she is a genetically mutated fox trapped in human form until she can find the key to changing herself back and also the thousands of children around the world who are similarly trapped when their fox den was too close to a nuclear plant when a meteor struck in Timbukstan but the incident was covered up by the government to avoid panicking the populace?

Okay, perhaps some of these examples are farfetched and unwieldy. But you never know where that next brilliant inspiration will come from. Often the most outlandish brainstorming will condense into the plot twist or character trait that will take your story from flat to fabulous.

So the next time your What Ifs give you a good case of the heebie-jeebies, embrace your natural talent. Take a deep breath. Put that talent to good use. Choose a scene from your latest project and say to yourself: “What if . . . ?”

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Published on 4 Comments on The Girl With the Beautiful Hair


Martha Matilda Harper turned a hair tonic recipe into a beauty empire. Image from this article.

The year was 1882. The steamship Norseman left the northern shore of Lake Ontario in Canada.  Many of its passengers were headed south across the lake to Rochester, New York. 25-year-old Martha Matilda Harper was among them. She brought what little she owned with her to make a new start in America. With only sixty dollars and a recipe for hair tonic, Harper would revolutionize American business.

Martha Matilda Harper was born in 1857 near Oakville, Ontario. She was one of ten children. Her family struggled to make ends meet. When Martha was seven, her father sent her away to work for some relatives. She cooked, cleaned and hauled water for them. What little money she earned, she sent back to her family. Martha worked as a maid for various families for more than twenty years.

One of Martha’s employers was a doctor. He was very interested in natural remedies. He taught Martha how to make a hair tonic from special ingredients. Martha used it to keep her hair clean and healthy. It really worked! Soon Martha’s dark brown hair reached all the way to the floor. It was thick and shiny.  Martha was proud of her hair and worked to keep it in good condition.

When the doctor moved away in 1882, Martha decided to move to America. She had heard from a friend that America was a land of opportunity. So she packed up all her belongings and purchased a one-way ticket to Rochester aboard the Norseman.

Once in Rochester, she became a maid for the Roberts family. But she had a secret wish: she wanted to have her own business. She knew her hair tonic recipe was unique. She had an idea of how to turn her recipe into a business. She would create a pleasant shop where women could come and get their hair washed with her special tonic. She would also offer head and neck massages, and special treatments called facials to keep their skin looking its best. Every product she used was made from pure, natural ingredients. She created the recipes herself, based on what she had learned from the doctor.

The odds were against Martha. She was a poor working girl. In the late 1800s very few women had jobs outside the home. Of these, even fewer owned a business. But Martha did not let this stop her. Her employers, the Roberts, believed in her. They let her use their garden shed as a workroom to mix her hair tonic. She worked for the Roberts during the day and worked on her business at night.

Finally the day came when Martha was ready to start her business. She wanted to rent a space in Rochester’s finest building. The owner of the building was not interested. He thought her business would fail and she would not be able to pay her rent. But Martha had made some important friends in Rochester. One was a lawyer whose office was in the same building. He persuaded the owner to let her have an office on a trial basis. The owner agreed. In 1888, the Harper Shop opened for business. Martha had a picture of herself taken, showing her beautiful floor-length hair. She placed it on the door of her business. The picture, and her hair, became her trademark.

Martha was taking a big chance. In 1888 there were no hair salons in Rochester. Women had their hair groomed by their servants in the privacy of their homes. Facial products were not generally in use.  Business was slow at first, but eventually word got out. Women from the finest families in Rochester heard about this new shop. At first they came out of curiosity. They came back time and time again because they loved the experience.

The Harper Shops were clean as a whistle with tasteful decorations and a pleasant staff. At first, Martha was the only employee. As business grew, she trained other women to work for her. She hand-picked girls with backgrounds similar to hers. Most were servant girls who wanted to make a better life for themselves. Martha trained them on how to use her products and how to give massages and facials. But she also trained them on how to please the customers. Their number one job was to make sure the customers were comfortable and happy.

Women of the 1800s had extremely long hair. Most did not have the type of bathroom plumbing we have today. Washing the hair was a time-consuming and messy process. Often they washed it by leaning forward into a tub or basin filled with water. Martha thought of a better way. She designed a padded reclining chair so that her customers could sit back in comfort while she washed their hair. She also designed a sink with a special cutout for the customer’s neck. Customers leaned back and relaxed in the special chair while Martha washed their hair. The wet hair and cleaning products stayed in the sink, not in the customer’s clothes or eyes.

Martha’s business was a great success. Soon she opened other shops in other cities. She hired and trained many girls to work for her. Each Harper Shop was built to look the same as the original. All of the girls were trained in the exact methods used by Martha herself. Each time Martha opened a new shop, the person she chose to run it became the owner of the shop. The owners shared in the profits of the Harper business. Martha’s goal was this: whenever a customer stepped into one of her shops, they would find it the same as every other Harper Shop. It would have the same products, services, and courteous help. She also wanted her ‘girls’, as she called her employees, to share in the profits of the company. In this way she felt they would all work together to make the company a success.

Martha’s ideas worked. At the height of her success in the 1930s, there were more than 500 Harper Shops in operation around the world. Martha’s rags-to-riches story was famous. Her customers included movie stars, millionaires, and presidents. Yes, even men enjoyed the relaxing head and neck massages. Martha’s hair tonic was thought to help postpone baldness.

Martha Matilda Harper died in 1950 at age 92. After her death, her fame declined. Today few have heard of her. But reminders of her pioneering ideas are everywhere. Many modern hair salons still use the basic design of the reclining chair she invented in 1888. Many women now own their own business. In Martha’s time, this was highly unusual. She gave many women the help they needed to succeed. Her business model, with shops built alike and individually owned, is what we now call a franchise. Giants in the franchise industry include many familiar names, especially most fast food businesses. Martha might be sad to know she has been largely forgotten, but she would probably smile every time she drove past a McDonald’s.

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Published on Leave a comment on More Research Required
Borg me up, baby!

Hello, my name is Lissa, and I am a knowledge-a-holic.

I have been thinking lately that I have an issue with spending way too much time online. I plan to troubleshoot this problem by applying what is left of my brainpower.

What exactly is the big draw? Initially, I blamed my love of technology in most of its forms. I love my smart phone. So handy for so many little tasks! I love my microwave, without which my family would starve. I love GPS. I loved maps before, but the time savings (and no need for folding skills) with GPS is ridiculous! I love my satellite dish. Think about how that works - up in space, whirling round and round our planet, invisibly delivering massive amounts of viewing choices to millions of people 24/7. Speaking of which, I love my TV's remote control. It's not that I object to walking over to the TV to change the channel. But with hundreds of channels all programmed to show commercials at exactly the same time, standing there with your finger on the TV's channel button until you find something worth watching is just not an option.

I love all of these things and more, but it's the Internet that is killing me. I love all of my smart devices, but if it were not for the Internet, I would definitely not have a dead booty and a permanent kink behind my right shoulder blade from sitting in front of a screen all the dang day.

Think about it: without the Internet, how much time would you spend on your laptop/phone/tablet? It's the Internet, with all of this more or less infinite knowledge within literal reach, that keeps me chained to the desk. I am a knowledge junkie. I cannot get enough. So I sit here and ruin my health ('sitting is the new smoking') when I should be out taking the air and otherwise interacting with Mother Nature or other human beings.

Do you know the scene from The Fifth Element where Mila Jovovich's character, Leeloo, is catching up on 5000 years of human history by absorbing knowledge as images on the computer screen zip by? My idea of heaven! But I fear another fictional scenario may be more likely. It's only a matter of time until I turn up like that dude in a Stephen King short story, who spent so much time on his computer that gradually its wires burrowed into his body, and they became permanently entwined.

There's no way I am ready to give up my addiction. I haven't hit bottom yet. If only you could see what I see every day. Recent bounty included these tidbits:


I love info like Smaug loves his gold

Random? Sure. And each factoid has oodles of factoid-lets oh so ripe for the plucking. Dig a little deeper and you will find more info, and more, and more, an endless supply, more than any human brain could ever process. And it's just about as close to 'free' as you can get. I can wallow in this stuff all day long without spending a penny. I know the economists among you are out there waving your arms and shouting 'opportunity cost!', but I choose to ignore you since this is, after all, my blog.

The flow of information is not going to stop, and I'm not going to stop wallowing. So my only alternative is to turn this vice into something productive, channel it, control it. That way, I can rationalize all that time I spend BIC (Butt In Chair), or even (dare I hope?) allow myself even more BIC time. Hey, maybe this blog thing could be part of the solution. Definitely needs more research!

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Published on 2 Comments on 9 Simple Rules For Showing Some Skin

I need to get something off my chest. 
Unlike the -ahem- gentleman in the
 picture, it is not my shirt. 

It's summertime in the South again, and of course that means it's toasty outside. I am not complaining. In the immortal words of Xander Cage, I Live For This S***.

I grew up in Texas long before every enclosed space was air-conditioned. They say living in a warm climate thins the blood, somehow making us able to tolerate the heat more easily. I don't know if this is true. I hate to think we are that closely related to reptiles. I have been known to bask near a sunny window on a cold winter day, eyes closed, upturned face tracking that glorious orb's path across the sky to receive its comforting warmth, so maybe there is something to that.  But I digress.

As I was saying, I love hot weather like a vegan loves to talk about being vegan. After spending 8 years living in Minnesota, I truly cherish being comfortable in shorts and flip flops March through October. Where clothing is concerned, less is more down here. Even so, we can't get too carried away with that credo. No matter how hot it is, if you spend most of your walking time upright and your knuckles do not drag the ground, you have a responsibility to your fellow humans to a maintain at least an illusion of civility. Gentlemen, we do this by wearing a shirt. 

Now, I know different cultures have different expectations when it comes to attire. Even within our own culture, men and women have different commonly accepted guidelines. The women get the skirts; the men get the ties. Women: bras; men: jocks. Men often go 'skins' (shirtless) to exercise, swim, tan, etc.; women usually stay a little covered up top. Totally fine with that in theory. But in practice, when it devolves into potbellied, swaybacked middle-aged men demonstrating their ability to grow hair everywhere but on top of their head while I am trying to enjoy a meal, this whole shirtless thing has to stop (or at least slow the roll). So I have some handy guidelines here if you are unclear whether you should be strutting around in public without your shirt.

You should probably keep your shirt on if:

1. You are more than 10 pounds overweight.*

2. You are over age 30.*

3. You are not on an Olympic men's swimming, diving, or water polo team.

4. You were not selected as a backup dancer or stunt double in the film Magic Mike.

5. You are in a social situation in which crumbs, ketchup, mustard, or other food debris may easily find their way onto your chest/back hair.

6. You are in a social situation in which your chest/back hair may find its way onto neighboring plates/beverages.

7. You have been asked to volunteer at the local barber school so that students may practice their clipper techniques by carving designs into your chest/back hair.

8. Your armpit hair is long enough to be braided.

9. Nursing infants reach out for your pectoral area and make smacking noises . 

*Exceptions to these first two will be granted on a case-by-case basis if you have been named Sexiest Man Alive within the last 5 years. Close-up visual inspection may be required.

Just so we're clear: this is not like needing a majority to get a bill passed in Congress. If any ONE of these nine is violated, the shirt must stay on.

And for that minority of gents who do qualify to go skins (ref Xander Cage link above), I think I can speak for all of us who are filled with gratitude when we see 'shirtless' done properly. Thank you for setting a fine example. A mighty fine example.

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2

Published on 2 Comments on Sometimes You’re The Cat; Sometimes The Iron

I don't always play Monopoly, but when I do, I prefer the hat

I was amused by the hubbub over the annointing of a new Monopoly game token. Probably my favorite bit:

@KevinSeccia Monopoly dropped the iron?! Looks like it's your move, billion dollar video game industry

Even though this is the first time Hasbro has involved the great unwashed masses in the selection of a new token, it is hardly the first time they have changed their token lineup. Originally the inventor of the game apparently was smart enough to come up with the concept, but when it came time to decide what to use for game pieces, his genius had been depleted. His great idea was to use buttons. Buttons! His nieces came to the rescue, suggesting tokens based on the charms on their charm bracelets. Thank you, girls! Can't you just see them all hunkered over the claw-footed table in the front parlor, excited to play a new type of game? Then Uncle dumps out some ratty buttons to play with, and they simultaneously push back from the game table and head outside for a rousing game of Mumblety Peg. Buttons? We don't need no stinking buttons!

The buttons were just the first in a long line of tokens that were summarily dismissed from Monopoly. Don't get me wrong - I like the new token. I mean, cats, right? Cats are adorable. And I absolutely despise ironing in all of its forms. But I can't help but feel sorry for Iron, sent to the Island of Misfit Tokens. No doubt Iron was greeted warmly by Lantern, Purse, Rocking Horse, and Cannon. They spent their first half hour together talking about how Racecar was always such a self-important punk, and wondering how on earth Thimble has managed to remain part of the Elite Eight past the 1960s.


We wouldn't want kitty to have to nap on the floor, now, would we??

Meanwhile, Cat must be feeling pretty good. Cats in general are still riding the tsunami of popularity generated by the earthquake of countless adorable online gifs, memes, videos, toys, scratching posts, climbing towers - my goodness! the number of cat-related products out there is impressive. I guess you could say in this case the cat was in the bag. In or out, people do love their cats. It's a great feeling to be asked, chosen, wanted, liked, loved. We humans appreciate it, too. Many of us show our appreciation of this outpouring of affection a little more effectively than most cats, which is why Valentine's Day is a billion dollar industry.

But it's not always dark chocolate truffles and roses. I remember the first time I was the Iron. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming, but as a naive middle-schooler with her first boyfriend, I didn't have a clue.

I was having a pretty good year for a nerd. I tried out for and made what used to be called the 'drill team' (not a metaphor!) which was a cross between marching band and dance team. A drill team is the size of a marching band, but waves pom poms instead of trombones. We wore long-sleeved, short-skirted satin uniforms, top hats, gloves, white boots -  very 70s Texas. We concocted elaborate dance routines choreographed to whatever happening tune the marching band had planned for that week (Oye Como Va, anyone?), and performed them at the football game halftimes.

It had been years since I had set slippered foot inside a dance studio, so I was surprised to be accepted into this group and doubly surprised to be elected as one of the squad captains. Being a squad captain was a big deal because our top hats were a different color (gold, not black) and we got to strut around in front of our squads and basically lord it over the other girls who were not squad captains. Not proud of that, but sometimes it happened.

ANYWAY. Not long after this surprise elevation in my social station, I was approached by a nice enough fellow student who wanted to be my boyfriend. Remember, this was in my hometown, Nerd City, long before sexting and Friends With Benefits. In that day and age, having a boyfriend was little more than phone conversations (land line), hi-and-bye at school, and the occasional awkward date being squired around in the back seat of one's parents' car.

The football season rolled by uneventfully. At last, the final game of the season was played; the final routine performed. And before I had even left the stadium, the boyfriend dashed up to me, said he wanted to break up, and handed me back my boot. Oh, I forgot to tell you about the boot.

Unlike in Monopoly, my top hat was not made of metal; hence the protection from the elements.

As any parent will testify, belonging to any sort of activity group, whether it be soccer team or chess club or drill team, often is accompanied by painful amounts of money spent on things deemed ridiculous by the parents and indispensable by the participant. Letter jackets, class rings, mums to wear to the games, assorted logo clothing items, uniforms, etc. One of these indispensable items for drill team was sold by the local jewelry store. It was a gold boot about the size of a quarter, engraved with the participant's name or initials on the back, usually worn on a gold chain as a necklace. As is still the case, back in Ye Olden Tymes it was the tradition to exchange a personal item as a sign of affection and commitment to one's significant other, so this boy had been wearing my boot throughout the football season. And now here I stood at W. E. Greiner Stadium with my boot handed back to me in front of god and everybody, like Iron's dinghy hoving to at the pier on the Island of Misfit Tokens.

I didn't cry. I didn't care for that boy all that well. I mean, he was okay, but I guess I was always a little mystified by the whole relationship - until he put that boot in my hand after the last halftime performance. Then it all made perfect sense: he only wanted to be my boyfriend because of some perceived exalted status due to my position as Squad Captain on the drill team. Once that was no longer a factor, the attraction evaporated. At least he was man/boy enough to return my boot!

I learned a valuable life lesson by being the Iron that day: when something doesn't seem quite right, it probably isn't. And even though it can be awkward and embarrassing, sometimes a clean break is best for everyone. So Iron, enjoy your retirement. While you are hitting the links with Lantern and Cannon, think about poor Cat. When she is not prowling the Avenues, being manhandled by thousands of grubby fingers, in and out of Jail, she will be stuck in a dark box, rubbing up against the hard corners of cheap hotels, and being hit on in the clumsiest, most unimaginative ways by Racecar and Top Hat. First time she gets a chance, I guarantee you Cat will be opting for early retirement.

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Published on Leave a comment on I’d Rather Have A Root Canal
I guess things could always be worse

Technology is a beautiful thing. Some of the all-time great inventions that we cannot live without: cell phone, Internet, microwave, corkscrew. But what about some of the little things that just smooth things out as we go along? One in particular I am thinking of is so clever, the great glass-screened opiate of the masses. This would be the placement of televisions in all sorts of places to take your mind off the fact that you are waiting, waiting, waiting, interminably and sometimes uncomfortably. Airports are one. Waiting rooms are another. But my personal fave is the baby TVs perched on the equipment next to the dentist chair.

In the days before Chair TV, you would either wait in the eponymous waiting room or sit in the dentist chair all alone. Neither one of these is optimal especially considering none of us is happy to be anywhere near the dentist office, much less near where you get drilled in the mouth (chair) or in the wallet (waiting room).  In the waiting room, they can't take the chance that a bunch of us would band together and either revolt or leave after having to wait too long. In the chair by yourself, the chances are good that you will start pondering your future fate and decide to high-tail it out of there. With Chair TV, both of these risks are eliminated. If the office is big enough, they can shuttle you right in to the chair and let you cool your heels in isolation. They get you out of the waiting room so you think you might actually be seen on time. You are away from the influences of other riff-raff. And the calming drone of the TV takes your mind off of any unpleasantness that may be coming your way.

At my previous dentist office this usually worked great because, to their credit, I rarely had to wait long, and their Chair TV was easy to change the channel. At my new dentist yesterday, sad to say neither of these things were true. It took me 35 minutes to make it past the waiting room and into solitary. Which wasn't too bad because there was a guilty pleasure on the waiting room TV - the dapper-as-always Anderson Cooper featuring a bunch of prostitutes arguing about how they were providing a much needed service, and a bunch of divorcees who begged to differ. It was juicy. All was going well until I got bumped to solitary with my own Chair TV. Unfortunately it was tuned to a politically themed snooze fest. I tried to change the channel but they were too clever for me - they hide the remote better than the day care staff at La Petite.

So I did what I usually do when trapped in an unpleasant situation - I went to my Happy Place and tried to tune it out. This worked fine until the dentist and his assistant showed up and said, "Open wide". As if this was not unpleasant enough, the assistant perked up when the subject of health care cycled through the news hour. And . . . we're off!

Before I know it, the dentist and the assistant are arguing the health care debate like they are auditioning for Ann Curry's old job, all this while I have about $8,000 of dental equipment and three fingers crammed into my mouth. It was Misinformed Neo-Con vs. Patronizing Know-It-All. We went from unpleasant to annoying in 10 seconds flat. Just ask me how much I wanted to bite down. Hard. But who to bite? I couldn't see which of them had the sharpest instruments in hand.

Next time I go to the dentist I will be better prepared.

1) I will not sit in the chair until someone shows me how to change the channel on Chair TV.

2) I will prepare a list of preferred discussion topics for any staff who may be hovering 4-12 inches above my head as follows.

  • Your children's recent cute activities
  • Your pet's recent cute activities
  • Any professional or college sport (NASCAR excepted)
  • Any recent topic featured on Anderson, Maury, Springer, or any other guilty pleasure talk show

Absolutely banned (with legal protection order if necessary) from coming within ten yards of me are any personnel who

  • Feel compelled to discuss politics
  • Feel compelled to discuss religion
  • Had garlic for lunch

Walking out of that refrigerated torture chamber was the happiest 30 seconds of my day. Man, was I glad to get out of there. You know how people are always saying they'd rather have a root canal? I actually think that applies here. I will take fillin' and drillin' over arguing politics every time.

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Published on 2 Comments on It’s In The Cards

Charles is king of the pack. Anyone can tell that just by looking at him. His golden crown fits snugly atop his head. He wears a royal robe, brilliantly colored and elaborately designed. In his left hand he holds a mighty sword above his head. Though once vast, Charles’ kingdom now numbers only 51. He ruled supreme until an upstart known as ‘Ace’ took charge.

You may know Charles by one of his more familiar nicknames: the King of Hearts. The King of Hearts is named for King Charles I, or Charlemagne, after the great emperor who ruled most of Europe in the 700s. On some cards, his robe is lined with fur to indicate he is first among kings.

In fact, all playing cards that show a person on them have names. These cards are called court cards or face cards. During the 1400s playing cards became very popular in Europe. French manufacturers made more cards than any other nation. It was their idea to name the face cards. They are named for four of the greatest kings in the history of the ancient world.

The King of Spades is David, after the biblical King David. Long ago David ruled the kingdom of Israel. According to the Bible, as a young man David defeated the giant Goliath with a simple slingshot. Once he became king, David captured the city of Jerusalem and made it his capital.

The King of Clubs is named for Alexander the Great. More than two thousand years ago Alexander was king of Macedonia, a country near Greece. He conquered most of the known world before his death at age 33. Look carefully at the King of Clubs and you will usually find a ball-like object, or orb, somewhere in the design. The orb represents the world that Alexander ruled.

All of the kings in a pack of cards are holding swords except for the King of Diamonds. Instead of a sword, he is holding an axe. The King of Diamonds represents Julius Caesar, a general and leader of the mighty Roman Empire. The month of July is named for him. The words ‘kaiser’ and ‘tsar’, both meaning a type of king or great leader of people, come from the word ‘Caesar’.

The ladies of the pack were not overlooked. The Queen of Hearts was known as Judith. Judith lived during biblical times. She was a hero to her people after she killed the leader of an enemy army. Her story was very popular during medieval times, when playing-cards became popular in Europe. Another popular figure was Rachel, biblical wife of Jacob. People loved this couple’s romantic love story. The Queen of Diamonds is named for her.

The Queen of Clubs was a mystery figure named Argine. No one knows who Argine was. Some think her name is a word puzzle, for if you rearrange the letters they spell regina, which is the Latin word for ‘queen’. The Queen of Spades is called Pallas after the Greek goddess of war. Sometimes called Athena, she appears in Greek stories fighting bravely alongside her generals, giving them wise advice and leading by example. She was one of the most popular gods in the ancient Greek religion.  

No royal court is without its servants. In ancient times the king’s man was called a knave. Knave could mean anything from a young servant boy, to a soldier, to a prince. Sometimes it even meant scoundrel or villain. In a deck of cards, ‘knaves’ are now known as ‘jacks’. Charlemagne’s knave, the Jack of Hearts, was known as La Hire. La Hire was a French soldier who lived during Charlemagne’s time. He served with the French heroine Joan of Arc when she led her people in war against the English. He was known for his heroic exploits. The Jack of Hearts carries a battle axe as his weapon. Charlemagne’s cousin Ogier is more familiar to us as the Jack of Spades. Ogier was known for his skills with a sword, as shown on his card. The Jacks of Hearts and Spades are the only two face cards that are shown in profile. They are looking to the side and we only see half of their faces. For this reason they are sometimes called the ‘one-eyed jacks’.

The Jack of Diamonds was once known as Roland, a member of Charlemagne’s court. Later this card was renamed Hector. Some think it was named for Hector of Troy, a mighty warrior of that ancient kingdom. Others think he was Ector, another noble figure and half-brother to Lancelot of the King Arthur legend. Speaking of Lancelot, he was the Jack of Clubs. According to legend, Lancelot was a skilled archer. This is why the Jack of Clubs carries an arrow.

Named court cards gradually faded in popularity. Today they are known simply as kings, queens and jacks. But if you know where to look, you can dig deeper into the secrets of the pack. Grab a deck and pull out the face cards. Look hard for clues to their identity. Orbs, arrows and swords are more than fancy decorations. They are hints to what’s in the cards.

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Published on Leave a comment on Watch Your Step

Spring in Minnesota is much anticipated for obvious reasons. Lawnmowers and fertilizer spreaders replace of snow shovels. Migrating birds return to their favorite backyard feeders. And if you are really lucky, on a warm sunny day, you can witness the emergence of the snakes. Yep, any day where the temperature is 50°F or more, watch your step. See that black caulk between the lines in your sidewalk? That's a snake. How about that broken branch lying in your garden mulch? Nope, snake. The kids left a flat bike tube out in the yard? Guess again. That's the way it is at my house, anyway.

Little did we realize our new home was aka Snake Mecca

I’m originally from Texas, where rattlesnake hunts are as common as ticks on a whitetail. But I had never seen so many snakes in close proximity to human habitation until we moved to Minnesota. They're  'completely harmless', according to my neighbors. Maybe so, but they are as deadly as a pit viper if you are likely, as I am, to have The Big One and keel over every time you see one. Our first spring here, one of our legless friends made himself comfortable in the flower beds near our front porch. We would see him occasionally, basking himself in the spring sun. He was always more or less in the same spot, and pretty shy, so we got used to him and he to us. This is good, I thought. I can handle this.

Until some of his pals started turning up in unexpected places. One afternoon my teenager was mowing the lawn. I heard the mower stop, then the screen door slammed. "Mom,” she called upstairs,  “there's a snake."

Ordinarily I would say, “That’s nice, dear,” and wait until my husband came home to deal with the little fellow. But it was one of those gorgeous Minnesota days and I was feeling up to the challenge.  Most of the lawn was shorn down to fairway level, except for a small rectangle in the center. The culprit held his ground there.

"Just make lots of noise," I said, recalling various programs I had seen on the Animal Planet channel. "They will feel the noise vibrations in the ground and clear out." Folks, I am here to tell you that this is an out-and-out lie. We made all the noise we could think of, not to mention the high decibel roar of the Briggs and Stratton mower motor. No effect. On to Plan B.

"Get a rake," I instructed. "We'll shoo him away.” Let's just say the rake was not a big hit with our friend. Who knew that a 'harmless' snake could rear up and hiss like a King cobra? I dropped the rake and Plan B.

What now? Aha! My neighbor's teenage son was shooting hoops in his driveway. In my shameless cowardice, I called, "Hey, Kyle! Can you help me get rid of this snake?" Now, Kyle is a brave young man. Snakes fear him. At least, I hoped they did. I proposed that he use the rake and my five gallon plastic bucket to relocate our slithering nemesis to a friendlier locale. By now, my younger son and his friend had heard the commotion and joined the fray. The flesh crawling on the back of my neck became unbearable, and I retreated to the safety of the indoors, barricading myself inside. That I had left my precious children and their friends outside to battle the beast mattered not.

Did I mention that I hate snakes?

Eventually my son came in to report success. We exchanged high-fives and my daughter was able to resume mowing. Of course that wasn’t the end of the snakes, not by a long shot. I wonder if the ones I see now are new snakes, or relocated snakes returning to their version of San Juan Capistrano (my front yard). I think I am going to have to come up with another plan. I am up to C now. I sure hope I don’t have to work my way to Z.

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Published on Leave a comment on The Sky Is Falling

Cartoon by Mark Stivers

We have all been forced to sit through a class that we knew in our hearts we would never, ever use again once the final exam hit the teacher's desk about 15 seconds before the door hit our fannies on our way out of the classroom for the last time. Sadly, I have more than one. Currently, Introduction to Logic is the longest reigning king of my list. It has been 30+ years, and I haven't used it once. I must admit I am disappointed, because I am a great fan of logic (lower case l). But this class was upper case L aka Philosophy and that's how they getcha, otherwise no one would ever sign up for this class. Thankfully, there are a couple of others on my list that were pleasant surprises, in that I actually find myself using them occasionally.

Latin, for instance. I took four years of Latin in high school to avoid taking a language class that required much in the way of speaking said language. Work Smarter, Not Harder is my motto. Imagine my surprise when Latin turned out to be a class I use just about every day. It is very handy for sniffing out puzzling word meanings and thrashing opponents in the Words With Friends app. Physics and Geometry - also very useful when playing tennis and shooting pool. Fencing - well, maybe not that useful, but way fun.

The dark horse in my lame class recitation is not only lame, it is beyond obscure: Historiography. Never heard of it? Go ahead and Google or read a few more lines here. The added irony: this is a class I thought would be very useful when I was working on my masters in history and planning a career in academia. I will wait for you to stop laughing at the time and money I wasted on that degree.


Cosmo Kramer, the master of the Stink-Eye

Historiography should be renamed Skeptics 101. Basically it teaches you how to be a credible researcher, how to sort the shine from the Shinola. I wish I could remember the professor's name but alas. In any case he was great - just the right combination of knowledge, credibility, and accessibility. He was friendly, but not so chummy you would mistake him for an equal. Professor X taught us to be skeptical of everything we read. Consider the source! and What is their bias? were our mantras. Extra credit was given for those who perfected the Stink-Eye.

My planned career in academia went off the tracks almost immediately. But Professor X's training to question everything has stuck with me ever since. And, thanks to the Internet, I find myself using it frequently. Sweet Mother of Pearl, has there ever been such an overload of panicked Senders sending piles of pathetic pigswill?

Sadly, the folks at Snopes.com robbed me of the chance to turn my Skeptic Skills into a myth-busting, multi-million-dollar IPO. But they have also saved me a ton of Googling. Now all I have to do is put my Skeptic Skills to work. If anything gets forwarded or posted to me that doesn't pass the Smell Test (in case Stink-Eye is on the blink), off to Snopes we go, and the problem, she is solved.

In case you were standing behind a door when they were handing out Historiography class registrations, I will hook you up with some top takeaways. In emails and Facebook posts, there are a couple of dead giveaways for complete hokum. Anything containing the following phrases should be ignored/deleted immediately without costing you any additional time of clicking over to Snopes.

"Send this to everyone you know . . . "

"If you agree, post this to your profile . . ."

"Curious to see how many will actually read to the end of this post . . ."

"Click here for a free ______" (especially true if the 'free' item is valued at more than $20)

Occasionally the posts are better disguised with an iota of factual content, and there is a reasonable doubt the story may have some validity. Usually not, but when in doubt . . . Snopes! Here are a couple of examples. See if you can choose the one that is 100% authentic.

True, or Complete Nonsense?

1. Credit card users, beware! If you buy your gas at the pump with a credit card, be sure to press the 'CLEAR' button at the end of  your transaction. Otherwise, your credit card is vulnerable to additional purchases.

2. Hard-to-digest materials such as chewing gum and red meat are to be avoided at all costs. They can accumulate, rotting in the gut, leading to weight gain and disease.

3. Hate the dollar coins? This may give you reason to love them. Millions of Sacagawea dollar coins were given away in boxes of Cheerios when the coin debuted in 2000. Their design is slightly different from those put into direct circulation and are now worth thousands each.

Drum roll please . . . .


A pleasant photo to create filler so you can't see the answers right away(Texas bluebonnets, btw)

The Answers:

1. False - the glimmer of true content is that unscrupulous convenience store employees have been known to steal your credit card information by a variety of means. But the CLEAR button on the pump has nothing to do with it, and will not prevent said theft. If the store or pump has been compromised, there is little you can do about it other than file a claim with your credit card company. More details here.

2. False - or, as one website says, complete crap 🙂 Unless a person has a digestive ailment or is taking drugs that slow digestion, the human digestive system is pretty straightforward. What goes in one end, comes out the other. Sometimes fully digested, sometimes not (see Corn and Peanuts), but it comes out. Lots of scientific sites debunk this myth. I will let you take your pick by Googling "digestion myths red meat".

3. True - I bet you thought I was going to trick you and make all three of them urban legends. Apparently the tail feathers of the eagle on the back of the coin have more detail. These coins are worth anywhere from $5000-$25000 each.

So people please, PLEASE (yes I am begging you) do a little research before bombarding (annoying) your friends with random bits of Internet flotsam. Lord knows we all waste enough time staring at the great glass teat. Stop sending garbage, and maybe at least a little bit of that staring will be a little less of a waste.

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2

Published on 2 Comments on Serendipitous Star Sightings

Scorpio? or not?

Just got back from a visit with our daughter who lives in Los Angeles. We were there for a few days and did a lot of sightseeing. The first thing my son asked me when we got back was if we saw any celebrities. I saw some stars, alright, but not the kind he meant.

My star sighting was a complete surprise, like the other day when my daughter looked out her living room window and saw a grubby, barely recognizable Michael Cera ambling down the sidewalk, likely headed to one of the many delightful cafes in Silver Lake.

You just never know when the stars will reveal themselves. Ask any of those thousands of tourists overflowing the Hollywood tour buses, clutching their star maps in one hand and cell phone cameras in the other. You can stare holes in the beautiful California scenery for hours and not see a single vaguely attractive person, much less an authentic celebrity. Weirdos and wannabes are plentiful, but the real thing - not so much. Then, when you least expect it, one saunters by less than twenty feet away, on his way to buy a cuppa Joe. 

Back to my star sighting: on the long drive home from the Hotlanta airport, we found ourselves passing through rural Georgia in the middle of the night. Most excellent for (real) stargazing with one small problem: aside from the Big Dipper and Orion, I don't know the Milky Way from a Milk Dud. So I'm looking out the passenger side window which is facing south (I don't know constellations but I do know the four compass directions most of the time), minding my own business, barely awake, when I noticed a very prominent, swirly arrangement of stars in the lower half of the sky. I knew it had to be one of the well-known constellations. I mean, if I could spot it, anyone could - especially pre-historic genius star gazers. I got very excited about this because I always thought it would be cool to know more than two constellations on sight, and maybe this was my chance to add a third! After some frustrating digging around online, I think it was Scorpius - or Scorpio for you horoscope fans, the killer insect of late fall birthday fame. Now I have to ask why a fall birthday constellation is so prominent in a summer sky, but I will save that for another Google search.


Dam sunset on Lake Murray 🙂

I haven't seen Scorpio since due to cloudy nighttime conditions. And after looking at star charts, I am wondering if it was something else, maybe Draco? I will definitely be checking it out the next time we have clear skies at night which naturally will not be any time soon. We need the rain, but it figures the only rainy spell we have had all summer aligns perfectly with the only time I am itching for my own personal Star Search. Stay tuned and I will let you know when I find some more. Have you seen the skies above Lake Murray, SC? Should be a snap.

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