The Never-Ending Pit

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I’m really furious with my neighbor!

This guy is apparently obsessed with fire. He comes home from work and immediately starts his fire pit. Now I’m not talking about the traditional fire pit that’s kind of a metal bowl with a screen.

Nor am I referring to an outdoor fireplace or chimenea.

I’m talking about plain old bricks set in a circle on top of the driveway and belching smoke like an old-fashioned locomotive.

This goes on winter, spring, summer, and fall, weekdays from about 5 o’clock until 10 or 11 and weekends practically 24/7.

When the wind is coming from his direction, we can’t open our windows to take advantage of cooling breezes, we can’t hang clothes out to dry, and even the dog rushes back inside sneezing after doing his business.

Our community enacted a ban on leaf burning several years ago. The city fathers agreed with petitioners that burning smoke is hazardous to people’s health (especially those with asthma and other breathing problems).

I was glad to see that since I’m particularly allergic to leaf mold.

But fire pits weren’t included in the ban.

“There aren’t that many,” someone at city hall told me when I called to complain. “Besides, they’re only used for short periods of time.”

Really? Maybe they ought to move in with me and see!

On the news tonight, the announcers advised us to curtail outdoor burning until weather conditions improve. We’ve had a really dry fall and the winds have been kicking up.

But has my neighbor quit burning?

Of course not. He’s outside as I write, trying to coax the flames higher and doing a bang-up job of polluting the whole neighborhood.

Some people really make it hard to “Love thy neighbor,” don’t they?

Ole Miss’s new mascot

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For those who haven’t heard, my alma mater Ole Miss has a new mascot, a black bear.

bear mascots

A bear? In Mississippi?

Yes, or so they say. Biologists estimate the number of black bears in Mississippi at 50 (max). This, despite the high density of black bears a century ago — witness Teddy Roosevelt’s “saving” a black bear while hunting in Sharkey County.

The bear is also a reference to native son William Faulkner’s short story of that name — but Faulkner’s bear has a ferocious and growling personality when black bears tend to be shy and easily frightened. Great, just what Ole Miss needs — a scaredy-cat mascot.

The rest of the SEC must be trembling in their boots.

And personality is just one of the problems with this mascot “election” and “selection”. Here are some more:

  • The Administration says the bear was chosen by vote of students, alumni, faculty, and staff. However, only 13,000 or so votes were cast, meaning most either didn’t like any of the options or refused to have anything to do with a “rigged” contest. Col. Reb (the school’s mascot since the 1930s) wasn’t even one of the choices!
  • The Administration says Colonel Reb was too representative of the “Old South.” However, it’s really a stretch to see any of the three contestants — bear, land shark, and two “Muppet-like” creatures to be known as Hotty and Toddy — as prototypes of the “New South.”
  • The Administration says Colonel Reb made recruiting of African-American students difficult. However, even as far back as 1996, the Ole Miss faculty was 20 percent black, and in 2002, black student enrollment totaled nearly 13 percent, mirroring that of the nation itself.
  • The Administration says Colonel Reb is offensive. However, historians say the Colonel was modeled after a black man, Black Jim Ivy. Ivy was a fixture on the campus from 1896 until his death in 1955.
  • The Administration says the monikers “Ole Miss” and “Rebels” will remain. However, there is growing sentiment that they, like Col. Reb, will be brought to a slow (or swift) death. As one student was quoted, It doesn’t make sense to call ourselves the Rebels and have a bear mascot on the field.

The backlash against this change has already started (and only threatens to increase). A “Save Col. Reb” petition is out there, as is a “Save Col. Reb” Facebook page and a Colonel Reb Foundation. One alum has posted his plea on YouTube; a Col. Reb is My Mascot tribute video is available as well.

Count me in! Whatever it takes, we need to stand tough together to STOP this brick-by-brick eroding of our traditions. Without our nickname, our songs, our mascots, our flag, what’s to differentiate Ole Miss from any other public university in the nation?

Who’s the mascot for anyway? The students. And if the students are so solidly behind Col. Reb, so be it.

I don’t think any of us can count on the suggestion that, if the black bear fails to garner support, the Administration will have to reinstate Col. Reb. More likely, they’ll simply leave us mascot-less, the way we’ve been for too many years already.

But why should we force the students to fight this battle alone? Perhaps it’s time for alumni to join in — and, in this age of shrinking state funding, hitting the university in its wallet via a cutback on donations is the best way I know how.

So what do you think, Rebels? ARE YOU READY???

Col. Reb, Ole Miss

Save Colonel Reb!

Did you air mattresses out, too?

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I was changing the sheets on my bed this morning when I remembered another of our regular chores from when I was a kid — the semi-annual “airing of the mattresses.”

This ritual took place in early Spring and late Fall. Why then, I don’t know, but I guess it had something to do with the fact that we just couldn’t do it during snowy Winter months!

Anyway, we kids got roped into helping because Dad was away at work and Mom couldn’t complete it by herself.

“It” consisted of hauling all the mattresses off their box springs, dragging them downstairs, squeezing them out the door, and draping them across lawn furniture on the patio so they could “soak up some sun.”

Crazy? Maybe.

But my mom had it in her head that mattresses needed to be aired out on a regular basis, that the warm sun and fresh air would help us all sleep better.

Did it work? Maybe, maybe not.

It was back-breaking, even for kids.

You had to grab hold of the handles manufacturers used to attach to the sides of mattresses and wrestle them off the bed — not an easy chore unless you’re a linebacker.

Then you had to drag that mattress down a flight of stairs. More often than not, I wound up as the “front person” since I was the oldest kid; that meant I had to guide the mattress down to safety while somebody at the top of the stairs merely had to give it a push.

When it fell into the wall, both of us stopped midway and dissolved into fits of laughter before Mom came to chide us and put the task back on track!

Once downstairs, we dragged the mattress across the floor, opened the door onto the patio, and shoved it outside. There, Mom had prepared some lawn chairs or recliners, and we hoisted the mattress on top of them so it could “sunbathe.”

After a few hours, we reversed the process, placed clean sheets on the mattress and waited to jump in bed.

Mattresses don’t come with handles any more. In fact, mattresses today don’t have two sides. I learned this when I helped Mom look for a new mattress several months ago.

Regardless of the brand, we were told, mattresses now come with only one side for sleeping. The other side is covered by a gauze-like material that “hides” the innards of the mattress.

This means that no longer can you flip a mattress over, top to bottom and side to side, the way we used to. All you can do is “spin” it if you want to make sure it wears evenly.

I’m pretty sure this has something to do with planned obsolescence. Mattress manufacturers probably figured out that folks were hanging on to their mattresses longer than they wanted them to, and they decided that would never do.

Maybe that’s for the best. Now that I’m an adult, hauling mattresses downstairs and outside falls way down there on my list of fun things to do!

R.I.P., Declan

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Shock, sadness, and anger are in the forefront today as word spreads about the death of a 20-year-old student at the University of Notre Dame.

Declan Sullivan, a junior film and marketing major from Long Grove, IL, was killed when the hydraulic scissor lift he was videotaping football practice from on Wednesday toppled over in 50-plus mph wind gusts.

This happened just before 5 p.m. EST. The young man was taken almost immediately to a local hospital, where he was pronounced dead.

I didn’t know Declan; however, as the mom of one of his fellow students, I’m reeling from the news.

How could something like this happen? Where were the adults who were supposed to be in charge? Why was this student up on a portable tower 50 feet off the ground with sustained winds at 40 mph (when manufacturers of such an apparatus acknowledge they shouldn’t be used in winds over 30 mph)?

According to news reports, this kind of tower is used by all the major college football programs, as well as the NFL. At Notre Dame, I understand, one typically sits in each of the goal-line areas, in addition to permanent towers situated along the 50-yard line. Perhaps it’s time for a new, safer way to get a bird’s-eye view of practice?

Now everybody knows that, the higher up you go, the stronger the winds. And this was a wicked day, not fit for man or beast. In fact, earlier in the day, students were sent to basements and other safe places when tornado warning sirens blared out.

Football practice the evening before was moved indoors because of inclement weather. Shouldn’t it have been inside on Wednesday, too?

I can’t help shuddering when I think of the horrors this young man endured just doing his job that day. Reports indicate he posted online his trepidation at being on the tower in 60 mph wind gusts and called it “terrifying.”

Why did he stay up there??

A spokesman for the University told a news conference today that pep rallies and such have been canceled this week, but the game on Saturday versus Tulsa will go on in Declan’s memory.

I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to say what Declan would, or wouldn’t, have wanted. But I suspect it will be a subdued atmosphere, and winning (or losing) will have little to do with it.

Notre Dame officials assure us a full investigation will be conducted. That’s as it should be.

But the fact remains that this young man died way before his time. His grieving family, friends, and colleagues will need to band together, taking comfort from their faith and one another.

I’m sure there’s plenty of blame to go around on this one, but “blame” won’t bring Declan back.

Such a senseless tragedy.

Tummy Troubles??

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One evening a couple of months ago I heard an ad on TV that grabbed my attention.

It was for Culturelle, a probiotic supplement designed to eliminate forever those digestive upsets we all get — constipation, diarrhea, “tummy troubles.”

Sounded too good to be true, actually, but I wrote down the Web address and checked it out the next day.

There it all was, in living color:

  • Testimonials from people “just like me” who had stomach issues once but, thanks to Culturelle, were “cured.”
  • Informative copy telling the whys of stomach troubles and how Culturelle can “cure” them.
  • Discussion of “good” vs. “bad” bacteria and comparison with other probiotics available.
  • Side effects, dosing, where to buy information.
  • Even coupons to help cut the cost of a package at the store.

Still a skeptic, I called the toll-free customer service number and drilled them on the particulars. Finally, I decided I’d give it a try.

The first couple of days, I felt great. Maybe this will work, I thought. But I “thought” too soon. By Day 3, I had a resurgence of “tummy troubles,” so I called customer service again.

Not to worry, I heard. It takes time for your digestive system to adjust to the “good” bacteria and eliminate the “bad” stuff. Keep taking Culturelle with confidence and you’ll see how strong your immune system will become.

So I kept at it. But two weeks later, I found myself in the bathroom four times in one morning! Shoot, I was afraid to even leave the house.

Once again, I phoned customer service and described my experience for them — the bloating, gas pain, digestive noises, and diarrhea.

You shouldn’t be having these issues at this point, I was told. Maybe at the beginning, but not now. You might be one of those who can’t take Culturelle. Package it up and return it to us for a partial refund.

Best news I’d heard in a LONG TIME!

To be fair, I never felt bad taking Culturelle (if you discount that last day), and part of me wonders whether I should give a different probiotic a try. After all, we live in hectic times, we fail to eat properly, we subject our bodies to a variety of toxins like antibiotics, and there must be something to the studies of how probiotics “strengthen the immune system,” right?

Or do they? The FDA hasn’t rubber-stamped them, and manufacturers are quick to note that results differ among individuals. But still. . . .

Maybe it’s just human nature to worry about invisible things like our digestive systems. Any thoughts?

Back to the Books

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Have you ever noticed how “Life” sometimes gets in the way of things you’re supposed to be doing — like keeping up a blog?

That’s exactly what’s been going on in my corner of the world.

For the past 13 months (give or take), I’ve been playing chauffeur for my mom. Not because she’s afraid to drive, not because I have time on my hands and enjoy that sort of thing.

No, it’s because she had eye surgery and can’t drive right now.

The ordeal started in September, 2009, when Mom had cataract surgery performed by a local ophthalmologist. Yes, she checked him out beforehand and received rave reviews; the procedure would be a snap, he told her. So much so that she’d be golfing again — or anything else she chose to do — the very next day.

Hah.

Afterward, her vision was blurry. And time didn’t make it one bit better. Not only has she not even touched a golf club — she’s been unable to read (her passion) or drive; even cooking and walking for exercise are real challenges.

No matter that she religiously inserted the drops and ointments she’d been given. No matter that she was “taxied” (by me) to and from his office every week.

Finally, in desperate fear that her vision was getting even worse, she got a second opinion.

And learned she needed to see a specialist in Indianapolis, who advised her to undergo corneal transplant.

Scary stuff, but it’s wonderful what true professionals can do these days.

That surgery was in mid-September, and my sister (thankfully!) shepherded her through it. But Sis had to go back to her life, leaving me to (once again) taxi Mom to follow-up appointments. And once again, the appointments started off every couple of days, extended to every five days, then weekly, and most recently, two months.

It’s too soon, really, to proclaim the procedure a success, but everybody is guardedly optimistic.

I, too, am beginning to see light at the end of this tunnel. To hope that, once again, Mom will be back to her active self and I can resume my own life.

And even though she’s yet to return to the golf course, Mom is reading again!

Krud Kutter

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When I find a great product, I have to tell the world about it.

For as long as I can remember, my mom has insisted on washing every window in her house — all three floors of it!

As kids, we hated this ritual — the nasty discarded T-shirt rags, the ammonia-scented Windex, and having to lean w-a-a-y out the window (all the while praying you didn’t fall to certain death!). It seemed like such a time-waster, when we could be out with our friends playing and having fun.

Besides, nobody else in our neighborhood washed windows (or so we thought). Why did we have to?

But our arguments fell on deaf ears, and we could count on at least one “wasted” Saturday sometime during every summer break. Mom would get out the rags (washed, of course) and the Windex, and we’d sigh, groan, and grumble — to no avail.

After we kids grew up and moved off, Mom continued this task. Only this time, she’d found a little “helper.” No, not a cleaning lady; they don’t do that sort of work. Her helper was called Krud Kutter.

I remember when she told me over the phone about it. “Whatever,” I thought without enthusiasm. “Just as long as I don’t have to participate.”

This morning I saw her get out the hose with that determined gleam in her eyes, and I knew what was coming — window washing.

“I need your help,” she said.

Uh-oh.

Following her directions, I attached the Window Wash plastic bottle to the garden hose, spun the dial to select the suds or the water, and power washed until my heart was content.

This product is awesome! We did the entire house in about a half-hour!

Best of all, Krud Kutter doesn’t leave any streaks, it gets rid of all those nasty spiderwebs and bird poop, AND it’s even earth-friendly!

Who could ask for more?

I still can’t say I enjoy window-washing, but it’s really nice looking outside and seeing things through crystal-clear glass.

Don’t Kill Ole Miss, Part 2

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You know, I just hate it when people carp and complain and criticize without offering any suggestions on remedying the problem at hand.

Therefore, I’m going to continue the discussion I started the other day regarding Ole Miss’s mascot, or more correctly, the absence of a mascot.

Here are my suggestions to waylay the death of my beloved alma mater:

  • Bring back Colonel Reb. I’m NOT talking about that cartoony caricature of a colonel that was used most recently. I’m talking about a real, live Colonel Reb. A male student with some athletic ability who can rally crowds with lots of spirit, somebody with class and dignity who can represent this University wherever its athletic teams go. I’m talking about someone who can liaison between the cheerleaders, the band, the students, and the alumni. And I don’t care whether this person is white, black, pink, or green — he should bleed “red and blue”!
  • Colonel Reb’s attire. Cheerleader-type slacks, perhaps in gray with gold stripes down the sides of the legs, and a matching gray top (long-sleeved for cold weather, short-sleeved for hot) with gold military-looking embroidered thin stripes across the chest.
  • Spirit. Admittedly, I haven’t been to a football game in years, but do we have anything to take the place of our Confederate Flag? I understand the administration banned it, claiming it was “offensive.” Personally, I don’t see it as anything more than a symbol of Ole Miss, not something of “white oppression.” Why, it’s no more offensive than Mississippi State snubbing Golden Retrievers in favor of the English Bulldog! But if fans can’t wave the flag, what can we use — red and blue pom poms maybe? Or red, white, and blue hand towels to twirl? Or those annoying Vuvuzela horns used at soccer games? Or maybe somebody can invent a noisemaker (like a kazoo) for us?
  • Songs. Okay, when did we eliminate “Dixie” from our song-list? Talk about taking away everything! Sigh. Since we no longer can play/sing this rousing song, perhaps it’s time to initiate a new tradition. How about the playing/singing of our Alma Mater before games or at halftime? I didn’t know until I graduated that we even had an Alma Mater! The words are beautiful; so’s the melody. It could be very moving if everyone learned the words, rose to their feet, and joined in together.

Here’s the thing, people. I’ve heard and read far too many complaints that spirit at Ole Miss is down, that those attending games are lifeless, that we have nothing tangible to bind us together, generation to generation. That’s unacceptable.

Tradition is a big part of life. Greek organizations have their traditions; religious denominations, countries, universities, and even families have theirs. Alums should be able to go back to their university and feel “right at home,” knowing the old traditions are intact and open to adopting some new ones.

I’ve said it before — people don’t choose or reject a university based on its colors, mascot, or traditions. They learn to embrace and love those traditions, often before they even go off to kindergarten. And if they can’t stomach them, they choose another place to further their education. That’s the beauty of freedom.

Don’t Kill Ole Miss!

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I received something in my e-mail this morning and am still distressed over it.

It seems my alma mater, Ole Miss, hasn’t had a mascot on its athletic fields since 2003. That’s going on a decade, people!

We used to be the Rebels. Our mascot was a white-haired, suited-up Southern gentleman called Colonel Reb. Our main fight songs were “Dixie” and “Rebel March.” Our flag was the flag of the Confederacy.

So much has changed since I was a student.

And it’s not for the better.

Now I realize in this politically correct culture that certain things had to go by the wayside, but everything?

If I — raised in the North — could rally behind Southern traditions, could embrace them whole-heartedly, could (in short time) fall in love with this university, then anybody could.

Those who can’t should choose another school — period — rather than trying to reinvent the wheel.

A similar thing happened at the University of Illinois a few years back when a very adamant minority convinced the administration that Chief Illiniwek, their student-portrayed Sioux mascot, was “offensive” and “racist.”

I didn’t think so. Still don’t.

But they banned the Chief, leaving the Illini without a mascot.

Just like us Rebels.

Recently, I received an online survey asking me to weigh in on the list of proposed mascots someone had come up with to represent Ole Miss. Talk about a joke! Who in their right mind could rally behind a horse or a lion or two goofy thing-a-ma-bobs named “Hotty” and “Toddy,” for cryin’ out loud??

It infuriates me that this great university has fallen to such depths. No wonder enrollment is down. No wonder students don’t feel any camaraderie there. No wonder alumni are frustrated and frantically searching for ways to inject life into an institution they love.

Some students at Ole Miss have even begun a campaign to select Admiral Ackbar as mascot. He’s got lasers, they say. True, but he’s also this gosh-awful ugly catfish-looking creature from Star Wars.

You can’t blame the kids for trying, but why mess with a good thing?

I don’t believe students choose a university based on its mascot. Nor do I believe they refuse to attend a university based on its mascot. Just take a look at some of the silly mascots on college football fields today — mules at West Point, blue devils at Duke, Stanford’s tree, Syracuse’s orange, the Ohio State buckeye.

Still, there’s something to be said for Tradition. Something to be gained by binding generation after generation with the same songs, cheers, mascots, and symbols.

Something to be mourned when traditions die.

Those who seek to abolish all traces of what Ole Miss stands for need to be stopped in their tracks.

And the only way I can think of to stop them is by hitting them where it hurts — their wallets.

So the next time that perky student calls to ask for your donation, politely tell them ‘No, not until today’s Ole Miss returns to the glory that was Ole Miss.’

HOTTY TODDY!!! GO REBELS!!

Conquering Fear, Notre Dame Football Recap

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Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.”

A week ago, Eleanor’s thoughts never crossed my mind. I was too busy fretting — worrying whether there would be heavy traffic on the Friday of Labor Day weekend, worrying if My Favorite Domer would have time between all his Band and class activities to pick up the “winter woolies” I was bringing him, worrying where I could park my car during the football game, worrying whether I could find my seat in such a big stadium, worrying if I could stand being in a crowd of thousands, worrying whether I’d brought the right clothes. . . .

Worry, they say, is like a rocking chair — gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere.

Logically I knew that. Knew I was a mess. Knew I wasn’t trusting my own good instincts.

Emotionally I didn’t care.

I was hanging onto my worries and my fears, doggone it, and don’t even try to convince me otherwise!

How silly.

I left early Friday morning, beating most of the other travelers to my destination. MFD and I hauled coats, jeans, hoodies, etc. to his dorm between classes. And I got to enjoy some of his Band practices.

Piece of cake.

That gave me courage to tackle Saturday.

Again, I left the hotel early and found just the right parking spot. Skies were partly cloudy, temps were cool but I had a jacket.

I toured campus. Took lots of photos. Talked to other visitors and parents. Found an usher in the Stadium to direct me to my seat. Got to yell and scream and jump to my feet without feeling like a weirdo. And enjoyed a candlelight birthday dinner with MFD after the game.

It couldn’t have been more perfect!

As Notre Dame takes to the field this afternoon for their match-up against Michigan, I’ll be there in spirit. One of legions of fans bound together by tradition, loyalty, and love.

You’ll recognize me — I’ll be the one with misty eyes when I hear the beloved songs again, the one on my feet yelling (at the TV set) with the other fans, the one wishing I could be there in person, the one confident I will be for future games.

GO IRISH!!