Blog Entries, My Life

Conversation About Music

KarenPopeWrites

I absolutely love talking to my youngest son. He has an excellent gift for conversation and loves to discuss many subjects from building models, parenting, cooking, and music, just to name a few.

This morning, he called me to tell me that back in the day, when he heard an Aerosmith song, whether it was a ballad or a hard-driving metal song, he could tell it was Aerosmith. That is how he starts the conversation. “Hi, Mom. Do you realize that when I was younger, back in the day, Aerosmith sounded like Aerosmith?”

Aware that this is part of his thought process, I allowed him to continue with his thought, patiently waiting for him to get to the point.

His complaint was that many contemporary musicians do not have that distinct identity that brands them as them. He said that the performers may cross several genre lines even on albums. He applauded the versatility but pointed out that he normally wanted to listen to a particular genre rather than a group.

Therein lies his problem. If he wants to enjoy smooth jazz’s low-fi beats, then why would he choose a group with songs in that genre, plus metal music, dance music, and ballads all on the same album.

The solution to this thorny problem: playlists.

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

He tends to download an entire album and then has to cherry-pick the songs he wants to listen to. I described my playlists to him (which I have over 50 on my iPhone.) Some songs appear in more than one playlist. For example, David Arkenstone has his own playlist and his songs appear in my New Age playlist and also in my Writing Music playlist.

I have music categorized by artist, genre, and by activity. These playlists have been over 10 years in the making with a lot of help from iTunes and Apple Music.

My son then complained that it would take too long to create playlists in Google Play Music. I asked him, “Are you under a time constraint? A deadline is looming large? If not, what is your hurry?”

Who cares if it takes him 10 years to categorize his music?

My Life

I Finally Met a Real Doctor

KarenPopeWrites

After waiting for over six months, I finally got in to see a Rheumatologist. While I impatiently waited, my hip hurt worse and worse to the point it was difficult to walk and the pain frequently made me cry. When the doctor came into the room, I almost kissed her and offered to raise her children.

Photo by Eben Kassaye on Unsplash

This lady was VERY thorough with her exam, meaning she stuck her fingers in every one of my joints and every muscle to find out which ones are actually inflamed and how badly. The preliminary diagnosis was I have arthritis, but maybe not rheumatoid. I also have fibromyalgia and something I had never heard of: Joint Hypermobility Syndrome or possibly Ehler-Danlos Syndrome. I proved it by bending my knees backward and touching my thumb to my wrist. Apparently, that is not normal. She also told me that I have that “soft, velvety skin that is very stretchy.” It is a problem with proteins and collagen. Well, crap!

Other than mild exercise and medication, nothing can be done for either one. The downside is either condition causes early onset arthritis. Plus, there is the fibromyalgia issue. And the arthritis issue.

So this doctor, after her 2-hour exam, sent me for some blood work. I gave the slip of paper to the lady at the lab and she proceeds to grab 11 vials to fill with blood. That’s right. ELEVEN. My first thought was I had somehow been transported to Transylvania. She looked at the paper, double-checked everything, and announced that 11 was correct. I asked her if she was planning to frame me for murder or just do several blood tests.

Eleven vials of blood later, I staggered out of the lab and had to hang on to the nearest lamppost to step down from the curb. The vampire did tell me to make sure to eat something as soon as I could.

But my day wasn’t over. I then went to the Imaging Center for X-rays under the tender care of Kristy (or Kristi), a perky little lady who looked 16 and had, wait for it, pigtails. Braided pigtails. Seriously. At one point during X-raying various parts of my body, she said, “Put the bottoms of your feet together and drop your knees open as wide as you can.” I must have given her an incredulous look, because she then asked, “Can you do that?”

Photo by Owen Beard on Unsplash

I replied, “NO! Look Kristy (or Kristi), I have a very painful hip. What you are asking is impossible today.”

“Well, I will have to take two images rather than one.”

“That’s okay. Just walk on over there and press that button twice. Then, we will both be happy.”

Then, she made that noise that always made me want to roundhouse kick my kids. “HHUUHH.”

“Whatever,” I responded. I wasn’t in the mood for emo-girl’s theatrics because the exam from the doctor already left me feeling like I was run over by a bus and I was woozy from blood loss. All I wanted at that point was to get to the pharmacy to get my fingers around the drugs my doctor prescribed and then eat a Big Mac right before taking a nap until dawn.

But after 24 hours of prednisone, I am already feeling better.

Blog Entries, My Life

What’s In A Name?

KarenPopeWrites

Nicknames are funny creatures. They often come about based on a single event such as my friend who fell off her bike and skinned her knees very severely and was evermore known as “Scabby.” There was a boy who played with my children and his name was Jeremy, however, his little sister called him, “Germy.” And so did everyone else, me included, because that name fit. Sometimes, nicknames are derived from deliberate intention, such as her name is Elizabeth, but we call her Betty.

According to Wikipedia, a nickname (also moniker) is a substitute for the proper name of a familiar person, place, or thing. Commonly used to express affection, a form of endearment, and sometimes amusement, it can also be used to express defamation of character, particularly by school bullies. As a concept, it is distinct from both pseudonym and stage name, and also from a title (for example, City of Fountains), although there may be overlap in these concepts.

My parents unwisely named me Karen Carol. Well, it was unwise on their part because when a parent is irritated or angry and they use the child’s first and middle name, the child sits up and takes special notice. They figured out when I was a toddler that when they were angry or irritated at me, it was impossible to get “Karen Carol” out of their mouths smoothly. So, they kinda strung the two words together to make “Kareencorral.” Still nearly unpronounceable. So, they morphed THAT into “Clothilde.” Which I hated, of course.

With my childhood in mind, when I had kids, I named them names that, I thought, couldn’t be ruined. Rachel, Rebecca, Norman, and Jason. Plain, simple, and easy to spell. My grandfather called the twin girls, “Becky and Rach,” almost from day one and Norman was “Normy.” My grandfather passed away before Jason was born, so he never reaped the benefit of the humor.

As the kids grew, we ended up with Rachipoo, Normipoo, and Jasipoo.” The kids named themselves that. So much for my great plan. (No, I didn’t forget about Rebecca, but she passed away in infancy.) My kids are all in their forties and still refer to each other by the “poo” names.

Fortunately, I haven’t heard Clothilde in many years and I never ended up with a name like “Scabby,” so maybe I didn’t do anything negatively noteworthy.

Even my ex-husband never gave me a nickname. None of those cutsie names that lovers give to each other. I was always just “Karen.” Never did I hear, “Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, Darling, or Dumpling.” I never gave him a nickname, either. He came with one, already. The first thing he ever said to me was, “My friends call me Jimmy, but you can call me Mr. Pope.” That should have given me a clue that the relationship was doomed from the start. Eventually, I did call him Jimmy. Friends? Who knows?

Photo by Neil Su on Unsplash
My Life

Morning Coffee

KarenPopeWrites

I am a coffee snob.

What I mean is, I like coffee. I drink it hot and black or sometimes with a little milk. I like the way it tastes. I like the way the coffee mug fits in my hand. I like the aroma. These things don’t make me a snob, however.

Coffee snobbery comes from my coffee preference. I will drink single-origin coffee and not a blend. I prefer coffee from certain parts of the world, like Africa or Asia. I prefer dark roast and don’t mind the strong acidic flavor. I grind my own coffee in a coffee grinder, so I purchase whole beans, always.

Also, coffee snobbery comes from the way I make my morning coffee. I use an analog coffee maker, namely a French press. I love the burst of aroma when the hot water hits the grounds. Anticipation mounts while I wait the three minutes for the coffee to steep.

Then, that first mouthful… Doesn’t get any better than this.

Photo by René Porter on Unsplash
My Life, Rheumatoid Arthritis

My First Death

KarenPopeWrites

Martha Graham, a legendary dancer, once said, “A dancer dies twice—once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful.”

BTS band member Min Yoongi (Suga) sang about this in the popular song “Black Swan,”

Ayy, the heart no longer races

When the music starts to play

Tryna to pull up

Seems like time has stopped

Oh, that would be my first death

I been always afraid of.

https://genius.com/Genius-english-translations-bts-black-swan-english-translation-lyrics

I worried that I had died the first death when rheumatoid arthritis greatly curtailed my range of motion and activity. You see, I used to be a dancer. To borrow a line from Steve Martin, music gave me “happy feet.” I danced all around my house, in my yard, in my workplace, in clubs and bars. I danced endlessly. It didn’t matter to me when or where. I just danced.

I was never a professional dancer, although I studied ballet dancing when I was a child and a teenager. I was a disco queen when I was a young adult and could match the best dancers on the disco dance floor. I could dance for hours, non-stop, and loved every minute of it. I danced with my children and I danced alone. All I had to do was to hear the music start and I was moving to the beat.

Photo by Hulki Okan Tabak on Unsplash

I wanted to be a professional dancer, but I had a conservative mother who insisted that no one makes a living with just dancing and I needed to get my head out of the clouds and learn to type so I would have something to fall back on. And that is what I did. I fell back onto my second choice and spent a lot of time regretting it. But, on the other hand, I was able to feed, shelter, and clothe myself and my three kids without help from others. So, did I really fall back on my second choice? That is something to ponder another day.

One day, my feet started to hurt, and my ankles. It took the doctors a couple of years to finally figure out what was going on with me. With the words, rheumatoid arthritis still ringing in my ears, my happy feet became very unhappy feet. I stopped dancing. Music no longer made my heart race. Music no longer made me smile. Music played and I cried because of my loss.

Maybe my mother knew something I didn’t. Had I tried to pursue a career as a dancer, it would have been cut very short because my body betrayed me.

On a bright shining day a few weeks ago, I realized that I had not actually died that first death when I was sitting in my favorite chair and wiggling to a favorite song. I didn’t couldn’t stand up and dance, but I went through the arm motions of Michael Jackson’s Beat It. It struck me at that moment that I was still a dancer.

I laughed aloud as if I was just resurrected.

I dance in my head and always have. In my mind, I dance like no one is watching–leaping, hopping, twirling, spinning, stepping, dancing. Now, when I dance, I am not limited to a confined area like a stage or a dining room with the table shoved aside. I can dance on the rings of Saturn, through a boreal forest, on top of waves in the ocean, leading a flash mob in a shopping mall. The possibilities are endless and only limited by my imagination.

Instead of just dancing, I can now fly!

Photo by Alora Griffiths on Unsplash
My Life, Writing

Music is Memory and a Movie List

KarenPopeWrites

The number of songs on my iPhone is ever-increasing. Many of the songs are OSTs from various movies that struck a chord with me at some point. I will think about a movie I saw and then go in search of the soundtrack. Many times, just hearing the music will bring back pleasant memories of the movie: my favorite scenes, my favorite character, my favorite quote. You get the picture.

Music can tell stories. How many people can listen to The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and not think about Mickey Mouse trying to sweep thousands of bucketfuls of water out of the castle? This tone poem was written to bring about memories, although Mickey Mouse didn’t exist when the song was written in 1897.

This morning, I listened to John Barry’s High Road to China score and recalled many of my favorite scenes from that classic movie just by listening to the music. It was a nice trip to an exotic world of high adventure, romance, and intrigue. High Road to China has always been on my list of the top ten movies to watch.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_Road_to_China

My list of movies that I can watch over and over and never tire of is:

  • Nate and Hayes
  • High Road to China
  • Sahara (Brook Shield’s version)
  • Memoirs of a Geisha
  • The Magic of Belle Isle
  • Love, Actually
  • The Holiday
  • The Intern
  • The Princess Bride
  • Dances with Wolves

All of these movies have memorable soundtracks and just hearing one of the songs brings the entire movie to mind.

How did you spend your morning?

Photo by Tyson Moultrie on Unsplash
Blog Entries, My Life

Don’t Overthink

KarenPopeWrites

I often spend several minutes hours fretting about what to write in my blog. I don’t normally just sit and note what comes to mind when the thoughts arrive. Today, I decided to give it a go and let my thoughts take me where they want to go.

I was looking for some fun things to post on my Facebook page this morning. I keep Facebook strictly light, airy, and totally non-controversial on purpose. I use a lot of self-deprecating humor, humor about getting older, problems with insomnia where I am in a constant battle with my overactive brain, and funny things I observe on a daily basis. It is humor that doesn’t hurt anyone and doesn’t cause anyone to rise up and challenge my thoughts. There is way too much of that kind of thing on the Internet, anyway.

For example, this morning, I posted this:

I love the look on the faces of people who own cats when they think cats are a majestic self-sufficient wonder of nature that doesn’t need humans for anything and suddenly they realize that Fluffy Cat is a total dingus who can’t drink water properly.

https://www.facebook.com/KayFour55
Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

It is cute, slightly humourous and even a cat lover (which I am) can remember that defining moment in their relationship with their beloved pet.

This one is an example of my endless insomnia jokes:

Me: No insomnia tonight! Going right to sleep!
Brain: Dr. Pepper is actually BBQ Sprite.
Me: …

And the ever-popular self-deprecating humor:

What was I like in high school? You know that guy who drove a Corvette and dated all the cheerleaders? I am the reason he passed Geometry and English.

My Facebook has only 41 friends and believe it or not, these are actual REAL friends. With four exceptions, they are people I have met in person and even interact with on a regular basis in other places besides Facebook. Like at Congregation Meetings, restaurants, hanging over the back fence in a marathon gossip session, or visiting when I go on vacation.

The three exceptions are:

  • The sister of a man that I collaborated with online to write a textbook for firefighters. He and I were ghostwriters, so you won’t see my name in print anywhere.
  • A man I worked for as a virtual assistant, fifteen years ago, but I have never met in person
  • A granddaughter who recently cropped up as the love-child between my son and a girl he knew in high school. She doesn’t seem very interested in getting to know a grandmother she never met and doesn’t answer emails, texts, or even respond if I happen to post something on her Facebook page. Quite possibly, she is shy or maybe she has no sense of humor.
  • A distant relative who lives in Australia.

I don’t use Facebook as a place to validate myself as a human. I don’t require thousands of friends and followers to prove that I am loved. The people on my Facebook are real friends and family… that kind I would call if I need bail money.

I don’t use Facebook as a platform to air my views. I don’t deliberately provoke arguments and disagreements hoping I will get more likes or thumbs-up. Point of fact, if someone posts a comment that is designed to be click-bait, I simply delete it.

Everybody has an opinion and I am not different, but I will not tell anyone who reads my posts what they are.

Blog Entries, My Life

Defining Moment

KarenPopeWrites

We all have those moments in life where we can remember exactly what we were doing at a given instant. For example, we remember where we were when Kennedy was assassinated, where we watched the first men walking on the moon, and what we were doing when the twin towers fell.

These are moments that change our thinking. They change our perception of the world around us.

Photo by Othmar Ortner on Unsplash

I sat with my Dad and my brother in front of the black and white TV to watch Neil Armstrong take his first steps on the moon’s surface. We were allowed to stay up late that night to watch history being made.

When the planes hit the twin towers, I was at home, not having to work that day. My mother called me and told me that it was like the world just ended. I turned on the TV in time to watch the second plane hit the tower and stayed glued to the TV screen for the rest of the day.

I actually saw the Challenger explode in real-time, looking up at the sky in the parking lot of Bennigan’s in Orange Park, Florida. I had seen many launches, living in Florida, but that was the first time I saw one EXPLODE. I instantly burst into tears and stood in the parking lot for several minutes absorbing the impact of the event, tears steadily streaming down my face. I knew before the commentators on TV told us that Challenger was gone.

Defining moments.

The day I realized that the universe is bigger and there is much more going on than I previously thought was a day in college in a botany class. The professor brought in a stereoscope for us to play with. She put a daisy on the plate and let us look at the wonders. It was an ordinary daisy, with white petals and a yellow center. I don’t remember the magnification the professor had the stereoscope set on, but when I looked in the eyepieces, I saw a miniature world that I didn’t know existed.

Photo by Freya Ingva on Unsplash

My brain told me that the fuzzy stuff in the flower’s center was simple little stalks or spikes that were covered in pollen. I had no clue that on top of each of the stalks was a tiny daisy. Duplicates of the parent plant. I could see the pollen grains, but the small flowers were a total surprise. A shock wave of understanding that I would never forget.

That moment, the universe shifted and I knew there was so much more going on than I could have ever imagined. Those miniature flowers expanded my world far beyond the limits of my previous thought processes. I physically felt my brain shift its direction about 60 or 80 degrees.

I realized that God was real if He could create something so perfect as a thousand tiny flowers inside a larger flower. I realized that human eyes were extremely limited and I needed to observe the world with a stereoscope of understanding. I knew that I had many more things to learn and I was not the self-professed genius I fancied myself being.

The world became much larger, which meant my brain got so much smaller and I had to do something about that.

My Life

Where is He?

KarenPopeWrites

I was thinking of a guy I had a crush on when I was in school. He was actually my older brother’s best friend and they had a band. They would come to our house and set up in the living room to play songs of the day. Randy, Mickey, Byron, and my brother, John. Their names are perfect for a sixties rock band.

My first love was Randy. A genuine crush. I tried everything I could think of to get him to notice me, but of course, he never did. He was 5 or 6 years older than me, after all.

There was a Halloween party at our house and Randy dropped a medallion that was part of his costume and I found it in the grass. I was over the moon because I was the one who found it and returned it to the owner. He said, “Thanks,” and nothing more.

My family went to Goldhead State Park for a week and he came down for a day or two. We were going on a row boat ride and I was completely mortified when I fell into the boat. He teased me by saying, “Well, that’s one way to get into a boat.” Crushed by my crush.

I never told him that he was THE ONE.

He joined the military and was sent to Germany during the Vietnam War and something bad happened to him. I never found out what. He wasn’t the same when he returned. Gone was the fresh-faced high-school boy and in its place was a man haunted by memories.

Photo by Joanna Nix-Walkup on Unsplash

I saw him once after he got out of the military at my brother’s house. They played guitars together just like old times, and just like old times, he didn’t acknowledge my presence. I was just my older brother’s little sister. I heard he was gay, which explained why he never looked at me when I was young and cute.

Lately, he has appeared in my dreams, looking like that fresh-faced high school boy. The smile is bright and his eyes dance with fun and mischief. Just the way I remember. Why, after not thinking about him for 30 years has he arrived back in my dreams? Is this the beginning of senility? Dementia? Alzheimer’s?

Or am I just remembering a pleasant time in my life when the world revolved around a pretty fresh-faced high school student with dark hair, a devastating smile, and absolutely straight teeth? I am not going to try to find him, assuming that he is nothing like the guy I remember. I don’t want to move any of the furniture around in my memory because he will fade away or morph into something else.

Photo by Gabriel Gurrola on Unsplash
Uncategorized

Pan Bread the Old Western Way

KarenPopeWrites

Jacqui Murray's avatar

Anyone who follows my blog knows I love Westerns (here’s the link to my Western Book Review category). One of my favorite authors is Robert Thomas. His 113+series about US Marshall/bounty hunter Jess Williams, who hunts only the worst of the worst outlaws, is one of my favorites. Jess Williams fights injustice, follows the law, and helps those who can’t help themselves. The stories are set during my preferred post-Civil War time frame of 1866-1899, an era in America’s west when fighting Indians had almost ended, Western law hadn’t yet solidified (US Marshalls and Town Marshalls aside) so outlaws often rode roughshod over good citizens, the Pony Express had been replaced by stagecoaches, themselves being replaced by trains, indoor toilets were the rage in the best hotels, the sewing machine was beginning to make clothing more abundant, canned goods were becoming popular (especially peaches), and so much more.

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