Guest Voice: Terry Goodman – Husband Tips for Surviving Quarantine

Top Ten ‘Shelter in Place’ Survival Tips for Husbands

1. If your wife asks, “Are you still here?” more than 3 times in any 24-hour period, immediately volunteer to clean the house.

2. If your wife receives more than 7 packages from Amazon in any 24-hour period, tell her that you are proud of her efforts to stimulate the economy.

3. It probably is not a good idea to suggest to your wife that the two of you cleaning gutters together will be a productive team-building activity.

4. Try to be productive during the time you are at home. Personally, I have sorted my sock drawer twice and memorized the dialog from all 400+ episodes of Law and Order.

5. If your wife suggests that the two of you watch the Hallmark Channel’s Christmas movie marathon tell her you have a fever, a dry cough, and that you need to be tested right away.

6. If your wife tells you she actually prefers the elbow bump to a good morning kiss, don’t take it personally. Just assume it is due to her general commitment to social distancing.

7. If you ask your wife what she is cooking for dinner and her response is a low, guttural growl, drive immediately to the nearest Chic-Fil-A.

8. If your wife sprays you with Fabreze more than 5 times in any 24-hour-period, it is probably time for you to take a shower.

9. If your wife reminds you to clean out the garage, it is probably not a good idea to tell her, “I’ll have to check with Dr. Fauci first.”

10. At least twice each day, tell your wife that she is the quarantine partner of your dreams.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Dr. Terry Goodman spent his entire teaching career teaching math and working with future math teachers at University of Central Missouri (previously Central Missouri State). He officially retired in 2011, after which he returned to his home state of Texas.  (His comment was that the move raised the average IQ of both states!)  Terry and I collaborated on MANY projects in mathematics education over the years – he was a terrific (and highly organized!) colleague and he remains a close friend!  His wife and mine get along famously (too well!) and the four of us have gone on more than one vacation together!  We miss him here in Missouri!


To re-read two of Terry’s other Guest Voices, visit GV.Man’sGuideWalmart, and/or TopTenTrumpAccomplishments

Considering a submission?  See TopTenThoughtsGuidlines

Guest Voice: Velda Brotherton

Marvin Ruby Hollingsworth

A Bond Never Broken

When I first started interviewing people for my historical articles in the Observer, I was driving a Ford Thunderbird. The one year they decided to grow that particular model from the original sports car to one as large as a sedan. One of my first drives into the depths of the wilderness occurred in the spring. It was rainy season and creeks were rising.

I received a call from one of the daughters of a couple who were soon to celebrate their 73rd wedding anniversary. The Holllingsworths lived in a cabin outside Delaney surrounded by the Ozark National Forest. They had always lived there.

With directions lying on the seat beside me I drove out highway 16 to Delaney, turned onto the gravel road as instructed, you know, the one where the white horse is in the pasture, and began a journey I will never forget.

The road narrowed, twisted and turned until it was two ruts with weeds growing up in the middle. I braked at the first of several creeks, looked at the other side to make sure I could climb out once I went in, and drove down into the shallow, but rushing waters. Back then many things were different than they now are. Another of those things was if a car’s brakes got a soaking set they no longer functioned.

About the time I forded several more of these watery crossings and steered around a curve that literally hung on the rim of a bluff I wished for the dozenth or more time that I’d bought a Jeep before I took this job. No one warned me. Oh, I’d lived in the Ozarks of Arkansas for quite a while and knew some roads were iffy, but this one was a real challenge, especially in a low-slung Thunderbird.

But what utter beauty surrounded me. Sometimes I caught my breath at the sheer magnificence. The air was sweet and filled with silence broken only by the songs of birds and my car making its way deeper and deeper into the wilderness. And, on yes, the movement of crystal clear water over and around rocks.

And then I began the final climb, and perched right in the edge of a thick forest, at the very end of the road, was a log cabin. And on the porch sat a man. Once he caught sight of me he raised a hand in welcome. A fence surrounded the yard. I parked and opened the car door.

“Get out and come on up.” He waved some more as if I might not see him.

I stepped out, went through a gate that screeched shut behind me. Sounds were exaggerated in the silence. The peaceful feeling that came over me that day would be one I experienced often during my years of traveling for miles into another strange land to meet someone who had something special to tell me. Something worth my time and whatever struggles it took to arrive at my destination.

Marvin told me the thing he worried about most was that something might change his way of living before he would no longer have to worry about how he lived. He said that they had already passed some ridiculous laws like making it against the law to kill rattlesnakes. “What hillbilly won’t kill a rattlesnake every chance he gets,” he added. I was with him on that.

His grandparents came into Arkansas when virgin timber covered the hills. He told me that the woods were full of tents and cabins then when people came to make a living in the timber. That would’ve been the 1800s. He was born just under the hill where he lived with his wife Ruby who was 16 when they married. The only time he had left the place was in 1919 when he was drafted and went to Springdale. In those days Springdale had one main street and wooden sidewalks. He waited all day Sunday for the bus and never saw one single car. Before he could be inducted, as he put it, “the Kaiser gave it up,” and he was sent home.

He never drove or owned a car. And the first one he saw was when someone brought a Model T up the road. The couple had 12 children and at that time when I interviewed him they had 131 living descendants. His son Burt and daughter-in-law Jo Ann lived there with him and Ruby, who was deaf and almost blind. She sat silently with us during the interview, and when she felt me stirring to get ready to leave she put a hand on my arm and said, “Oh, stay more. Stay more.” It was a vivid moment while I considered how lonely she must have been for adult company over the years. I couldn’t imagine it.

Sitting there on that porch, looking out over the mountains I had a taste of what it was like to live in the pure wilderness a hundred years earlier. We can only imagine that kind of life, probably don’t desire it, yet there was a certain pure serenity in the surroundings.

Jo Ann told me they were going to keep the older couple around a few more years and would have the biggest party ever when they celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary. I was to visit the couple two more times. Once during that very celebration and one last journey when I visited their final resting place. They were buried together on the hill overlooking the house in which they had spent their entire lives.

 

Velda Brotherton

Velda BrothertonVelda Brotherton has a long career in historical writing, both fiction and nonfiction. Her love of history and the west is responsible for the publication of 25 books and novels since 1994. 

While her western romances, continued to be published by Wild Rose Press, her most thrilling experience in her writing career came when Oghma Creative Media contracted her book, Beyond the Moon, a story she has treasured since its first writing in 1985, and signed her to a four-book contract. One is to reprint the Ozark cookbook containing recipes from her mother’s collection and stories of growing up in Arkansas during the depression,

The most fun she’s had came when owner/designer of Oghma Creative Media, Casey Cowan, suggested a new brand. Sexy Dark and Gritty so well fits her writing style that it was quickly adopted.

To glimpse her blog, visit https://veldabrotherton.wordpress.com/?fbclid=IwAhttps://veldabrotherton.wordpress.com/?fbclid=IwAR2CLfpcrNgxC67sCsIegTaI1QlcAB8G-bEAImoiCFDjh2kX1gRvnJLt4wAR2CLfpcrNgxC67sCsIegTaI1QlcAB8G-bEAImoiCFDjh2kX1gRvnJLt4wA

For a view of her Oghma books (and a more extensive bio), see http://oghmacreative.com/our-authors/velda-brotherton/

Lion in Winter

A nightlong snowstorm stalks across the land with authority

like a lion in winter exercising the power to which he has rightful legacy.

His silent white paws tread with the sureness that is his birthright,

bringing humility to the hedgerows and paralysis to the marketplace.

 

He pauses quietly in the morning

yearning to stay to hear the laughter of the children,

to feel the tickle of sled runners and the touch of woolen mittens,

but with full understanding of the commitments to which he has heir,

he turns and courses northeastward.

Nancy English


(Dr.) Nancy English from St. Louis  is a math teacher, par excellence. She spent most of her career teaching at in the Parkway school district, where she was their Outstanding Teacher of the Year in 1987.  She finished her career at Fontbonne University, and received an Excellence in Teaching Award there in 2013.  In between, there were also many local, regional and statewide awards.  

One of Many Summer Tonics

It’s Saturday night and the band is tuning up on stage. People are positioning their lawn chairs on the street to the west of the courthouse, a street blocked off every Saturday night in the summer. A tent is set at the back of the makeshift venue, selling funnel cakes  and fried Oreos. Kids are playing tag on the courthouse lawn, careful not to knock over the vegetable stand near the sidewalk. The sky is clear, and thankfully, the humidity took the night off which is a tonic all its own.

This is Yellville, Arkansas, and each Saturday night between Memorial Day (late May) and Labor Day (early September), its 1200 residents host Music on the Square. Local bands take the stage in the converted work trailer with the side cut out, and townspeople gather on Mill Street, between Old Main Street and Highway 62. Some folks bring chairs while others sit along the half-wall surrounding the courthouse grounds. Everyone consciously leaves room for a dance floor near the stage.

I usually take my seat near the back of the venue, where I perch on the rock wall near the corner of Mill and Old Main. The spot gives me a view of the entire crowd while still close enough to smell the intoxicating fragrance of funnel cakes lifted straight from the oil.

Except for the presence of electricity and cell phones, it could easily be a scene repeated from 100 years ago. Townspeople gather at the end of a work week to enjoy some music, visit with neighbors, and if they feel a twitch, dance a little. In the crowd, I see familiar faces. The grandmother watching her grandchildren play on the lawn. The retired couple who hold hands while entering the venue and always take to the dance floor. The young family with a child on the father’s shoulders. It is rural America at its finest.

I only started attending this weekly event this summer, having only learned of it two summers ago even though it has been an ongoing tradition for almost 20 years. The 30-minute drive from my home winds through the green hills of the Ozark Mountains, a place that most Americans do not know exists. The two-lane highway bends and curves around hills that were once home to risk-taking homesteaders who entered these lands 200 years ago to stake a claim on a little patch of dirt to call their own. The land is unforgiving, too rocky to plow but remote enough to have a sense of autonomy. The settlers who first moved here were tough not only because they had to be but because that’s who they were instinctively.

The crowd tonight is friendly, as it always is, and strangers stop to speak to me as we all gather for one singular purpose: community. There are no debates here, no pundits or protests, no ‘us’ or ‘them.’ It is a return to simpler times, when a child’s laughter was heard on the same summer breeze that carried the smell of good cooking. On this night, with the clear sky and hometown music, all our differences are set aside so we can focus on what we have in common.  A more effective tonic for our woes I have not found.


  Rita Herrmann lives in the Ozark Mountains with her two dogs and Netflix subscription. A lifelong writer, she’s learned to draw deep thoughts from the simplest of observations. Through her work on She Wears Red Shoes, she inspires others to be the best version of themselves, even though she often eats too much chocolate. A good road trip with a great playlist is how she rolls. Her core beliefs include dancing spontaneously, singing randomly, laughing often, living simply, and learning to forgive.

Guest Voice: Semantics – Dan Felshin

Would I scare you off if I said this is a short piece about semantics?

Semantics is about language and it has a few messages. It has to do with choosing the right words in the most effective order.

Rule One: The word is not the thing!

Words are symbols. They stand for other things. They are made up by people and, guess what, there are different words in different languages. The word “chair” is not a chair, it is a sybol for a chair that we have been taught to relate to a variety of things to sit on.

Rule Two: There are two kinds of words. There are words that we associate with things we can touch, look at, or point to. Words like Chair, Table, Truck, Nose. And then there are words that you can’t pont to, like Freedom, Scared, Insurance, democracy. These are ideas that have to be explained.

Idea Three: Words have a level of abstraction. The word Vehicle can mean cars or trucks or bicycles. The word truck is more specific. The words Ford F-150 Crew Cab are even more specific and less abstract.

Words have a dictionary definition, and then they have all sorts of emotional overtones that skew their meanings. Rule Four: No word ever means exactly the same thing twice. Every time you use a word, you attach some extra meaning based on the circumstances. If you get stung by a bee and tell about it, the word “Bee” takes on an emotional meaning. Calling a grown man “Boy” instead olf “Sir” makes a difference. And words can be used for the opposite of their normal meaning. Saying, “Yeah, yeah…” means No, not Yes. “Good luck with that” means Not a Chance.

This is just a little something to get you started on thinking about what you say and how you say it, and about how you listen.

Dan Felshin, Springfield, Missouri

Guest Voice: Rita Herrmann – A Little Laughter from the Universe

When I was 14 years old, I had a fully developed vision for my life. After completing school and travelling the world, I would meet and marry a great guy, at which point we would settle onto our farm. He would spend his days being a success and an all-around perfect guy while I would spend my days being a wildly successful writer, creating work in a beautiful sunlit studio (which he built for me, of course), while raising our six well-behaved children. Six. Somewhere after making the list of the traditional names I would choose for our six lovely children (three girls and three boys), I heard a little chuckle in the distance. It was the Universe, and it was laughing. Hard.

That was the last time that dream had any chance of being true, right there in that moment in my own mind.

Let’s face it, we all had far-fetched dreams when we were 14 and did not yet know how the world worked. We expected the Universe to hear our request, bow and say, “As you wish.” It was easy then, free of much complication, and seen through an innocent veil of our world view. I’m sure my two oldest imaginary children, Jane and Eric, would have felt the same at that age.

Soon, the actual machine of life happens. Choices happen. The influence of others happens. The intertwined paths we each follow twist and waggle their way into each others lives and create a new road completely unimaginable in the moments preceding. We get carried along the new road until our surroundings are better than we imagined or nothing like we wanted. The once-perfect dream has been twisted and bent and squeezed into something completely unrecognizable. The more we hold onto the specificity of that old vision, the more damage we do to ourselves and others.

Let go or be dragged. — Unknown

The Universe wants us to be flexible, to be open to adopting an new vision at any given time. It wants us to be less focused on travelling a specific hardened path, but open to setting ourselves out to sea and going where the current takes us. While specific goals improve us (e.g. running a marathon, learning a language, etc.), specific visions for our lives often disappoint, and in the extreme dislocate a shoulder when we refuse to let go. We have to allow the Universe its role in our life (and it will have its role).

The farmhouse did not happen. My sunlit writing studio has been replaced with the small spare bedroom at the back of the house where little light comes through the two tiny windows. The perfect spouse apparently is still lost on his way to my life, and of course, is refusing to ask for directions. Our six children look remarkably like two strong-willed dogs, sleeping on a pillow at my feet. The nearest I’ve been to a farm is when I try to grow herbs on the kitchen windowsill.

But I write. These fingers do not type wildly successful missives that have publishers clamoring to my doorstep, but they write. The crazy twisted sometimes-heartbreaking road my life has traveled did not pass through any of the places I planned, but it certainly gave me something about which to write. The family I expected did not bear the traditional names of children once scribbled on notebook paper, but are seen in the faces of the people I call friends who understand why I write. The six children I envisioned (Jane, Eric, Ana, Andrew, Sarah, and Michael) took smaller canine forms (Cookie, Murphy, Ginger, Bear, George, and Stella) who were with me on every step of the journey.

And the Universe laughed at how long it took me to figure it out.


Rita Herrmann’s days are – as she puts it, “. . . spent in the corporate world of the financial industry with dozens of hours a week knee-deep in spreadsheets . . ”  Outside of her spreadsheets, her life is much simpler, and she finds her solace in writing, which she re-discovered after some life-changing events a few years back.  You can learn more about her, and read more of her blogs at   www.RitaHerrmann.com