over the political scene in America, I’m cooking, baking, walking the dog, reading, writing, cleaning house, singing to myself, dancing by myself, doing the laundry, exercising, working with my husband, or relaxing in my hammock chair. You get the picture. But sometimes I let my creative juices guide me into some other territory.

Don’t bother reading this one unless you like little kids and are interested in making a Pop-Up Book for some little one you know and love. Maybe it’s a birthday gift that you want to personalize. Or maybe it’s just for no special occasion, except you want this little tyke to know how much you care about her (or him). This post is a quasi “How-to-Make-a-Pop-Up Book.”

I can’t draw. I simply can’t. But I have lots of ideas and lots of ways of letting out those juices I mentioned. I don’t let it bother me that I can’t draw. I just doodle around it. So here goes my little lesson on making a pop-up book.

First you must have an idea of what you want the book to be. An ABC book? A little story? A picture book? A photo book?

Next gather your supplies. Heavy weight paper of different colors, pencils, pens, scissors, glue, water color pencils, paint pens, and markers are important items. Obviously if you are doing a photo book or a picture book (where you aren’t doing the illustrating) you will need to throw those things into the mix. The sky is the limit really. I could see using buttons, ribbons, glitter, stickers, stamps…whatever you want. Let your story line guide you, or let your supplies guide your story line. Either way, just have fun.

Okay, now I’m going to cheat. I’m going to send you to a site where this great fellow shows you how to do lots of different pop-ups. Why reinvent the wheel I always say.

Visit http://wp.robertsabuda.com/make-your-own-pop-ups/

This said, I must say he doesn’t have you put a back on your page though, and that is something you must do.

Here’s another site: http://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Pop-up-Book

You can find lots of YouTube videos as well. Go ahead. Check out the internet.

Here is what I made for Aleia (Ah-lay-ah). She is a sweet little girl who will be two on Sept. 14th.

I took this picture of her last week. Isn’t she darling?

At first I wrote out this story with tons of detail. Then I thought, how silly that was because she isn’t old enough for such depth. She won’t have the attention span for something like that. I’ll save that story for when she’s older. But what I did was pare it down. Way down. Basic items of the story.

I’ll just show you the book now. Here’s the cover:

Next up, the first page: On a beautiful day, Aleia went for a walk.

Doodles, lots of them.

My simple pop-up parts are the letters to her name. So the first page has an A.

Page 2: The birds were singing and the sun was shining. (The letter “l” pops up).

More doodles and a couple stick figures, plus lots of color. Kids like color.

Page 3: Down the road she discoverd two ducks playing in a pool. (The pop up is an “e.”)

Okay, I tried my hand at a little illustration, but I couldn’t even draw the ducks, so I got some clip art from google images. The rest of it are my attempts at drawing. I used markers and water color pencils, so I added water and smeared the paint. Works for me.

Page 4: The next thing you know…Aleia found a red, yellow and orange kite. “I bet I can fly this kite.” And guess what? She did!!

Again, I doodle, use water color pencils and clip art.

Page 5: At the top: FREE BALLOONS. Wow! 3 red balloons tied to a fence. Free! What could be better?

Aleia has a kite and 3 red balloons. But wait (written in the arrow) There’s more!

(Next section) Farther down the road were 3 sunny yellow flowers. It was meant to be.

Okay, those pages all have a pop-up of the letters of her name. A-l-e-i-a

Last page: When Aleia got home, she gave her daddy the kite, her mama the 3 sunny yellow flowers, and she gave the 3 red balloons to her baby sister. Why? Because Aleia has a happy, giving heart. 

The heart is the pop-up on this last page.

I haven’t given her the book yet. Saturday I will go over to see her and I hope she loves it.

That’s it. You may wish to do something like this for a child in your life instead of pulling out your hair or doing laundry. It’s therapeutic for me. Who knows, maybe for you too.

I pull over as far as I can onto exit 14, heading east on the 52. I’m as far to the side on the onramp as possible so that cars can make their egress without crashing into my car. Well, it’s not really my car. It’s my mom’s 1999 Lincoln Continental. It’s going nowhere on its own from here. I am as certain it has a blown transmission as I am of my own name.

Just when you think you’ve been given enough trouble, stress, anxiety—WHAM!! A new problem presents itself, and you must pull on your nearly empty reserves in order to deal with it. That’s what happened to me yesterday. A day with lots of promise, but yesterday went back on its promise.

That’s okay. Happens all the time to all of us, right? Sometimes, though, it just gets old, dealing with one thing after another.

In the moment it took to make it to the side of the freeway, relatively out of harm’s way, I felt myself buckling and I had to reach down into whatever it is that sustains me and grab some pluck. That’s exactly the word for it. Pluck.

Fearlessly, I went into problem solving mode, knowing that the outcome would be a good one if I could hang on to my courage and my thinking skills. Do not panic. Easy to say, but there are cars whizzing by at high speeds and I have to time opening the car door carefully.

Earlier in the day I had tried to open the hood of this vehicle to no avail. I didn’t expect to have a problem with the hood release lever, but it didn’t do its only job to release the hood latch. Damn. How can I check the fluid in the transmission if I can’t get the hood open? Simple answer? I can’t.

I wasn’t having any trouble with the car’s transmission at the time, but the fluid leak had me concerned. I wasn’t positive it was the transmission fluid, but it was my best guess. I went ahead with my plans to drive the car. Bad decision, as it turns out.

In some small way it was gratifying to know later that my supposition about the transmission was correct. Having all the fluid leak out was not what I expected. No way.

My main concern at that moment the transmission stopped doing its thing was that my 99 year old mom was alone and expecting me. Oh, sure, Abby was with her. But Abby is a dog. She’s a good dog too, but she can’t make Mom dinner and keep her from wheeling herself out onto the ramp and then right out the gate to the neighborhood sidewalk. Mom’s been known to do this.

The caregiver is good about putting up the little child gate so that Mom can’t go down the ramp, but who knows if she remembered today? Maybe this will be the day that my inventive mother figures out how to remove the barrier. Squashing these thoughts, I scramble for the AAA membership card and dial for road service.

I’ve been taught (by said mother) to be honest in my dealings with others. In this case, it didn’t work out very well. Telling the woman on the phone that I was the member’s daughter wasn’t getting me what I needed. Instead, she wanted my mother, the AAA Club member, to be the one to request the towing service. Oh, this AAA representative would gladly sell me a policy right then and there, in which case they would gladly get the car off the road for me.

Thanks anyway, Lady. Plan B. I dialed again, hoping to get a different rep, and impersonated my mother. Sounding distraught I explained that my daughter was driving my car when it decided it would no longer run. “My daughter is stranded on the freeway. Can you please send someone?”

Honesty is the best policy, but it didn’t get me a tow. My deception got me the tow. And a ride to Mom’s with a very kind and competent tow truck driver.

Today the old Lincoln Continental is sitting in a shop where broken cars get fixed. I’m thinking it will need a whole new tranny. (That’s guy talk for transmission). I’m going to rent a car for a couple days so I can do some errands. AAA got me a discount on the rental car.

I admit I am sick of problem solving. There has been too much of it going on in my world lately.

However, I’ve learned that it’s not what happens to me that ever really matters. Rather, it’s how I deal with what happens to me. In this case, my life’s mission isn’t a failure. It is merely the car’s transmission failure. This too shall pass.

At 84, when my father-in-law, Jay, got his cancer diagnosis, they told him he had 6 months to a year to live. With treatments he might get another 3 months, but those treatments don’t equate to 3 months of quality of life.

After his doctor told him, I don’t know exactly what went on in his heart of hearts, but what he demonstrated was grace and appreciation. He publicly remarked that he was grateful that he had lived a good life—been all the places he wanted to go and done many things of which he was proud. In the last eleven years he readily expressed how he had found happiness with his (3rd) wife, Valerie. She had brought him joy and given him unconditional love.

Merry Christmas 2007 Jay & Valerie

Disclaimer: Well, except she did make him eat healthier. That’s what a good wife does, right?

Jay had fair warning that death was coming soon. Did he change his way of living? Not at all. There was no rushing around to see more of the world or buying toys or much of anything different for him, even though he felt pretty good for the first 6 months after his diagnosis.

He told me he liked to sit in his recliner chair and read and watch old westerns on TV. He wanted Valerie in her chair right next to him. That’s what made him happiest. Instead of broadening his world, he honed in on it, making it smaller. He was at peace with a simple life. I would go as far as saying he was happy. He never complained. Not once.

And in the last months, Valerie was all about making it what he wanted. When it got to be too much for her to do alone, she asked me to come. I will be forever grateful for that phone call and the time I got to spend with them in the last couple months of his life.

Witnessing the stages when someone is actively dying can be hard on the ones who are there to hold down the fort. But it can be magical too, and precious. A few occasions brought us belly laughs, like the time the three of us were watching a Paul Newman movie and the camera panned to a couple playing poker. We were not expecting to see a naked woman at the poker table, but there she was with her perky, big boobs staring at us. Dad quickly drew in an audible surprise breath and said joyfully, “You thought I was asleep, didn’t you?”

One time I offered to clean his glasses and he was reluctant to let me for some reason. But I was anxious to please and after dousing them with soap and water, I proceeded to dry and polish them. As he put them back on I asked him if they were better. With a twinkle in his eye he told me, “That’s okay for a first try, I guess.” Oh, he could be sarcastic, but that was one of the things I loved about him.

His hospice care was a finely tuned machine. There may have been a few hiccups, but those small instances were overpowered by superb care. Appropriate medicine and equipment was delivered right to the door. The people involved in giving the care are unsung heroes. They anticipate needs of the patient and perform their duties with (dare I say?) what can only be described as love. Mostly things went without a hitch. The family caregivers (Val and I) were supported by hospice as well. They educated us about the stages of dying, so we knew what to expect, and they gave us much needed TLC. Hospice was a beautiful thing.

Between the care given by hospice and Valerie and me, we made Dad comfortable as he participated in his walk with cancer. It’s not all pretty; much of it is messy, and some of it is just plain heartbreaking. But as caregivers our only goals were to allow him dignity and provide him comfort, as he went on with this final journey. Dad died on July 17, 2015. He wanted, and got, a military service. Bless his heart.

If you ever get a chance to help someone die, I recommend you do. It will be tough. Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But it is the greatest gift you can give—to love someone so much—to help him make a smooth transition from life to death. Rest in peace, Dad. We hold on to our love.

At a Window

BY CARL SANDBURG

Give me hunger,

O you gods that sit and give

The world its orders.

Give me hunger, pain and want,

Shut me out with shame and failure

From your doors of gold and fame,

Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love,

A voice to speak to me in the day end,

A hand to touch me in the dark room

Breaking the long loneliness.

In the dusk of day-shapes

Blurring the sunset,

One little wandering, western star

Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.

Let me go to the window,

Watch there the day-shapes of dusk

And wait and know the coming

Of a little love.

Dedicated to women of a certain age and those who wish to understand them.

I remember with shame the weakness of my first attempt to embrace my victim. In the beginning, my pitiful gift of heat came as merely a rush of energy — almost a pleasure to her. The failure to cause her proper torment showed my weakness.

On my second go, I resolved to make her miserable. Determination brought forth my strength—bit by bit, and with practice I had my victory! Pride filled me when finally my blast incinerated her.

Since then, always somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for a while gaining strength. She feels the flame of my evil intent. I know she does, because she fidgets, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt to get some air movement between her skin and her garments. My vehemence occupies all of her—tissue, muscles, veins, cells, and best of all, her confused, unhappy mind.

I move faster and farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn red; she is engulfed, sensing nothing but the burn now. Next, I race from her upper body, pulsing down to her toes, before rising again to disrupt her brain. I bring wicked waves of heat and she knows not how to rid herself of me, her uninvited visitor, her bringer of change.

It gives me great joy to know the ride with me forces her to burn in a hell of my making. In her ear I hiss, “Nothing can stop me.” I laugh as her hair forms into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip.

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window for some sweet air or rip off her outer layer fast enough. She’s frantic. “Open the window for God’s sake. Where is the damn fan?” I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her furnace.

But it is enough for now. I am bored with her, though satisfied with how pathetic she looks flapping her fan, pulling at her clothes, soaking up hot sweat with a handkerchief. Her fever lessens as I release my grip, but I can’t resist jeering. I vow to occupy her again. Soon. How I cherish knowing she dreads my return.

For weeks, months, possibly years, she will suffer with anticipation of my inferno.

Does she realize how proud I am to be her beast of misery?

After having 68 years of practice for dealing with the things that can complicate life, I have learned one thing. You have to face the good and the bad, because it just can’t always be good. Sometimes I go as far as trying to appreciate the bad as well as the good. I am mildly successful with this on some occasions, but right now I’m struggling. There are some things bubbling around in my happy Baja world and I find that I must interrupt this interruption. By that I mean I have to come up with things to do that will give me back my happy.

Last night I had two neighbors over to share a nice lasagna dinner. We spent our time talking and laughing and sharing stories. Today I made cookies

and took some to my friends, Greg went to help a pal with a chore at his house, we took our doggie for a beach walk this morning (like everyday)

and this afternoon we went snorkeling. The beautiful tropical fish live right across the street from me. How delightful. This is the first time I’ve snorkeled here by our house and I can’t wait to do it again. Usually there are too many pounding waves, but today it was so calm. Now I’m going to settle into a hammock chair outside on my upstairs deck and read a book for awhile. I’m reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon that a friend loaned me.

Peaceful, easy ways like this can shake the troubles away. It means those icky interruptions aren’t going to stop me from living my happy life. Interruptions be gone! Life is sweet when I make it that way.

Silk Sunflower by Susie

Don’t be a donkey!

It bugs me when people ask me a question and then don’t listen to my answer. You know the scenario, right? Instead of listening, the question-poser stops giving you eye contact, repeats, “uh huh” in a distracted and almost inaudible manner and tone, and either wanders away or on to a new topic. It’s disconcerting to me that someone would feign interest by posing a personal question and then not listen to the response. And, so as there is no misunderstanding, I’m not referring to the question, “How are you?” That’s a whole other issue.

I have always pondered the purpose of someone asking, “How are you?” if this someone doesn’t want an answer. Oh, I know, we ask it so automatically (I am guilty of it occasionally) that we don’t seem to expect an answer to that question, let alone want an answer. We just say, “Hi. How are you?”

When I was much younger,  I tried an experiment a few times. On an occasion of having a cold or flu when asked, “How are you?” I’ve answered, “Not very well.” Many times, before even a moment passes between the question and the answer,  the question-poser  (automatically) responds with, “Good.” or “That’s good.” In some instances even after this awkward exchange, he/she hasn’t acted like it was a weird encounter, thereby giving me the impression that he/she didn’t even engage enough to hear me.

Not to worry, however. I do not sit around and think about this kind of stuff often. In fact I am rather amused by the whole pet-peevy aspect of my being bugged about this in the first place. There are so many other things I could ruminate about. Things that might even be worthwhile. Some things do matter in the long run.

Like KIVA for instance. Now there’s something worth ruminating about. Kiva empowers people all over the world by securing loans from the likes of you and me. Kiva gives anyone with an internet connection the opportunity to make a loan as small as $25 to someone else to start or grow a business, afford school, build a house, switch to clean energy and much more.  It’s the familiar “help people help themselves” philosophy. Check it out at: www.kiva.org

I’ve taken up plenty of your time. But I do want to know: What bugs you?

I promise to listen to your answer.

I’m not really a crab. This is a crab.

yellow green and blue

i tear tiny paper bits

can you feel the fun?

In sunshine and with light ocean breezes we find lots of work to do around here, but some of it is fun. I made a design around a barrel cactus with the pink rocks I gathered at the beach many months ago. Greg loves to work in the yard–more so than I, but doing it together makes it tolerable and sometimes it’s fun.

We’re all cleaned up and straightened up after the hurricane now. The palapa is finished and the only thing we are waiting for is our friend the painter. He will put lots of marine varnish on it after spraying it with anti-termite stuff. Termites are voracious eaters. Pesky, nasty little varmints who are not welcome in our palapa.

I swept every room in the house and in the process removed a ton of sand. Okay, that’s hyperbole, but it was a lot of sand. And dog hair. And Susie hair. I shook out all the rugs and put everything back and now it looks so nice. Don’t anybody move!

My friend, Julie, is going to go with me to the orphanage soon. She is an art teacher and is going to teach them how to paint animals. In the process, she will be teaching me to paint animals too. We’re gathering our supplies and our courage. Our teacher hearts are going to be very happy playing with those energetic little beings at Hogar del Niño sometime later this week.

I started out a little grumpy this morning, but as the day wore on I got my happy back with my working and playing, planning and dreaming! Hope you have your happy on too!

Now it’s time for a nap. Oh the joys of being old enough to know how delicious a nap can be.

The year: 2008

Me: My shoulder hurts. It hurts all the time and I can’t even open a door it hurts so much.

Husband: You need to see a doctor.

Doctor: You need a total shoulder replacement

Long story short

1. SURGERY–complete shoulder replacement–cobalt chrome humeral ball, a prosthetic rod about 5 inches long, and a plastic socket.

1. Had to have a substitute teacher start my year for me. Ugh.

2. Pain and exercise (some of the pain caused by the exercise, but mostly the surgery)

3. Almost a year later I’m good to go. I retired from teaching June 19th and and then I broke my humerus boogie boarding in San Diego, CA. on August 2, 2009. (The humerus is the bone of the upper arm or forelimb, forming joints at the shoulder and the elbow).

You can see the break right where the rod ends.

Broken humerus–oh well.

1. Couldn’t use my arm for a long time, so my physical therapy went on hold. Not good. Six years later I’m still limited and with pain, but not anywhere near as bad as in the beginning, thank God.

But wait! I didn’t stop there. I broke my foot doing Zumba (so much fun when you have the correct footwear) just before we moved to Mexico. I spent two years with a bum foot, lots of pain and it is all my own fault. I didn’t seek medical care in the first place. Dumb me. Now I have lots of hardware in my foot too. I had what they call a triple arthrodesis…fusion in three places. Now I have one motion–the walking motion: nothing sideways, just up and down. But I can walk without pain now. Whoopee!

I had the surgery done in San Diego, but the follow-up x-rays were taken as I was healing back here in So. Baja. These are photos of the x-rays (which weren’t very good to begin with). But you can get the picture…lots of hardware in my foot.

This isn’t the actual x-ray…it is the photo of the x-ray.

This is a photo of the x-ray and you can see La Paz in it.

A week after surgery.

Now you know why they call me The Bionic Woman. Oh, and not to worry–I do not set off the alarms at the airport.