Writings by Diane

Isn't it amazing how a bad memory can stick to you like a wad of gum in your hair? You try to remove it, but in order to do that, you need to cut off some of your hair? At first, you’re apprehensive, but in the process, you end up with a nice hair style? At the beginning of my career, I was working at an apartment complex.  I must have upset my boss by interrupting him when he spoke to me.  I hadn't realized I was in a bad habit of talking over him. I was so anxious to prove I was on top of all the assignments, but in this process, wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. One day, he held up an eyeglass case and said this signified when it was his time to talk. In front of the other staff, he actually held up the case while he spoke to me. I was embarrassed by his demeaning ways. I didn't put any credence in his opinion. I wrote him off as being a mean old man! For a while, I carried this memory like a wad of hardened gum in my hair. It was brittle and would have...

Let it be known when I arrive at the zoo, I turn into an adventurous kid. This latest trip to Zoo Boise was no exception. I am game to whatever was offered. Walk with the wallabies along an enclosed pathway—you betcha!  Go into a greenhouse and be surrounded by delicate butterflies—of course! My husband and son patiently go along with me as I explore in the contained wilderness. There’s a feeling of connection and somehow this zoo has honed it to letting us mere visitors feed certain animals. I got all excited that there was a feeding barn. There were machines that for a quarter filled my hand with pellets that I was able to feed the baby goats and sheep.  They happily licked up the pellets from my hand and their big, sparkling eyes begged for more.   I was only too happy to oblige. I was rushing to the pellet machines and feeding them bunches of quarters at a time, like I was trying to win a jackpot. As we left this exhibit, we walked past the sloth bear habit...

I was disappointed when I logged into my Facebook page months ago to find that Threads of Mystery was no more. This game was the hidden object persuasion—the scenes (fashion institutes, sidewalk cafes and theaters) very colorful, French themed with facts about Paris popping up each time the scene would change. As you would go through each scene finding the designated items, stars would be earned to advance to the next level. The back story was a ghost of a famous clothes designer was trying to figure out who murdered her. Though it was a grim back story, the scenes were very pretty! I would play this game frequently. I felt it was not a waste of time, but rather brain training. It fascinated me how many items could be hidden in plain sight. Also, interesting how I would automatically look at the top of the screen if the clue was airplane. Many a time,  I would have to reset my thinking--the airplane was a picture located in a magazine on the bottom of the screen. The one thi...

A dentist appointment has never been my friend. I would love to be one of those people, like my son, that can go to the dentist and be told, “Good check up! See you again in 6 months!”  No, what I got to hear from the dentist was what my next painful procedure would be! One dentist put a digitized picture of my teeth onto the office computer screen. He was using technology to draw attention to all of the work needed in my mouth. As he would draw circles around the bad teeth, like a swirling Doppler radar, he would summons his dental assistant to see the decay displayed on the screen.  I would remind him, with gauze in my mouth, he should be happy that there was so much work to be done; I was responsible for sending his kids through college!  After that appointment, I found another dentist. Sorry, kids, no Harvard for you!! I couldn't understand why I had such teeth trouble. It wasn't like I ate rocks coated with sugar every day! One dentist answered my question by st...

Funny how time flies when you’re injured? A few weeks ago, I broke my ankle.  It was all quite by accident. That morning, it was a sunny day and decided to go for a walk during my break at work. I tried to reach out to a couple of co-workers to join me, but didn't receive any responses. I figured, hey, we weren't nuns and didn't need to go out in pairs! I slipped my cell phone in my pocket since I was trekking out alone as a mere precaution. As I walked along the block, I was enjoying the moment—the sun warming my face, the birds chirping, and the gentle breeze cooling my arms. I was all alone. I ventured further, resetting my mind with nature. Staring at a computer all day tends to make you forget there is a world outside. I work in a business complex and there is a canal that cuts through the property. As I turned onto the gravel path, a runner jogged past me, ear buds divorcing her from all that surrounded her. I figured she, like me, was communing with nature her...

A few weeks ago, I read about the passing of country legend, George Jones. I remembered the first time I completely misunderstood one of his greatest hits. The song I heard when I was a pre-teen was his classic He Stopped Loving Her Today.   I thought this may be different from the Country Western songs I was used to hearing. His voice was low and melodious, not a twang to be heard. Also, there were strong violins instead of brassy fiddles throughout the song. Country Westerns songs were not my favorite, but this one seemed different, so I gave it a listen. However, I was puzzled by the lyrics: why was the main character “all dressed up to go away”? Where was he going? I recalled in the beginning of the song, the man “went half crazy now and then” so I assumed he was going to a mental hospital. This notion was further validated with the lyrics “soon they will be carrying him away” –I figured he was in a straight jacket and had no way of leaving on his own.  I thought...

A couple of Sundays ago, as I held hands with my son during the prayer at church, I was made painfully aware how fast time goes by.  No longer was his hand tiny, like when I brought him home from the hospital. Nor was it miniature as when I walked him to his Kindergarten room.  Now, his hand was taking the form of a young man, strong and a bit larger than mine. He held my hand firmly, not grudgingly like a few years ago when he would die of embarrassment if he was caught holding his mother’s hand.  Memories flooded into my mind—the clay plate my husband made me with our son’s tiny hand prints embedded in it, the construction paper turkey my son made in 2 nd grade. Then a memory came back that was not so pleasant and whimsical, but downright terrifying.  The memory began when my son was 3 years old. We were living in an apartment complex in Las Vegas. I had the day off and was busy doing laundry in the community downstairs laundry room. My son was playing out...