Monday Musings-AdSpeculations

Since I no longer subscribe to a paper-and-ink newspaper I have little chance to peruse the ads as described below. Classified ads do still exist, in print and on line in the newspaper cyber editions. Maybe I'll start to look for them again as an alternative to the so-called news the mainstream media throws at us daily. That's another story I may tackle one day. Right now I'm trying to stay warm and listen to my golden oldies country songs as I type. I hope the fast-moving arctic front passing through our area is even faster moving than predicted. Very cold weather is not my favorite thing.

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    When someone temporarily runs out of reading material that appeals, a sure cure for boredom is to read the classified ads. The sheer variety of things people want to rid themselves of, preferably for money, is amazing.
    One ad lists juicers and balance balls, reasonably priced, according to the text. Apparently a resolution for exercise and healthier drinking gone by the wayside. Maybe the seller is getting a head start on breaking a New Year's resolution.
    Another person thought scuba-diving was their dream exercise. The offer is for two scuba regulator sets with pressure and depth gauges. Only used on six dives. Maybe the charm of deep immersion in cold water became less appealing after our recent exposure to yet another 'polar vortex.'
    Someone who aspires to a career in country music could find all they need to become the next 'rhinestone cowboy' in the classifieds. If they take the two racks of stage lights and pair of Justin boots off the hands of two other ad posters. In the same paper can be found a like-new banjo, a keyboard with stand and a piano. Many veteran members of the Grand Ol' Opry started with less.
    The early snow might also explain the hoped for sale of the outdoor chaise lounge and the outdoor loveseat with thick cushion. These items would have been very nice to lounge around on the patio while reading the inspirational romance books offered a little further down the page. Love may yet win because in the next column is a flowered-cover indoor loveseat. One could suppose that love stories can be just as inspirational when read indoors. I wonder, though, about the ad by someone wanting a fainting couch.
    A sadder story may lie behind the ad listing a high-quality diamond engagement ring, new, never used, for half its value.
    Don't like the often violent news? Happy, sad, poignant stories can also be found right in the newspaper.
 

Monday Musings-Draketown

The piece below was published as one of my newspaper columns about six years ago. But I'd actually written it almost ten years prior. Not a lot has changed even now in the area around Draketown. Brand new subdivisions have not sprouted noticeably, unless they are well off State Route 120, which is entirely possible. I expect that portion of Haralson County adjoining Paulding and other rural Georgia counties is too far from the Interstate highways for many urban refugees to be comfortable - yet. I'm sure some who value the privacy and solitude have built large homes in the tall pine woods. On my last visit we didn't make it to the little country cemetery where our dad's parents rest, not far from Draketown. Maybe next time. I hope so as I've now lived some years past the time most of my forebears left this mortal coil. But I'm still thankfully able to get around fine, do most things I want to do, (and feel comfortable to decline doing what I don't want to do) which is an accomplishment for me! And still chasing my dreams.

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Draketown, Georgia is the original 'little town that time forgot.' In the forties and fifties State Route 113 meandered through the pint-sized metropolis before joining State Route 120 and continuing north.
    It was a tiny town then, and as a town, is even tinier now, as far as retail commerce is concerned. Then again, maybe not. Two convenience stores, which also sell gasoline, and a small restaurant serve the same functions as the three general merchandise stores which flourished on its single block in my childhood.
    Mr. Ike's store was full of all kinds of wonderful junk, the country version of our Dollar Stores today. It held down one end of the street. Reeves's Store stood at the other end. Between them was the Reeves's residence and Stevens's store, which housed the Oddfellows Hall on the second floor.
    Customers helped themselves to ice cold Coca Colas, RCs, Pepsis and Orange or Grape Nehis from.a big floor cooler just inside Reeves's Store. Outside, next to the unpaved street, was an old-fashioned gas pump. The top two feet or so of the pump was made of glass through which the reddish gas was visible.
    A white marble monument about twelve feet tall stood across the street. The legend on its base said that it honored a woman killed by the bootleggers. An elementary school, a doctors office located in his home, a church, and a few frame homes completed the town which was surrounded on all sides by farmland.
    The doctor died, the school was consolidated to the county seat, and one by one the old stores closed. Route 113 was relocated and merged with Route 120, by then an  asphalt highway, three or four hundred yards north of the town proper. And a growing tide of refugees from the city of Atlanta fill the area with new contemporary homes, prosperity, and the usual concerns of a more urban population.
    A while back I turned onto the old town street once more. Reeves's store building is falling down, the other two already gone. But the marble monument to a woman's untimely death remains as does the church, larger and freshly painted. The little town lives on for its few long-time citizens. And for those like me who look back through time and distance, remembering trips to town and penny candy from Mr. Ike's store.

   

Monday Musings-Know Your Dream

The below column was written some months after my life had begun to reknit into whatever it might become as I adjusted to widowhood. So many people just kind of give up after a major loss and they encounter the need to fashion a different life. I like to remember and quote something I read long ago and have no idea who said it. Whoever it was, I thank them. "Don't cry ('...for too long', as a sweet cousin we recently lost wrote in a letter to her family.) because it ended, smile because it happened."

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     Hold On Tight to Your Dreams

Better advice in a song was never given. When the Electric Light Orchestra first recorded their song my life was so full I barely remember hearing it. About ten years ago I re-discovered it. A few years down life’s road waited an event, my husband’s major stroke/cerebral hemorrhage, which signaled the beginning of the end of something that had defined my life since I was nineteen, marriage.
     My marriage had included dreams, also, though most were shared dreams that God graciously granted. A peaceful home, a beautiful daughter, a grandson to be proud of, loving families and many dear friends.
     But in my heart I cherished dreams that were mine alone. Like most people, I had doubts those dreams would ever come to fruition. But I learned, as many people have, that once I stepped out and made a few efforts God, or the Universe, depending on your persuasion, set events in motion to bring them to pass. 
     One long-held dream was that I would be a published author, accepted and active with other writers in writers groups. The adage that we should be careful what we wish for comes to mind, but that’s another story. After I began seriously submitting my work I had stories accepted in print and online, wrote and published a couple of books.
     A few months before my husband’s death I achieved another goal I’d studied for off and on for several years. I took and passed the exam for my amateur radio operator license and am now a member of a local amateur radio club. My call sign – KJ4WJL.
     Since I first began seriously marketing my work, I had kept one dream close, to become a regular newspaper columnist. No editor was even slightly interested the few times I mustered up the nerve to pitch my ideas. But this year, twelve months into widowhood, that dream, too, has been realized in the column you’re now reading.
     After the anguish of three years watching my husband weaken and decline until his battle was finally over, these personal achievements gave me a stable place to stand and regroup when my world crumbled. I think he would be proud because he was my biggest supporter in all my attempts  to achieve my dreams.
     I’d love to hear from anyone else who has pursued his or her dream. If not, why not? To my mind no one is too old to go for a dream.