Me, left front. Secretary of Student Council.

Thank goodness I had some wonderful high school teachers. I doubt I can remember them all, but Mr. Yazdi and Mr. Peahl were terrific, advanced algebra and geometry teachers. Those classes were heavily populated by brainy boys and just three of us girls. I did much better in Math than other classes, but I owe that to great teachers and hanging out with the brainy boys.

Mrs. Schmoll, one of Mom’s best friends, taught all the business classes: shorthand, business machines, and accounting. She and her husband traveled the world with my parents after their retirement.

Mr. Wingo was the best of them all. I took Physics from him, and he taught by using real life experiments. We went out on the football field and shot a pistol (with blanks, of course). The sound went to the gym and echoed back so we could measure the speed of sound. You don’t forget a lesson like that. The neighbors probably didn’t forget it either.

Another time, we went out in front of the school and figured out the speed of cars entering the city limits. Later some of the kids went to the used car lot and brought back cars for our experiment. Stopwatch in hand, Mr. Wingo waved them off the starting line (city limit sign) and we figured out the accelerate. Before you know it, we had set up our own drag strip right in front of the admin building. The roaring engines brought the principal out to see what was going on. Or maybe the neighbors called again. He suggested we call it quits and return the cars. What a spoiled sport.

Mr. Wingo was extremely handsome with dark black hair. I had a crush on him. One day, I stayed after school to have him help me make a simple telegraph. When it was finished, he tapped out something and said, “Did you understand what I said to you?”

“No,” I replied.

“Oh, good.” He smiled as if he had said something to me that he shouldn’t have. It’s funny that my heart skipped a beat, but he never made any kind of suggestive statements to me or did anything inappropriate. He made learning so much fun. Everyone loved him. I wanted to be a teacher just like him and make learning fun.

I should mention Mr. Guthrie. He was our choir and music teacher, and I liked him a lot. Every year he would stand on his head against the flagpole in front of the school and play the star-spangled banner on his trumpet. He didn’t have a lot of respect for us in freshman choir. He seemed to think we girls only took the class because it was easy and he said, “Five years from now you’ll all be barefoot and pregnant.”

It made me mad because I was determined to go to college and be a teacher. Five years later, I was a married student at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, but I wasn’t pregnant or barefooted . . . unless I skipped class to go to the beach. I sent him a letter to remind him what he had said and that he was wrong about me. I didn’t like people telling me I couldn’t do something or making predictions that were negative.

My high school advisor, who I never saw (except for the P.E. class she taught) until the last month of my senior year, called me into her office.

She started off without a smile. “I guess you know you’ll never make it in college. Your reading speed is 125 words a minute, and it needs to be 400 words per minute to go to college.” My heart sank as she started talking about possible secretarial jobs I might look into. That wasn’t good news, but I figured I’d work around it, just like I always had. I wrote book reports from reviews on books I found in magazines and the World Book. I don’t think I ever finished reading a full-length book until I found Peyton Place captivating enough to keep my attention. I doubt I ever finished a reading assignment, but I depended on taking copious notes in class.

The counselor and Mr. Guthrie were not going to circumvent my plans. Don’t tell me I can’t do something, because that is like throwing a pork chop to a dog. I will figure out how to make it happen. I’d always struggled with reading . . . not comprehension, but I had to sound out most words.

Having the counselor assess my reading speed as a closed door to college, really scared me. Why in the world would she wait until I needed her to help me apply to Junior College? How could I be a teacher if I couldn’t go to college?

I worked in the office as a student assistant to Mrs. Schmoll, and she had all the cumulative files of the students. I needed to know something important. Hopefully, something encouraging.

“Mrs. Schmoll, could I have your permission to look in my confidential file? I want to see what my IQ is. Or do you want me to wait until you are out of the office, and I’ll sneak into my file and take a look?” She smiled, pulled out my file, tossed it on the table, and walked out of the office. I may be a slow reader, and I’m no genius, but my IQ is well above average, and I figured I could make it work.

The counselor’s prediction regarding my reading issues would prove to be an obstacle that haunted me all through college. More about that next week.

Thank you all for sticking through this memoir. I’ve had some wonderful comments from people who are being stirred to remember some of their own school years.

GAA - Girls Athletic League - That’s me, front and center. I think we played one competitive game of Fieldball. (Has anybody even heard of that game?)

Next week . . . Junior College 1960-1962. American Graffiti in Modesto, California. I was there, riding up and down 10th Street in any hotrod that would give me a ride.

To my readers, I’m going to have to make some painful confessions about my college career. I hope you won’t think any less of me.

High school suited me, because I had lots of friends. There were 2000 kids the first two years because Livingston High included kids from Livingston, Delhi, Cressey, Ballico, and Atwater. Halfway through, Atwater built their own school and took half the students.

I had gained my full height of five foot eight and a half inches in the eighth grade and started high school at thirteen years old.

(Sidebar) On Sundays, I had my first experience as a teacher. I looked and acted mature for my age, and I had babysat most of the little kids in town, so my mother volunteered me to teach Sunday School. My students were probably about five years old, but my career proved to be short lived. When the Sunday School superintendent came in to check on my class, he asked the group, “So, children, whose birthday is on Christmas?” In unison they answered, “Karen’s!!!!.” Ooops! I did tell them my birthday was on Christmas, and since I was present and Jesus wasn’t, I guess they forgot about him.

Back to high school . . .

I wanted to take art and drama, but my mother insisted I take all the business classes. She said, “You can always get a job as a secretary if you don’t make it as a teacher.” She must have had doubts about me making it through college. My high school counselor did, too.

I didn’t get to take art or drama, but I took all the business classes: shorthand, accounting, business machines, and typing. My mother and I used to write letters to each other in shorthand. That’s about all the use I got out of my shorthand. Now, everything I learned is archaic, forgotten, and the machines would be considered antiques. They were all outdated by the time I got my first secretarial job.

Mom could type 120 words per minutes. (I mentioned that in Chapter 2) I could read about as fast as she could type. I’m sure that explained my mother’s concern about my future.

I did get to sing on stage once in a group, gave campaign speeches, belonged to many clubs, and had fun through it all. The idea of joining all the clubs guaranteed getting your picture in the yearbook several times.

Most of the clubs didn’t do anything that I remember, or maybe I just didn’t go to the meetings. But I did get my picture in the yearbook multiple times.

In my Junior and Senior years, I accompanied 6^thgraders to camp for a week. As a counselor, it was the second time working with young children. The coolest part was rubbing elbows with the 6^th grade teachers who were my teachers when I went to camp as a kid.

You will think this is awful, but I’ll tell on myself. I started smoking when I was fifteen. Unlike every other kid who hid smoking from their parents, I told my mom the day before I bought a pack of cigarettes that I was going to do it. Since my mother knew, I could hang out with the teachers who smoked and feel like I was an adult. I thought I was so cool. I knew those teachers would tell my mom and I wanted her to be ahead of the game. I had a rule for myself, I never wanted my parents to hear anything I did from someone else. So I always told them when I was planning something they would freak out about if someone else told them over a bridge table. In a small town everyone knew everything. My parents played bridge with many of lots of people.

Now I laugh. My other friends had to sneak out behind the cabins to smoke. (Thankfully, I quit smoking after my stupid years.)

High school revealed three of the worst teachers you could ever imagine. Top of the heap award goes to Mrs. F. (I’m sure they are all dead by now, but I’ll abbreviate.) The poor woman was no match for us. Robin Yuge went to a paint store and got a bunch of colorful little paint sample color cards. She typed on each one, Official Member of the Mrs. F—- Fan Club. Each person signed their card and when we entered the classroom, we showed Mrs. F our membership cards. She giggled and was embarrassed by her popularity. We told her we needed to have a F—- Fan Club meeting and it was private, so she’d have to leave the room. And she did, while we raised Caine in the room without supervision.

Someone turned on the faucet in the back of the room and plugged the sink. When Mrs. F came back in, the water had run over the sink and clear up to the front of the room before she noticed. Poor woman. She was oblivious and should never have been in a classroom. I didn’t learn a thing about history or whatever her class was supposed to be.

Mrs. G was our Spanish teacher and a good reason why I never learned Spanish. We would frustrate her so much she would cry. I can still see her. There was a tall, smart, blonde named Karen, and I made sure to always sit by her. I couldn’t have passed the class without her.

Mrs. P was the worst. She was an English teacher, but she didn’t get up from her desk and she had no classroom control at all. I think she was drinking in class as she seemed under the influence.

One day Harry Boucher (my buddy, I pictured at the end) and I were cracking up in the back row and she yelled, “Karen, get out of my classroom!” Harry and I were always goofing around.

I shouted back as I headed for the door, “You can’t kick me out, because I was just leaving!” I went straight to the principal’s office and told him he needed to get rid of Mrs. P immediately. Of course, they weren’t going to fire a teacher because I said so, but he did call my mom and moved me to a different English class to shut me up. I was sorry to leave Harry behind to write his own book reports.

A few weeks later, Mrs. P was drunk, driving home from a teachers’ party and got pulled over by an officer. She refused to get out of the car or roll the window all the way down. She told him she was going to pee all over the seat if he didn’t let her go. At least, that was the story that came out in court trail. Mom wouldn’t let me go to the trial, but lots of kids did. Mrs. P made a fool of herself and the whole teachers’ group by telling about their parties. I just shook my head and thought, maybe someone should have listened to me.

Next chapter, I promise I’ll tell about the wonderful teachers I had in high school who I respected and wanted to emulate. You’ll also learn about my first blockade to teaching.

I loved my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Kaplain. She had the first TV in Livingston. Black and white, of course.

I escorted my whole 5th grade class three blocks across town to watch the inauguration of President Dwight D. Eisenhower in January, 1953 and again for the crowning of Queen Elizabeth. The TV, small and round, presented us with snowy reception, barely able to see the event. Something I’ll never forget.

My family had the second TV in town (1951), so some of those kids may have been watching TV for the first time.

Mrs. Kaplain had each of us embroider a square and she sewed the squares together to make a finished quilt. She used it for a lap robe in her car. I did the same thing with one of my 4^thgrade classes, but instead of making a quilt, I pinned the squares side-by-side on the bulletin board and pretended like they were a quilt. At the end of the year, I threw the squares in a box and stored them away in the closet.

In the following years, I piled other fabric scraps on top of the squares and eventually donated the entire box to the Ladies’ sewing group at the church, forgetting about the squares the kids had made.

One day, after all the kids had gone home, a knock on my classroom door surprised me. An elderly woman named Virginia in a motorized wheelchair greeted me. She had come two miles, crossing under the freeway in busy traffic to see me.

“I think you forgot about these,” she said as she unfolded a beautiful, finished quilt made of the squares my students embroidered years earlier. (Pictured above) I took the quilt to the local garage, the construction company, and the fire department to show adult men who had embroidered squares in my fourth grade class. One of the guys threatened to sue me if I told anyone he embroidered a square in the fourth grade. Ha!

I wrote an article about that quilt, and how it came about, which was published in a Quilting Magazine.

Sixth grade proved successful. A good year for me except when Freddy Del Dotto called me “Scarface” and we both ended up in the principal’s office. I wasn’t completely innocent. I think I told Freddy he had a lousy haircut. He had been my boyfriend, so there must have been some animosity there.

Betty Mitchell, the teacher, another friend of the family was athletic and fun. I memorized the Night Before Christmas, the longest thing I ever memorized. That’s not my forte. Even doing standup, I often have a tiny cheat sheet in the palm of my hand so I can remember the order of the jokes. I didn’t have to do that eighteen years ago when I started doing standup.

Seventh grade, Mr. Jenkins, another friend of the family, sent me out of class several times for talking too much. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t much of a teacher. I think he was retired military.

In a little town like Livingston, lots of the teachers were friends with my parents. Everyone knew everyone. My father was a banker. Hank at the bank, commonly known as the Loan Arranger. Mom was a highly gifted stenographer who could type 120 words a minute and did work for most of the civic organizations in town, besides her job at the insurance office.

From day one, Mr. Wilson, our eighth-grade teacher, made an impression. He came in the classroom, went to his desk, and sat down. His rolling chair shot out from under him and as he sat down hard on the floor, the desk drawer flew out, and all the contents poured out on top of him. We held back giggles, as the top of his bald head began to turn red. He picked himself up off the floor saying, “I start every year this way. It breaks the ice.” We cracked up, and so did he. His classroom was filled with laughter. I don’t know if I learned much that year, but we sure had fun.

Mr. Wilson supported our class proposal to dance at lunchtime in the multi-purpose room. It became our favorite pastime. Maybe we danced too close, or maybe the administration thought we should be out playing baseball, or maybe the parents complained, but the principal decided to ban lunchtime dancing.

We 8^th graders objected, but nobody listened. So, I organized a “sit out.” One Monday when Mr. Wilson arrived on scene, our whole class sat silently out against the end of the building. We had agreed not to speak to him or enter the classroom.

He spotted us, greeted us “good morning,” proceeded into the classroom, and shut the door. We were stumped. What should we do? After about 30 minutes, we decided to enter the classroom together, but nobody was supposed to respond to the teacher .. . no matter what!

He started class by saying, “I am so proud of your ability to unite on an issue and get everyone to cooperate 100%. You are an amazing class.” Huh? That really took the wind out of our sails. Certainly not what we expected. When he called on students, we all sat with our heads down in silence. Finally, he called on Keith Mitchell. The poor kid, so insecure and fearful, could never go up against a teacher, and he responded. We all moaned in disappointment. He broke the pact.

Mr. Wilson knew how to handle us puberty-pumped teenagers. He took us places and acted like a good buddy. (As a teacher, I learned, that’s not the path to healthy teacher-student relationships.) Mom told me later that he had gotten in trouble for picking up sailors in San Diego or something that I really didn’t understand. He took us places, smoked in the car, but didn’t do anything questionable to anyone that I knew of. My dad smoked in the car, so I guess I didn’t think much about it. A lot of people smoked back then.

I remember making a whole deck of playing cards out of a sheet of writing paper, about an inch tall, so I could secretly play solitaire in my desk when boredom overtook me.

I always liked boys. I loved hugging and kissing, but that didn’t have anything to do with my teaching career. Just some of the distractions between 6th and 8th grade.

For our 8^th grade graduation, I made a speech and played the piano for the class to sing. I loved the song. It sounded so joyful and patriotic. I can still remember the words to the chorus:

• I like the United States of America.

• I like the way we all live without fear.

• I like to vote for my choice, speak my mind, raise my voice,

• Yes I like it here.

• I like the United States of America.

• I am thankful each day of the year.

• For I can do as I please, ‘cause I’m free as the breeze,

• Yes I like it here.

• I like to climb to the top of the mountain so high,

• Lift my head to the sky,

• And say how grateful am I

• For the way that I’m living, I’m working, and giving,

• And doing the things I hold dear.

• Yes I like it, I like it, I like it here.

I can still hear it. Here it is accompanied by a Ukulele. But it doesn’t hold a candle to a hundred 8th graders singing at the top of their lungs.

Let me know if you’re still with me. I’m just getting to high school in the next chapter.

Karen at 4th Birthday. Christmas 1946

In 2018 I jumped into NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writer’s Month). The online program presented the challenge to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November. Every night the writers logged in and reported their word count. For three years I entered and completed three novels, usually finishing several days less than a month. (I am an incurable over-achiever.) Mind you, the editing afterward presented a greater challenge.

The fourth year, I didn’t have a novel in mind, so I broke the rules and wrote about my careers. It turned out to be more of a memoir. I delved into all my careers, hobbies, and side businesses, and ended up with 54,000 words. I’ll share the beginning and if my readers think it’s entertaining, I’ll continue it next week. Here you go with the first installment.

Chapter 1

“Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.” (James 3:1, King James Version)

Reading this scripture has meant a lot to me. It means we teachers are held to a higher standard because we are influencing young minds. I think being called to teach is a high calling and not to be taken lightly. If you decide to be a teacher, it needs to be for the right motives. If it’s strictly for the retirement, the vacations, the holidays, the steady pay, then be warned, teaching is so much more than that.

It’s planning every day out carefully to meet the needs of students who come with a myriad of problems, varied learning styles, differences in abilities, and many who just don’t want to be in school. It is loving the unlovable, not giving up on the resistant, challenging the gifted, dealing with demands from the parents, staff, and administration. It is knowing that what you say or do could change a life for the better or the worse. It is being buoyed by seeing students succeed, hearing them say, “Aha”, and knowing you made a difference.

If you are truly called to teach, you will spend your life teaching, in and out of the classroom. You will sincerely desire to share everything you learn with someone else. And your car will be full of junk you’ve collected to share with students or anyone who shows an interest.

***

As a kid, I wanted to be a teacher. My grades ranged from “above average” to “she talks too much.” Either I idolized the teachers or challenged them. At times, respect flew out the window and landed me in the principal’s office or banished from class for a while. Fortunately, that only happened three times in elementary school and once in high school.

I wanted to be the one up front with a pencil resting on my ear. When I got together with my cousins, Zana Fay always got to be the teacher because she was the oldest. When we had church, she got to be the preacher for the same reason.

Many teachers inspired me to teach. Some because they were so good I wanted to be like them, some just because they were so memorable, and some because they were so bad I needed to make up for them.

I didn’t get to go to kindergarten because Wheatland, California didn’t have a kindergarten. So, I was the youngest one in my first-grade class at five-years-old. The teacher, Mrs. Bowers had a stern way about her, and angrily rapped me on the knuckles with a ruler several times. I couldn’t read well and struggled when they changed from teaching sight words by rote to phonics. I actually had double vision until an eye doctor figured it out when I was a junior in high school. But I have always been a one-word-at-a time reader and still have difficulty reading if there are outside distractions.

One day, Mrs. Bowers sat on the edge of a student’s desk. The desk fell over and Mrs. Bowers ended up lying flat on her back on the floor. One of the students went to get the principal to help her up. I looked down at her and thought she got what she deserved.

In second grade, I had Mrs. Butterfield as my teacher in Livingston, California, and I loved her. The only thing I can remember about second grade makes me sad to this day. I had a best friend named Velma Yokley. We played together every day until Mrs. Butterfield told me that I shouldn’t play with her so much, and I should make other friends. I can’t remember if that is a true story, but I remember something came between Velma and me, and when she moved away, I felt very sad. I loved her dark skin and braided hair.

Velma stood out as the only Black student I can remember in our school until I reached high school. Livingston’s population reflected a mixing pot of nationalities; Mexicans, Philipinos, Japanese, Portuguese, Whites, and Italians. There also happened to be one Jewish family and one Black family. Per capita, the ratio seemed about right for a town of 1500 people.

I don’t remember third grade. I think the teacher’s name was Mrs. Van Hook.

My 4^th grade teacher, Dadie Blackwell, one of my mother’s friends, made it known I would never be her pet. Maybe I expected favors and she wanted to make sure that didn’t happen by being especially hard on me.

I interrupted her when she made an error while reading to us from the Social Studies book. A big mistake. She disciplined me by making me sit outside the classroom during story time every day for two weeks. With my struggle as a reader, I thought the teacher would be proud of me for noticing her error. Not!

Unfortunately, it did not cure me from interrupting or talking too much. My last boss before retirement said, “Karen, you are a workshop leaders’ worst nightmare.”

I’ve always said, “I’m a great teacher, but I’m a terrible student.” I’m either asking too many questions, getting ahead of what’s being taught, or challenging the teacher.

Evidently, Mrs. Blackwell, didn’t cure me of that bad habit.

P.S. A note about the photo above. When I was three and a half, a big dog tore into my face, leaving a long three-legged crow’s foot scar from the bridge of my nose to my hairline, nearly effecting one eye. I was often described as “the girl with the scar,” but I wasn’t outwardly called Scarface until an incident in the 6th grade. That will show up in the next chapter.

Please let me know if you want to hear more of the story, or if it bored you.

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It was freezing cold that night at the Alleyway, but the show did go on. In California, that means the temperature dropped down into the low 60’s. Whew! We have thin blood, folks.

Sitting on the stage, is my grandson, Les Paul Fountain, and another comic named Kassidy Brewer. I’ve written some about both of them before. In the background, you see five other comics in our group.

In 2025 I offered a StandUp Comedy class. I told them we’d meet for four weeks. Four weeks turned into 16 weeks and we put on a show at the Alleyway in Murrieta last August. Ninety people came and my comics caught the bug to do more. It was so hot, we were melting. This June, we put on our second show. I think you’ll be able to access Les’s act. This time we performed in the cold.

A little background on these two comics. (Forgive me if I’ve told you about my special grandson too many times.) Les is a brain cancer survivor from when he was four years old. But brain cancer and the treatment leaves a person with multiple handicaps. On top of everything else, in 2019 Les began to lose the control of his right leg and needed to use a walker. During Covid he broke his good leg near the ankle and was bedridden for about three months. Since then, he has been confined to a wheelchair, but his life is blossoming with comedy. I’ve always believed that God doesn’t take away abilities without giving gifts. Les has found his gift.

For two years, I rolled him into Toastmasters meetings where he learned to speak to a group of adults. His speech writing was great, but his delivery amounted to reading his speeches off his cell phone. Les was about 25 years old when we joined.

That’s where we met Kassidy Brewer. She was twenty-nine at the time. When she was thirteen years old, she miraculously survived a burst aneurism and a stroke. When I saw she was a member of Toastmasters, I knew she would be an inspiration to Les. She had been a member for twelve years. It was her speech therapy where she learned to talk again.

After two years in Toastmasters, I hoped Les could take what he’d learned in TM to the stage, as he is very funny at times. That’s when I started the comedy class and got both Les and Kassidy involved. The audiences love them. When you see the struggles they have to overcome in order to perform, your heart just automatically falls in love with them.

We also spend a lot of time in what we call the Coffee Shop Connections. Les and I start conversations with strangers and give them a copy of my book, More for Les. We get their email address and invite them to our comedy shows. Kassidy has written her own book titled, Blameless, about her journey of hope. The three of us spend a lot of time together. Kassidy is also available to speak for organizations.

This post is a little confusing, but more than anything I wanted you to hear Les’s act and meet Kassidy. Click on the video and see what you think. You might just become a fan. I’m thinking I may need to take them on the road.

Let me hear what you think.

I’ve been sorting through piles of folders that contain comedy acts, newspaper articles, funeral services, comedy class notes, and funny speeches I’ve written, published or performed in the past. One of them never got submitted anywhere and I thought you might get a kick out of it.

When I was 68 years old, I joined Groupon. I signed up for all kinds of crazy stuff. Kayaking, canoeing, segueing, etc. Even three pole dancing classes. Afterward, I wrote an article about my experience. Here goes . . .

Let’s get this straight, I didn’t sign up for pole dancing classes because I wanted to get a job as a stripper or put a pole in my bedroom. I’m a happily married 68-year-old comic who will do just about anything to stay young, enjoy life, or get a laugh. I figured I’d get some great comedy material from the experience.

A couple of my friends have “tsk tsked” me because of their imagined connotations. I really wanted to take trapeze lessons through Groupon. But a moving bar forty feet off the ground would make my boney knees slap together, so I opted for a stable pole, thinking it was safer. Little did I know, how hard it would be to lift 160 lbs. up a shiny pole and will my feet to leave the ground.

In a million years, what I accomplished could never be called dancing or sexy. There were two twenty-year-old girls in my first class. They probably weighed eighty-five pounds . . . soaking wet . . . combined. I was determined to do every airborne trick they did, spinning around this way and that, barely getting my feet off the ground. And I wasn’t scantily dressed. I had on modest shorts and a T-shirt.

By the time we got finished with the first lesson, I had bruises on my feet, shins, both knees, and I hurt all over. And, I’d hardly left the ground. Pole dancing is not for the faint of heart or the weak of muscle.

I took it as a compliment when one of the Miss Skinnies said, “I don’t think my mom could have done as well as you did.” I thanked her, but I wanted to reply, “Honey I’m 48 years older than you. I could be your grandmother.”

As I exited, I asked the girl who was teaching the class to refrain from playing music that had nasty lyrics and the “F” word. She shrugged.

I hardly had enough strength to open my car door when I got to the parking lot. The next day I felt like an elephant . . . no, two elephants had used me for a trampoline. Every muscle felt somehow damaged. Some fool asked me if I had a pole at home. The only pole we have at home is out by the barn, and we use it for tetherball. If I tried to practice my dance on it, my grandkids would tie me up with the rope.

I jokingly tell people, I could get a dance pole in the bedroom for me and a fire pole for my retired firefighter husband, but then you know what would happen . . . . . . . wait for it . . . . we’d be bi-polar. (I actually had someone object to that joke because someone in their family was bi-polar. That’s the plight of a comic; there may be someone in the audience who objects to something.)

I dreaded going back to the second class. Didn’t want those two young skinny things to think I was chicken. They didn’t show up, but I did. A glutton for punishment. This time there were seven in the class, some beginners and some advanced. The girl next to me was a giggler. So, I concentrated more on making her laugh and less on negotiating the pole with my sore arms and legs.

The advanced students amazed me, hanging upside down and spinning around. A couple of them were pretty serious and even wore six inch heels. I was barefooted. I discovered there is a pin in the bottom of the pole. If you pull it out the pole casing will spin around. No wonder those advanced students could go around so easily while I just flopped clumsily to the floor each time I tried. I never advanced to having my pin pulled.

The last trick we worked on was actually climbing the pole. The first week I could get on the pole, but I looked like a 5-year-old clinging to her mother’s leg on the first day of kindergarten. I couldn’t go anywhere. I decided to throw caution to the wind and really give it the old college try and see if I could get a stronger start. I jumped up, attempting to get a good grip. A searing pain shot through my left triceps as I slid to the floor. This monkey was finished for the day. It was the end of my pole dancing career. I never went back for the third lesson, but I got some great comedic material.

On stage, I say, “I would have taken trapeze lessons, but they interfered with my pole dancing classes . . . which are just before my Bible Study class I teach. I figure a pole dancer who knows her scripture, now that’s the total package. My pole was the only one with a drop-down oxygen mask. After the first lesson, I was afraid I’d fall on my head and kill myself. I could just see the Obituary . . . Karen Trixey Robertson, found dead in a pile at Polepalooza. Loving wife, mother, grandmother, and Bible Teacher?”

I may get some ugly comments on this one. Did you notice the photo at the beginning? That’s because I couldn’t find any free pictures of pole dancing classes that were appropriate. I know pole dancing has a bad reputation, because it is often thrown into TV cop shows in sleezy bars. But, pole dancing, outside of sleezy bars, is actually a competitive sport. In fact, the world champion used to live in Temecula, CA. I can tell you, it takes amazing strength, and the men and women who perfect it are insanely strong. I’m not going to throw it out of my act, because I think the idea of an old lady, in corrective shoes, trying to pole dance is hilareous.

What do you think?

I’ve been sorting through piles of folders that contain comedy acts, newspaper articles, funeral services, comedy class notes, and funny speeches I’ve written in the past. One of them never got submitted anywhere and I thought you might get a kick out of it.

When I was 68 years old, I joined Groupon. I signed up for all kinds of crazy things. Kayaking, canoeing, segueing, etc. Even pole dancing classes. Afterward, I wrote an article about my experience. Here goes . . .

Let’s get this straight, I didn’t sign up for pole dancing classes because I wanted to get a job as a stripper or put a pole in my bedroom. I’m a happily married 68-year-old comic who will do just about anything to stay young, enjoy life, or get a laugh. I figured I’d get some great comedy material from the experience.

A couple of my friends have “tsk tsked” me because of their imagined connotations. I really wanted to take trapeze lessons through Groupon. But a moving bar forty feet off the ground would make my boney knees slap together, so I opted for a stable pole, thinking it was safer. Little did I know, how hard it would be to lift 160 lbs. up a shiny pole and will my feet to leave the ground.

In a million years, what I accomplished could never be called dancing or sexy. There were two twenty-year-old girls in my first class. They probably weighed eighty-five pounds . . . soaking wet . . . combined. I was determined to do every airborne trick they did, spinning around this way and that, barely getting my feet off the ground. And I wasn’t scantily dressed. I had on shorts and a T-shirt.

By the time we got finished with the first lesson, I had bruises on my feet, shins, both knees, and I hurt all over. And, I had never left the ground. Pole dancing is not for the faint of heart or the weak of muscle.

I took it as a compliment when one of the Miss Skinnies said, “I don’t think my mom could have done as well as you did.” I thanked her, but I wanted to reply, “Honey I’m 48 years older than you. I could be your grandmother.”

I hardly had enough strength to open my car door when I got to the parking lot. The next day I felt like an elephant . . . no, two elephants had used me for a trampoline. Every muscle felt somehow damaged. Some fool asked me if I had a pole at home. The only pole we have at home is out by the barn, and we use it for tetherball. If I try to practice my dance on it, my grandkids would tie me up with the rope.

I jokingly tell people, I could get a dance pole in the bedroom for me and a fire pole for my retired firefighter husband, but then you know what would happen . . . . . . . wait for it . . . . we’d be bi-polar. (I actually had someone object to that joke because someone in their family was bi-polar. That’s the plight of a comic; there may be someone in the audience who objects to something.)

I dreaded going back to the second class. Didn’t want those two young skinny things to think I was chicken. They didn’t show up, but I did. A glutton for punishment. This time there were seven in the class, some beginners and some advanced. The girl next to me was a giggler. So, I concentrated more on making her laugh and less on negotiating the pole with my sore arms and legs.

The advanced students amazed me hanging upside down and spinning around. A couple of them were pretty serious and even wore six inch heels. I was barefoot. I discovered there is a pin in the bottom of the pole. If you pull it out the pole casing will spin around. No wonder those advanced students could go around so easily while I just flopped clumsily to the floor each time I tried.

The last trick we worked on was climbing the pole. The first week I could get on the pole, but I looked like a 5-year-old clinging to her mother’s leg on the first day of kindergarten. I couldn’t go anywhere. I decided to throw caution to the wind and really give it the old college try and see if I could get a stronger start. I jumped up attempting to get a good grip. A searing pain shot through my left triceps as I slid to the floor. This monkey was finished for the day. It was the end of my pole dancing career. I never went back for the third lesson, but I got some great comedic material.

On stage, I say, “I would have taken trapeze lessons, but they interfered with my pole dancing classes . . . which are just before my Bible Study classes I teach. I figure a pole dancer who knows her scripture, now that’s the total package. My pole was the only one with a drop-down oxygen mask. I was afraid I’d fall on my head and kill myself. I can just see the Obituary . . . Karen Trixey Robertson, found dead at Polepalooza. Loving wife, mother, grandmother, and Bible Teacher.”

My daughter, Jodi, and granddaughter, Bailey, are visiting from Montana, and it got me thinking . . .

I’m the Matriarch of our family. There are only nine of us, so my kingdom isn’t too impressive. But after more research I discovered that being the matriarch is more far- reaching. According to AI “being a matriarch is an honorary, flexible role that often naturally extends to your wider family—including your grandchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings, and the broader community. It is defined by the wisdom, care, and guidance you provide.” Huh?

So, that means, since I am the oldest daughter of my parents, who are both deceased, I am the matriarch over my two kids and their spouses, my three grandkids, my younger sister, her two sons, their wives, and their five children. Wow! That’s eighteen people. Now here’s the rub. I don’t know where that leaves my husband. I asked AI is my second husband who I’ve been married to for 54 years today, but didn’t sire my kids, considered the Patriarch?

Here’s the AI answer: “Yes, your second husband can still be considered the patriarch. Because "patriarch" generally translates to "father of the race" or the leading male figure of a family, the title is traditionally defined by his role as the senior male head of the household, his age and experience, and his presence as a leader, rather than strictly by his biological lineage.” Wow, who knew?

Well, truth be known, back in the day when families stayed together, I imagine the position of matriarch and patriarch meant something. I’ve been a Matriarch for twelve years and I had no idea what the expectations were. I have failed miserably.

What a Matriarch Does

• Fosters Connection: Unifies extended family members by organizing traditions, gatherings, and communication. (We do have a reunion every three years, but it is for the more expanded family of cousins. Not just for my realm.)

• Nurtures and Empowers: Offers emotional support, empathy, and encouragement to help family members thrive. (I have attended some plays, sports events, BarMitzva, B’not Mitzvahs, graduations, hospital stays, and Christmases. We’re kind of spread out with some in So.Cal, some in Fresno area, and some in Montana.)

• Leads Collaboratively: Promotes shared decision-making and mutual responsibility rather than strict top-down control. (I haven’t taken a leadership position in any of their lives, and I doubt that any of them would think to come to me for advice or wisdom, even though I would be blessed if they did. Some of the great nieces and nephews hardly know me.)

• Preserves Values: Passes down stories, cultural heritage, and life lessons to the younger generation. (I’ve written books, Christmas letters, and cards that express my values, but to my knowledge most of my subjects haven’t taken an interest in my work.)

Now I ask myself, is it too late to have an influence over grandkids who are all mid-twenties or great nieces and nephews who are mostly college age? My sister, her kids, and my nieces and nephews live five hours away. One of the requirements mentioned planning zoom meetings. Interesting. I have done that, but I didn’t include the younger generation. And I doubt that any of them see me as their source of wisdom. In fact, a standup comedian and a cowboy, horseshoeing, firefighter may not be perceived as eligable for such an honor.

I just read a book titled Dailey Resolve and it has really stirred me up. Back to the first century the older women in the church held the position of deaconesses. They were honored and respected for their wisdom and position in the church. Phoebe was mentioned in Romans as one of the first in the Bible. By 1960, deaconesses had been replaced, their position eliminated, and older women often feel insignificant.

Matriarchs were pushed aside and forgotten. A great movie titled THE WAR ROOM told the story of an older woman who created a room she called her War Room where she went to pray each day for those who had various needs. Her consistent prayers touched the heart of God and people’s lives were changed. I’m thinking about starting my own War Room where I can actively talk to God about the lives of the eighteen people in my kingdom, and others in need. I can write some letters of encouragement to each of them and call down God’s blessing on each of them. Now that I’ve realized the responsibilities of the Matriarch, I’ve got to get going. This is serious business!

Who is the Matriarch in your family and does she know of the expectations?

P.S. My daughter, granddaughter, and I went to the movies last week. We had a nice lunch, so our tummies were full and the movie was a little slow. (Sheep Detectives) In unison we practiced intermittent snoozing. Three generations at rest. Great bonding activity.

Stay tuned.

We gave our parents homework, for example: visit ten senior facilities and learn what they offer, how much they cost, and whether you’d like to go there or not. They also filled out pamphlets from Aging Solutions provided by Teri Abelar. The pamphlets held information on their health, medications, doctors, investments, etc. Teri also counseled my sister and I on other things we needed to know about services for the aging. These preparations were planned to give Mom and Dad purposeful research that would save us from being caught flat-footed in a crisis of some sort.

So, in April 2026, we had the first Robertson Support Group meeting. Barry and I, and our two kids, Jason and Jodi. I presented each one with a three-ring binder that held:

ROBERTSON SUPPORT GROUP - Title Page

· First Agenda 4/29/26 (These were the topics of discussion.)

Book: The Other Talk (A book put out by AARP)

□ Cremation Rep Business Card with instructions to not send our bodies to a mortuary, but call the number on the card.

o Power of Attorney – General

o Power of Attorney – Health Care

o AB Trust information

o Cremation

o Retirement funds & phone numbers

o Bills that need to be paid

o Properties, and what they might do with them

□ Assets & investments

□ A spread sheet with everything I could think of and where it could be found. SSN, etc.

□ Fiduciary Review

□ Article about Brassfield Support Team that was published in 2003 in an Aging magazine.

□ Certificate of Burial Plot Ownership in Murrieta

□ Folded Eulogy – video recorded on cellphone to be sent to our Tech Support Daughter-in-law with photos for funeral. Also my Christmas card list, so she can let people know of our deaths.

□ Birth Certificates, Driver’s license numbers, and insurance companies.

□ Contact information for doctors or companies with whom we do business.

□ An article I found titled What to do When a Loved One Dies.

Why am I telling you this? To some, it may seem a bit morbid, but I believe it will make our transition into old age and ultimately a step into Heaven easier on the family. They won’t have to scramble to figure it all out when the time comes.

In a year, God willing, the four of us will meet again to see if there have been any changes or new topics we need to explore. Now I can rest easy and go on with my active life, knowing they will be informed when they have to take over as the parents and we need to let them. Hopefully, that will be a while from now.

Meanwhile, if you have aging parents, or you ARE the aging parents, I encourage you to do this for the good of the family. It has drawn us closer, if that is even possible.

Our daughter, Jodi, came from Montana to stay for three weeks. We jokingly accuse her of coming to evaluate us and see if we are still in our right minds. Ha! As if we ever were.

And as a birthday present last Christmas, Jason, takes me out to dinner once a month, and it has been wonderful. One night we laughed so hard we cried, and we have been kicked out at closing time everytime. These are the best years ever!!

Thanks for reading. I hope this has spurred you into action.

Karen

For many years, it seemed like more wildfires started on Sunday than any other day of the week. I figured it was because arsonists weren’t at work and had time on their hands.

I don’t remember fires all over California when I was a kid. Now, it is such a common occurence, homeowner’s fire insurance has been cancelled, and evacuations happen regularly.

Wildfires aren’t like house fires that can start from a gas leak, a fallen candle, or a short in the electrical system. But, I’ve figured out why wildfires have become prevalent.

Auto manufacturers quit putting ashtrays in cars. I think there are fewer smokers these days, but every smoker has a burning butt at the end of a smoke. Where will they stub it out? In the palm of their hand? No way!! They flip it right out the window. They may think that tiny smoldering tip will die before it hits the dry grass on the shoulder. But just a tiny spark can start a giant fire.

So what’s the solution? Every investigation looks for a cause, for who’s guilty, who’s at fault. The blame has to go somewhere. If someone sued the auto makers for taking ashtrays out of cars, I bet they’d design a new one that is artistically concealed. What about suing the cigarette companies for providing fire sticks? Or what if every smoker who drove through the area of the fire was held suspect? Maybe that would scare smokers into carrying something with water to drown hot butts. Did I just say that?

If you see someone throw out a cigarette, get their license number and report them. You could save a life.

Thanks for reading my theory on the cause of wildfires.

In Genesis 9:11 God says he won’t destroy the earth again with a flood, but in 2 Peter 3:10 He states that the earth and its works will be destroyed by fire. I’d rather not rush that event, especially if ashtrays would solve the problem for a while.

What do you think?

Karen

Memorial Day is to remember and honor all those military men and women who died in the service of our country during wars or from injuries sustained during war.

Veteran’s Day is to celebrate all the veteran’s who served and are still living.

My dad served in WWII. He is no longer living, and he did not die of injuries sustained during his service. So he doesn’t qualify for celebration on either day. And yet, my daughter and I met a woman from the Philippines last summer who said, “Your father was a hero in our eyes. He came with the United States troops and liberated us. He was our hero.” Eighty years after the fact, I heard my father was a hero.

He was considered a hero because he was a soldier in the United States Army when they brought freedom to the Philippine Islands. I wish Dad could have heard the sincerity of the woman’s commendation. It touched my heart and I took a photo of the sweet woman after we hugged.

Dad was drafted in 1943, when I was just an infant. He was working for the Bank of America at the time. The draft board asked him what he’d like to do in the military and he said he’d like to work in the area of finance . . . so they put him in the Quartermasters and made him a truck driver and refrigeration specialist.

Quartmaster is not a master of quarters or any other kind of finances. A Quartermaster feeds, clothes, supplies, repairs, identifies, and supports those in the heat of the battle with truckloads of anything they need. Blankets, boots, food, tools, repairs, etc.

They shipped Dad’s unit to Europe, and he served in England, France and Germany. Later, they went to Japan and the Philippines. When the war was over, Dad came home in February 1946. I was only three, and I didn’t know who he was or why he moved in with us.

He never talked about the war until I was a teenager. He told hilareous stories about his hi-jinx, shenanigans, and getting demoted for some crazy stunts. But he didn’t talk about the horrors of what he witnessed on or near the battle fields.

Later he told us about the smell of death as they approached Dachau after the liberation. Piles of bodies were loaded on gondolas and driven through towns, just to show the German people what had been going on.

When my father was in his 80’s, I wrote an article about him for the Quartermaster magazine. He and I spent three hours on the phone, while he told me the whole story.

It’s no wonder I’m a standup comic. He had me laughing about all the crazy antics he and his partner pulled. He said he only felt like a hero one time. “We were sleeping in the snow under our truck when an MP woke us. He told us there were some engineers up ahead trying to rebuild a bridge with some logs so we could drive their trucks across. When we got there, the poor guys were muddy, cold, exhausted, and hungry. They hadn’t had anything to eat but K-rations for days. They asked us what we were hauling. When I told them we were hauling halves of hogs, I thought the guy was going to kiss me. We gave them four halves.”

My dad didn’t feel like a hero, but he was proud that he served his country, and he was a hero to me.

Memorial Day is a time to remember those you know who served in the military and played a part in keeping the United States of America a free country.

GOD BLESS AMERICA, LAND THAT I LOVE!!

If you’re happy with your old flip phone or whatever you have, and you don’t care about the latest technology, you might want to stick with it. But if your old cell phone is over three years old and you want to get a new one, think twice about these things:

Are you ready for a challenge that may take a week or more to get you up and running smoothly in the manner to which you have become accustommed?

And during that time, you have to hold your tongue, resist pulling out your hair, and avoid people who still use flip phones and will laugh at your frustration.

Do you have someone who is technologically savvy who can help you make the transition? I’m talking about someone outside of the sales office. Someone who won’t charge you $75/hour, loves you, and has the patience of a saint.

The guy in the sales store is only responsible to get you up and running with the phone. They do a good job of that, BUT I’ve already had three of them throw up their hands without solving my problems. After several visits, I discovered two of them have taken time off for therapy.

There are about 50 or 60 preloaded apps that you probably don’t need or want. Lots of games. Uninstalling all of them can be a good start and actually solves some problems. Any dummy can do that and feel successful for a moment or two. But only after you figure out that clicking on an app will open the darned thing and it takes forever to figure out how to not install it and get out of it. Finally, when you figure out to hold down the icon of the app to see the option to uninstall, you can move ahead like gangbusters. You will still accidentally install something you didn’t want.

The way everything works has changed . . . actually better, if you can just figure it out.

I contend that a five year old could figure it out faster than anyone over eighty. Barry and I have vowed that this will be the last cell phone change we make . . . unless one of them falls in the toilet.

We spent the first three hours in the Verizon store just buying two new phones and having the salesperson transfer everything from the old phones over to the new ones. Thank heavens for that service!! They even synced Barry’s hearing aides. Very nice guys.

The second day, the salesman gave me a phone number to call. After waiting on hold for thirty minutes, I got a woman whose accent was so thick, I couldn’t understand a word she said. With two men talking loudly at the desk, and the overhead music blasting, I was helpless. She finally told me I’d have to subscribe to their tech support? Wait, what?? So, the salesman had hooked me up with a third party in some foreign country. Yikes!!! I hung up on her and went home, wishing I was a crier, so I could shed some well-deserved tears. But alas, I am not a crier.

Because we are trading in our old phones, they gave us two phones for half price, plus a free watch, and a free tablet. When we get the first monthly bill, we’ll know more about what was free and what is going to cost us an arm and a leg. We get to keep our old phones for a month to survive until we have to turn them in.

I was so frustrated for a week, I avoided making or receiving calls on the new phone and just used my old one. I advised everyone I saw to never by a new cell phone.

SURPRIZE!!! Now, I’ve had the new cell phone for ten days and I love, love, love, it. It’s amazing. Here’s why:

1. I made a list of everything that I couldn’t figure out. These are the things I can remember:

   No place to plug in ear phones (now you have to buy wireless ear buds, another $50 to $250)

   Couldn’t cast to the TV.

   Couldn’t turn the phone off.

   Couldn’t find the control panel.

   Couldn’t get the Cruise Ship wallpaper to stay put and it kept showing up as an ugly barge. One sales person said she’d worked for the company for 19 years and she couldn’t find my Cruise Ship wallpaper.

   My husband’s contact info dropped out of the contacts, so I couldn’t call him from my car phone.

   The calendar wouldn’t sync with my computer.

   Barry’s hearing aides needed work to sync with his phone.

   I couldn’t get email at all.

   Needed a new phone cover because the size is different.

2. I lucked out because my daughter-in-law, Cecillia, who is our tech support had her own phone died a week before. She bought a new one the same as mine. So I didn’t ask for help, knowing she was having her own issues setting up her new phone. She is smart enough to know where the cloud exists and what she has backed up on it.

3. When I thought she’d be available to help, I invited her on a completely free day to come to our house without distractions.

4. We sat together on the reclining loveseat with our feet up for three hours. I doled out one problem from the list at a time, and she went to work. I sat quietly, writing an email to a friend on my computer. I asked questions only when necessary, and in three hours she had solved every problem on the list. We had to access wifi passwords, the TV, my computer, the car, and my old phone.

5. I swear the girl has Technological Super Powers! I couldn’t thank her enough. When she left, my new phone was PERFECT!

6. Then my daughter sent me the most beautiful new phone cover, and I’m back in business.

We want to buy a new TV, but do we dare. There have been 20 years of new tech growth since we bought our last one.

The little yellow flower at the beginning is a tiny cactus flower in my succulant garden. I selected it for my background since nobody could figure out where my cruise ship is hiding. It must have gone with one of the apps I uninstalled. Oh well, bon voyage.

This photo at the end is my cell cover. I asked Jodi to pick out something pretty with light colors so I could find it in my purse. I love what she chose for me. Now, my phone is perfect, in it’s abilities, and in it’s looks. I love it!!

I bet I’ll get some feedback on this one. Thanks for reading.

This has been a crazy fun week. As I look back on it, I am in awe. (The photo above is Santa Matt, me, and Jodi.)

Our daughter, Jodi from Montana, is here for three weeks. We count every minute with joy. She is a delight, and she is willing to go along with anything we plan. I’m always worried that she’ll be bored, but if there isn’t anything planned, she’s just as satisfied to take a nap on the sofa or out on the patio.

Monday we picked up my grandson, Les, loaded his wheelchair in the trunk and off we went to the gym. Jodi has a Masters degree in Biomechanics, so she helped Les improve his execution. After the workout, we went to Hush Coffee Roasters for lunch. There are usually folks we know or we strike up conversations with new friends. A young man named Austin became a new friend and we gave him a book. A retired kindergarten teacher named Jody came in. I introduced her to our district decades ago. We reminisced over lunch.

Besides being my grandson, Les is one of my fledgling comics. We stopped by the house so he could ride around on the four-wheel electric skooter and practice his comedy act. At 3:00 pm we went to Richie’s Diner where we met up with a group of my comedy students who are preparing material to do a show on May 26th.

This is my second time to teach the class, although I really can’t teach comedy. We all put our heads together like the comics on SNL and try to figure out how to be funny. Last year we met for 16 weeks, put on a show, and 90 people came to laugh. I was so proud of them. This year we’re meeting for 16 weeks and putting on another show. Hopefully, we’ve gathered some fans for clean comedy by now.

My Achilles tendon is still necessitating physical therapy, so Jodi went along to my appointment. She worked for or with physical therapists for years and it was like a busman’s holiday for her to see the activity in the office. We followed up the therapy with full body massages at Massage Envy.

Another day, a Level Up Conference offered lunch and two business speakers. Don’t ask me why I thought that would be a good idea, but I bought two tickets. Jodi and I met three really interesting people: 1. A young real estate saleswoman who has a herd of sheep. 2. A man who represents a charter school and is going to give us a tour next week. 3. Santa Matt, a man who looks just like Santa Claus and hires out as such. He was a fun character.

When Saturday rolled around, Jodi, Les, and I went to Chapel Coffee to hang out. I’m going to take a side trip and tell you about Chapel Coffee. Originally, the tiny church building next door was where we attended church back in the 70’s when we first became Christians and our kids were kids. It seated 75 people when it was full to capacity. Now it is open to the public for prayer.

The adjacent building that houses the coffee shop used to be the Sunday School building where Barry, our kids, two of my fourth grade students, and I got baptized in 1979. The cute little white house next door was where we lived 55 years ago for $100/month.

For many years, the church and the Sunday School building set dormant. About five years ago a fifteen year old girl name LilyKelly was killed by a drunk driver. Her mother started a minitstry in her name and purchased the old church and adjacent building. The LilyKelly ministries now have Chapel Coffee, a slightly used clothing store, and a place to find prayer and spiritual inspiration. It is a warm and friendly place to spend time.

Kassidy was waiting for us. We met Kassidy at Chapel Coffee two or three years ago. We joined the Toastmasters Club she attended, became fast friends, and now do comedy together. (Author of Blameless.) I’ve told you her story before. She just got a new service dog named Henry.

While we stood in the line that extended all the way out the door, we made friends with a young female barber named Kayla. We invited ourselves to sit with her and launched into conversation. Les and I autographed the book I wrote about our relationship, titled More for Les, and gave a copy to Kayla. She and Jodi rolled Les in his wheelchair down the street a couple of blocks to Kayla’s place of business so Les could get a haircut. I drove the car down and joined them. Les was the center of attention and led the conversation about super heroes, Pokemon, video games, and topics of which I know not. . . or is it naught????

Sunday, after church, Jason, Cecillia, and Les brought food from Costco, and we all spent the day eating and playing Wits and Wagers. In the evening, Cecillia and Les went home to leave Barry, Jason, Jodi, and I to have our first annual Robertson Support Meeting. I’ll probably write a story about this soon. We reconvened and finished the meeting on Wednesday night. I gave both of the kids (Jason & Jodi) a binder with everything I could think of about Barry and I that they might need to know when our lives come to an end.

****

Jodi and I were invited to go to the 60th birthday party for Lisa, one of my 4th grade students from 50 years ago. Carlsbad is about 50 miles away, so we car pooled. The driver, Brenda, babysat our kids fifty-five years ago.

Barry officiated the funeral of both parents of the other passenger, Terri. At the party, the brother of the birthay girl, Jessie, remembered when he babysat our kids 52 years ago. Jodi and Jessie had some great laughs about that. At the end of the party, Lisa had a friend lead us in a couple of beautiful worship songs. My favorite, How Great Thou Art.

The next morning, I got a call from Jennifer, another student from Lisa’s class. She lives in Illinois. I hadn’t spoken to her since she was ten years old. She and my son and Lisa were all in the same class . . . mine. Because we lived in a small town, I taught my own kids in the 4th grade. Now they are all turning sixty years old.

Later in the day, Harry, a friend from high school, sent me a beautiful rendition of How Great Thou Art by Elvis. When something like that happens, I know how much God loves me.

I look back over the week and my heart sings. I have been truly blessed. I’ve heard from a high school friend, students I taught, a teacher I mentored, , kids I reared, babysitters who took care of our kids, my buddy and grandon Les, Toastmasters I learned from, comics I perform with, and new friends we met along the way. I wouldn’t trade my life with anyone.

Next time I’ll tell you about how I’m preparing for the future.

Today, I’m here to whine. Consider it a gripe dump, a therapy session, or a dreadful download. I am a spoiled brat who has enjoyed good health and a fairly fit body all my life. But June 29, 2025, I started on the slippery slope I call “one thing after another.”

Okay, so I was 82 years old, maybe I should have expected this to happen sooner or later. And I have no right to whine. I have so many friends who have suffered cancer treatments, strokes, and other illnesses that have almost taken them down. And most of them are decades younger than me. Not to mention all those friends and family whose lives ended before they got this far. People I loved!

Since June 29, these are the maladies I’ve experienced, in order. Laryngitis, bronchitis, spot on the lung, tendonitis of the Achilles tendon, Atrial Fibrillation, shoulder pain, insomnia, leg cramps, hemorrhoids, nystagmus, double vision, neuropathy, and four trigger fingers.

I’ve been X-rayed, CT scanned, PET scanned, EKGed, EEGed, PTed, poked, prodded, pinched, frozen, flattened, focused, endoscopied, extracted, implanted, timed, lifted, cupped, acupunctured, red-light therapied, ice plunged, recorded, monitored, and tested for cognitive acuity.

All the while, I’ve missed going to Camp Transformation workouts, but otherwise, I’ve had a full calendar. Special times with family, luncheons with friends, regular visits to the gym and coffee shops with my grandson, and appointments with my Cardiologist, Primary Care doc, Pulmonologist, surgeon, Podiatrist, Imaging, Dermatologist, Orthopedics, Physical Therapists, Acupuncturist, Ear Nose & Throat Doctor, Optometrist, Pharmacist, Urgent Care three times, ER twice, in the hospital twice, cruised to Catalina and Mexico with my daughter, taught comedy classes, and performed standup at the hospital for nurses, at a winery for concert goers, and on an outdoor stage called the Alleyway.

That’s it! I’m over it. I’m now the proud owner of a Loop Recorder implanted in my chest that records my heart beats and reports them to someone, a Watchman embedded in my heart that is supposed to keep me from having a stroke from a blood clot in the heart, and I’m a frequent flyer at physical therapy.

My mother’s pet peeve was women who were constantly talking about their health issues. Now here I am. Sorry Mom. I never thought I’d get to this place.

I promise, you won’t hear another word about my health . . . in fact, each new day brings a new adventure. Like today.

Today, I bought groceries. Every time I try to work the self-checkout, I goof up something and the attendant has to come and unravel whatever mess I’ve made. Last time I tried to use the self-checkout, I had about 20 items and couldn’t fit them all on the shelf. So, as they fell on the floor, the machine kept telling me to place my items on the shelf. I put some of the things in my basket, and then the machine really went crazy and started taking photos of me. I’m determined I’m going to use self-checkout all by myself once and get it right. Today was going to be the day.

I had about 8 items. I remembered to bring in my own bags. That’s a big win! I did my shopping. When I got to the self-checkout, I ran each item over the glass thingy that checks the bar code. Placed each item on the correct shelf, put in my phone number, paid by credit card, bagged my groceries, and took the receipt. “Got it!” I yelled to the attendant. “I finally did it right, all by myself.” And I pranced out of the store feeling quite sharp!

I needed to pick up my grandson, Les, from the coffee shop. He wanted me to meet a new friend there, so I sat and chatted a while. Then I took Les to his house, dropped him off, and went home to unload my two bags of groceries.

“HUH? WHAT THE HECK IS THIS THING IN MY BAG?” This black thing with a handle? It was the handheld scanner from the grocery store! It started making beeping noises and I figured it was a GPS that was sending the cops after me, so I jumped in the car and returned the scanner.

Maybe I’ll get it right next time without ripping off the scanner. I’m getting closer. Never give up, give in, or give out! No matter what you do.

I hope you made it through my gripe session. Everyone should have one once in a while to clear out their system and get on with life. God says He’ll not give me more than I can bear and I trust Him.

Thank you for being a faithful reader. If you were wondering why I put a picture of a scanner at the head of the post, now you know.

The first photo is our beloved Peach Tree. We’re not sure of her age. Probably over twenty years. As you can see, time has taken its toll on her. When a peach tree is planted, it takes at least three years before she bears fruit. We protected her from gophers, squirrels, and birds as best we could.

For several years, Barry and I pulled a net over her and secured it so that varmints couldn’t get to the fruit. As she got taller, getting the net untangled from the limbs was too hard for us and it became impossible. For the past five years, I adorned her with strips of glittery silver tape. You can see the remnants of one left from last year. That worked to keep the birds away, but nothing could stop the aging. Her bark is rotted away, exposing the core of her trunk and each year a few more branches have to be amputated because they have ceased the thrive.

Every year, we think she will give up all together, but as you can see, she refuses to quit. She is determined to give us just one more crop of luscious peaches. With only two main branches still intact, she still blesses us with beautiful blossoms to remind us, she ain’t done yet!

This majestic evergreen tree stands so tall, the neighbor across the street worries it will fall and take out both our fences. Thirty-six years ago, this was our first Christmas tree INSIDE THE HOUSE. It was about four feet tall. Seventy years ago, in geometry, I learned how to figure out its height. I’m going to go to AI to refresh my memory and figure it out. Stand by while I go outside and use the “stick” method.

That majestic pine tree now stands approximately 90 feet tall. It has had the distinction of being a landing spot for hawks, owls, and loads of doves and smaller birds.

We planted four sycamore trees about 36 year ago, each approximately 40 feet from the four corners of our house. Our memory grows dim. I say you could reach around the trunk with one hand and Barry says it took two. Nevertheless, all four of them are humungous now.

They have been magnificent trees that have provided us with wonderful shade. But after all these years, they have cost us a boat-load of money. Besides all the tree trimmers we’ve hired, my Feb. 2025 story titled Back Ho Ho Ho! tells about our battle against sycamore roots. They are beautiful trees, but they lift sidewalks . . . and houses, if you don’t wage war on the roots.

This is one of the four sycamores, and if you’re wondering, “What the heck?” there’s a story. January 1, 2014 we woke up to two surprises. Snow covered the ground, and the pictured Sycamore split in half with limbs long enough to touch (but not break) the living room windows. Barry and I worked all day cutting up the part that fell toward the house. In the following year, a lateral branch or dormant bud (I call it a sucker branch) popped out and we let it grow. Barry put a strap and chain around it to support it as it grew.

And this is a table Barry made out of a chunk of the fallen Sycamore trunk with andirons, and horseshoes. It sits next to his recliner.

Grapefruit, if you’re wondering. Year before last, this miniature tree produced over 100 grapefruits. They are pink inside and delicious. The problem is, neither of us can eat grapefruit because we take statins for cholesterol. Grrr! So we give bags full to neighbors and friends.

I think it got out of sync or needed a rest because last year, the crop is still hanging. One grapefruit. And I’m leaving it there for our granddaughter, when she comes in June.

But if you notice the blossoms, the next crop is going to be massive. Anyone want grapefruit?

This tree is probably the star of them all. A Golden Dorsett Apple tree. She is about 35 years old, but some apple trees can live to more than 100 years. AI says she could easily go to 50. This old girl has provided fruit for literally hundreds of pies and dozens of friends. In July, we harvest daily for almost a month, picking a shopping bag full each day. And the pie making begins. Our record, was 59 pies when our peach and plum trees were still giving fruit. We make pies, apple burritos, and applesauce.

She produces clusters of apples that require thinning. We are constantly trying to lighten her load by plucking off lots of baby apples before they crowd each other.

She is truly amazing, but I think she’s going through menopause, because she gets confused and tries to bear a mid-season crop. She gets half way with it, her hormones must weaken, and the babies all rot and fall off before maturity. You can see some of the rotten ones alongside the blossoms for a new crop.

This photo shows a real quitter. Our dear friends gave him to us and deemed him some sort of citrus. We’ve had him for three years and I deem him dead. He never did a thing. He’s right near the peach tree that won’t give up the ghost for anything. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Loser. He will go to the happy hunting ground for dead trees soon.

There are three other trees on our place. A huge cottonwood that is a home for mistletoe, a dying fig tree that never did well, and some kind of useless elm that doesn’t do anything. Actually, one night I saw at least a dozen doves fly into her leafy motel for the night. I could hear them arguing over who got which limb.

We have a Mockingbird in the neighborhood right now, but that’s another story.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the story of our trees. Writing this made me realize how big a part they have played in our lives. Thank you, God for trees.

Today I’m going to write about trees. Let’s see if I can make something “as lovely as a tree” an interesting read with some laughs along the way.

See ya Monday

Karen

(Above . . . Me dishing out comedy during intermission for the fabulous Sebastian Sidi Piano Concert. Better him playing than me!!)

*******

The other day, I was at Physical Therapy when Frank Sinatra crooned a love song over the PA. I recognized his voice immediately. The next song came on and the therapist asked me, “Who’s that singing?” I had no idea, but I could sing every word. It made me wonder about my relationship with music. Some people have music in their ear buds, in their houses, or cars all day long. I don’t. And yet, I love music. Especially if I can dance to it. I even dance to the music on commercials.

I thought back to WWII when I was two years old. My Mom followed my dad from camp to camp until he was shipped off to war. I stayed with my Gammie and Leighton (he never let us call him Grandpa) on the farm in Missouri.

Gammie was so much fun. She played the piano and taught me all the songs of that time and earlier. I would dance and sing. I didn’t know the names of the artists or the names of the songs, but I learned the words. My favorite was Bell-Bottom-Trousers Coat of Navy Blue. When the war was over and all the men came home, we had a huge celebration. Lots of people came to Gammie’s house, they rolled back the rugs, and everyone danced, ate, drank, and rejoiced.

Mom, Dad, and I moved to California. They didn’t play music, but we did sing together in the car on our trips back and forth between California and Missouri.

When I was a fourteen, I lied about my age and went to work in the packing shed. The first check I received, I paid for the four of us (by then my sister was about 10) to go to Disneyland. Parking was twenty-five cents. (This has nothing to do with music, but I just had to throw that in because I think Disneyland had just been open for one year.)

With my second check, I bought a stereo with two removable speakers and some records. The stereo had an honored place in the living room. The records were all honky-tonk piano style, like my Gammie used to play. Later, I bought Mantovani, and Henry Mancini orchestra albums. Later, Peter, Paul, & Mary and the Smothers Brothers.

Mom played the piano for church and had my sister, Linda, and I take lessons for years. Neither of us had natural talent and hated to practice. (Later in life, I played for church, but it was awful.)

In high school, all the kids listened to a local radio station. We’d call in and dedicate songs to our boyfriends. I loved the rock and roll music of those years and knew the words. But other than Elvis, I didn’t keep track of the artist’s names.

I had a bunch of Portuguese friends. One lived close and I would sometimes stay overnight at her house. Every morning, her dad listened to country/western music, and I got introduced to the sounds of Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.

When I signed on to be an extra in a movie with Mark Wahlberg, I danced around the house to my favorite Buck Owens song. “They’re gonna put me in the movies. They’re gonna make a big star out of me. They’re gonna put me in the movies, and all I gotta do is act naturally.”

My husband, Barry, is a cowboy, so country/western music plays in his vehicle all the time. I sing along, harmonize, and get a kick out of the lyrics. Some are so sad, they make you want to cry. Again, I know lots of the tunes and the words, but I couldn’t tell you the artists if you held a gun to my head.

Anyone who knows me, knows I have an overactive brain. Not necessarily smart, just over-active. We don’t play music in the house. I like it quiet so my brain can concentrate. If music plays, I get distracted by the rhythm and I can’t write or read or come up with new ideas.

But the music that touches my heart is whatever song is playing when Barry holds me in his arms and glides me across the dance floor. There are a lot of favorites, but in my over-active brain right now I hear…

“Darling, Save the Last Dance for Me.” Barry and I have been dancing for 54 years.

I looked it up “Save the Last Dance for Me.” It was recorded by the Drifters. It was written by Doc Pomus who wrote it on the back of his wedding invitation three years after he married. He had polio and spent his life in a wheelchair. He remembered watching his brother and other men dance with his new bride.

I just read my story to Barry. I actually cried tears, and he said he had a lump in his throat.

If you read my last post on Jigsaw Puzzles, here is a demo of how I put together a 1000-piece puzzle, leaving the edge pieces until the final act.

It is so much faster and easier. But then my friend Carrie sent me this picture of her latest puzzle and asked how she might use my technique on it. You be the judge. Yikes!!!No Way!!!!!!!!! Good luck!! Seperating out colors would be nearly impossible.

But I ran out and bought a similar type puzzle to see if I could still do it by just grouping colors. I grouped out greens, red, grey, words, and edge pieces. I set the edge pieces aside and started with all the red stamps. Sure enough, it worked. It is definitely a little more challenging, but it went together smoothly and the edges were added on whenever the stamps I was working on bumped into them.

Okay, I promise! I won’t mention puzzles again.

Leg Cramps . . .

If you read my article on nocturnal leg cramps, you may have thought I’d tried everything and that I was having some success. NOT!

Most recently I’ve tried Red Light Therapy, massages, Ashwagandha, physical therapy, and acupuncture. Last night I was up eating mustard and whimpering. I have three bottles of various mixtures of liquid Magnesium. I’ve tried each one and didn’t feel like they helped. Someone even told me about rubbing mustard on your legs. I haven’t tried that yet, but that would be nasty on the sheets.

I even read up on mustard plaster, which was used back in the 1800’s. It was applied to the chest for bronchitis and pneumonia. That’s a long way from my legs, and I don’t think it even worked on bronchitis or doctors would still be using it.

Jump Rope & Achilles Tendon . . .

For those of you who read my article on jumping rope, I managed to cause myself tendonitis in my Achilles tendon. The plan was to do 100 jumps a day, but I was doing 300 or 400. Being an over achiever is a curse at times.

It took a long time, but I had to lay off the jump rope and the gym. Physical therapy, orthotics, and an extra lift in my shoe have my Achilles tendon functioning at 100%. Hallelujah!

If you read my article on Do as I say, Not as I do, you now can see why.

The only thing you should take as gospel from me is the Gospel in the Holy Bible. That, you can bank on!!

Thank you to all my readers. I’m preparing for four big comedy performances, so I slacked a little on Substack. I’m still seeking the cure for leg cramps. If you have it, please let me know.

This is truly amazing! I learned something from doing this 1000-piece puzzle. If you’ve never done a jigsaw puzzle, you probably won’t give a rip.

I started doing jigsaw puzzles as a child, with my grandmothers. I learned early on there was an order to how it was done. First, you turn over all the pieces, so the color is turned face up. To expedite the process, you collect all the edge pieces and set them aside. When all the pieces are showing their color, you start by putting the edge together. After the whole edge is complete, you search for pieces to fill in the picture. That’s the way it’s been done from the beginning of time. At least that was how we did it.

My sister, Linda, does jigsaw puzzles . . . huge ones. She has friends who pass down puzzles to her. One friend delivers the puzzle with all the edge pieces separated into a plastic Ziplock bag. Linda still must turn all the pieces face up, but she doesn’t have to search for the edge pieces.

Years ago, I started a 1000-piece puzzle in our vacation home in Montana. I couldn’t finish it during our stay, so I left it for others to work on. That darned puzzle remained unfinished for at least three years. I decided I’d never do a 1000-piece puzzle again. And for years, I didn’t.

Barry and I were up in Montana in 2021 when we both got Covid. Mine was a light case, but Barry slept for about eleven days. My friend and neighbor, Carrie, took care of us. She brought medicine, food, and many PUZZLES.

We missed Christmas with our family and holed up in quarantine for 17 days. It was snowing daily and all I could do was feed the fireplace, take care of Barry, and do puzzles. I was thankful to have something to do.

Recently, I decided I needed a hobby. I got back into doing puzzles. Thrift shops and garage sales are great places to pick up used puzzles, so I stockpiled a bunch of them. I was careful to choose puzzles with 300 to 500 pieces. I could finish a 300-piece puzzle in one evening. But as I stepped up to 500, I made a discovery.

I have a new, wildly innovative system, and I’ve tested it out on 500 and 1000-piece puzzles. It goes like this:

1. Study the Picture thoroughly

2. Take note of all the big areas of color.

3. Turn all the pieces face up. But here is the big difference.

4. As you turn the pieces, separate them into the major color groups.

5. Pick out as many edge pieces as possible and put them out of the way.

6. I put them back in the box for later.

Look back at the picture of the puzzle above. I had a pile of blue and white, a pile of dark red leaves, brown building pieces, and all the pinks separated. I went to work on the water, and the millhouse the very first evening. The water reached down to the bottom of the puzzle, so then I put the bottom edge together and the deer.

The tree up the left side was dark and literally finished the left edge. It dawned on me how much easier the puzzle was going together. Why? Because when you put the edge together first, it gets in the way, keeps falling apart, hooks on your shirt sleeves, or falls off on the floor. This way the edge pieces are attached to clusters that are already together solidly holding together. There isn’t the constant problem of trying to keep the edge pieces together. It is a monumental discovery!!!!!!! (Please don’t hate me if I’m the last one on earth to make this discovery. I’m a slow learner.)

When all the major colors were finished, the right side remained unfinished. It was by far, the hardest. I took the pieces I had left and separated them into like-shapes. That helped, but the last part was tough. Even so, I finished the puzzle in record time.

It kind of reminded me of my own life. When I was a young teen, I made up my life plan. It was like putting the edge together first. I was going to marry at 19, finish college at 21 and start teaching school, and have two kids. (One boy and one girl.)

I had all the edge pieces together by the time I was twenty-seven. But there was so much more to the puzzle and the edge pieces started falling off.

At 35, I discovered the puzzle of life had gotten away from my control. People and circumstances pointed me to the Bible and teachings on the 700 Club. When I realized that there was much more to the puzzle than I could control, I gave my life to Jesus Christ. He had watched me try to do things my own way and knew exactly which pieces I needed. Just as I worked on the different color groups, He started working on my strong points and fitting them together. He has made my life a beautiful picture with vibrant colors. Now we’re down to those last pesky pieces that are hard to fit into place. The puzzle won’t be finished until the pieces (my ashes) are ready to go into the box. But God is still work on me.

The last post about Surveys and Feedback got the most comments so far. I could tell I hit a nerve. Thank you for your FEEDBACK!!!

My life has not been my own for the past several months. It seems it has belonged to doctors, technicians, and service people. I don’t mind, because they’ve had my best interest in mind. But I’m getting tired of everyone wanting me to send them a follow up, take a survey, or write a YELP review. I can’t ever just be finished. As a customer or a patient, I often feel obligated.

As a comedian, I’m tempted to have some fun. One of my friends gave me a sign for my birthday that says, “My sense of humor may hurt your feelings.” So here goes. Let’s see how clever or funny I can be.

Car serviced- You sent me a video of the entire undercarriage of my car. I’ve never seen the under-guts of my vehicle before, nor did I need or want to. And the technical name of each part means nothing to me. Can you just change the oil and give my car back to me so I can get on the road?

Massage- Thank you for taking that knot out of my shoulder. You are the only person I’d strip down nude for. Keep the bed warm, and no peeking.

Dermatologist- It’s no skin off my nose, but where did you get your training. Didn’t they tell you that a naked patient, covered only with a paper gown, is freezing cold after a thirty-minute wait. I’m old and impatient when I’m in the nude. Unless I’m on a warm massage table. Do you feel me?

Coffee Shop- Sorry about not drinking your coffee. But the Starbucks Black Silk at home costs me less than a dollar a cup. So why pay almost $7 plus a tip? I’m glad you’ve got some food I like, and so many nice people to chat with.

General Surgeon- Was there any way you could have made a hemorrhoidectomy more comfortable? Just asking.

Orthopedics- The humerus’s connected to the shoulder bone. The shoulder bone’s connected to the neck bone, now here’s the word of the Lord. Them bones, them bones, gonna walk around, them bones, them bones gonna go to town. Injections of Cortizone all around. Now here’s the word of the Lord.

Podiatrist- I love having my feet rubbed. Who would think orthotics could relieve the Achilles tendon when the orthopedic doctor swore there wasn’t anything that could be done. I walked out of your office so much better than I walked in. Thank you!

Physical Therapy- It took ten of you, but you finished the rehab of my Achilles tendon. Where else could I get young men to rub my legs and feet? The bed isn’t warm, and I don’t have to get naked.

Cardiologist- I love the old song, Ya Gotta Have Heart, All you really need is Heart. Who knew there were so many ways to monitor my heart. A Loop Recorder in my chest with its Medtronic partner on my nightstand, a Watchman inside my heart, and a blood pressure cuff on my desk. I feel so important! And so watched. It’s like I have bodyguards on the inside.

Pulmonologist- CAT scan and PET scan? When are you going to try a HUMAN scan? Thank you for prescribing a nasal spray that has fixed the tissue issue. I can breathe now . . . and breathing is a good thing.

X-ray Technician- I like X-ray techs. You may hide behind a window, while I’m exposed, but at least you aren’t armed with needles, pills, or scalpels.

Mammography- You are not my main squeeze. Being held by you is not considered an embrace. It is too painful. The song, Turn Me Loose comes to mind. Or Born free.

Post Office-Please, Mr. Postman. Bring me a letter. Is letter writing still a thing? Could you sort out the junk mail before you get here.

Amazon – If you throw my packages on the gate track one more time, I’m going to put a spike strip out in the street. I’ve had boxes of my books run over and the gate thrown off its track. We (both of us over 80) have had to put that 500 lb. gate back on its track twice and we are aging out of that activity.

Dentist- All I wanted for Christmas was my teeth cleaned. Who knew taking blood thinners might make that dangerous.

Optometrist- During the exam, if you get any closer, you’ll be sitting on my lap. Are you sure YOU don’t need glasses, Doc? You might be near sighted.

Urgent Care – I love you folks! I must be on your frequent flyer list. You have kept me going through numerous UTI’s, more than one broken toe, two times pneumonia, Shingles, X-rays, urine samples, and breathing treatments. You are my heroes!!

Gym -How many more ways can you think of to torture us? I’m beginning to hate squats and burpees. What sadistic monster invented those? Actually . . . . I remember burpees from high school in the 50’s. They were hated then and . . . well, I’m still haven’t developed a taste.

Fun Fact: The burpee was invented by: (I decided to do some research.)

Royal Huddleston Burpee Sr, an American physiologist, in 1939. He developed the exercise as a quick, four-step, full-body fitness test for his Ph.D. thesis at Columbia University to measure agility, coordination, and strength. It was later adopted by the U.S. military during WWI

Four years ago, I saw a presentation by a doctor who said that doing burpees would get you in shape quickly, no matter what age. Even if you cheat on all four moves, over time you will be able to do them smoothly without cheating and you will be svelte.

I was 79 at the time, and I decided to try it. I took him at his word and did just one the first night. The next night I did two. The next night I did three. And at the age of 79, I topped out at fifteen burpees. Another guy and I did them for the gym trainer after class one day, just to show off.

I dare you to try. Just one today and two tomorrow. Let me know how it goes. In case you don’t know how to do a burpee, here is the best instruction of a full burpee and the modifications. Feel free to modify.

Get svelte! And write great reviews.

Thanks for reading.

As a kid, I had a cat named Willie who would lay on his back and let you rub his tummy. I wondered if there might be another cat like that in the world.

Meet Lily. She is the most kicked-back cat you can imagine. You can find her sprawled across Barry’s legs every night. If he isn’t around, she’s apt to lay right out on the floor, belly up. She’s so fat, she doesn’t tip over without an effort.

When we got her, she weighed seven pounds. After three years, she was over twelve. Recently we put her on a diet. This is her on a diet.

She loves to have her tummy rubbed. In the middle of the night, she’ll come purring up beside one of us, hoping to get some loving. She even likes to have her fur rubbed backwards or combed repeatedly.

If she wants something, she’ll jump up on Barry’s lap or on top of him in bed and stare at him until he responds. Here is a picture of her waiting for him to get out of the shower and put on his hearing aids so he can take care of her needs.

Barry always says, “You’re looking at me like I owe you money.”

She will lead him to her empty dry food pan or to the kitchen to talk him into feeing her some tuna.

She will tell us when there is a problem. One night she led Barry to the feeder, which has not empty and stood there staring, but refusing to eat. He finally figured out that she wanted him to notice there were ants in her dish.

Lily is like a kid when the weather is good. She wants in and out and in and out all morning. Then she will come in and sleep the rest of the day.

She yowls when Barry goes outside and leaves her inside. We keep a chair by the window. She likes to sit there and watch the birds and what’s going on outside. Once in a while, a stray cat will come to visit at night, and she will scream or throw herself at the window.

And when she’s ticked off about something . . . she leaves subtle messages.

Lily is a good hunter. There isn’t a lizard on the property who still has a tail. Birds, gophers, and mice have met their demise when she’s attacked from her hiding place under the swing.

Caution resented us leaving on vacations, and gave us no rest about it. When we arrived home, she would pace back and forth across us in bed for hours telling us off with her yowling. We knew the first night home was going to be miserable.

Lily usually makes a run around the house and then happily welcomes us home. We are so happy to have her for companionship and entertainment. I think I’ll go give her a cuddle.

Thanks for reading. I love my readers!!!!