Did you get my notice?

A stranger to my ears and what a rude way to start a phone conversation. Another scammer, no doubt whose goal was creating a false sense of urgency. Didn’t I know I owed them (whose them?) money.

 If I failed to act, then terrible things would happen. What notice? I wondered. But I know better than to release my personal information or relinquish my good judgment over the phone. Best hang up.

Every day, phony phone calls. Swindles, sales pitches, and scams. Bad actors outweigh the good guys. Pledge to our charity. Renew your membership. Subscribe to our service. Receive free estimates on windows, doors, driveways.

My polite mother lost her patience. Too many interruptions.  Every. Single. Day. She took my husband’s advice and started demanding these nuisance callers put her on the “Do Not Call List.” For good measure, she added, “Never call her again.”

The strategy stopped sales calls. She felt proud of her defiant stance. Pleased with the sounds of silence. Soon after, my husband called her. I overheard him say, “Mom, it’s me! Don’t hang up!” He may have had to call back twice before she realized who he was family. We still laugh about the case of the mistaken identity.   

 Most days, I heed the warning “Potential Scam” that pops up on my mobile and let the phone ring. Sometimes I answer even if an “Unknown Number” message appears with a familiar area code. Taking the chance, I answered. “Hello!” (In a normal way to avoid embarrassing myself if they were legit.)  

“Hello! This is Lindsey,” she said. Her cheery voice and upbeat tone made me suspicious. Plus, I didn’t know anyone who goes by Lindsey. Surprisingly, the line is silent. No noisy chattering in the background, the trademark of a call center.

She continued, “I’m from Columbia Center for Urban Agriculture.” CCUA, was a nonprofit I admired because their programs teach people lifeline skills in home gardening, agriculture, and cooking. CCUA also provides fresh veggies and fruits for those in need.

  “Ah, I didn’t expect a real person because usually, I get voicemail. I’m calling to thank you for your support, not to ask for a donation today,” she said, sounding flustered.  

“Thank you for your work. I enjoy reading your newsletter,” I said.

I appreciated her reaching out—a rare call from an actual human who wanted only to thank me.  

Huge High Five! for All the Dads

Dr. Ralph V. Wimp 

   

 Dad and I emailed each other daily about current news or past historic events, family and friends, and ordinary things. My dad’s signature sign-off was your earthly father, which made me smile. If his computer wasn’t working, he’d call me because he didn’t want me to worry about him. After he died, I kept writing to him—my earthly father who now lives in heaven.

    He showed me what humor sounded like. At my retirement party, my manager said she learned to appreciate my quirky sense of humor. I considered her comment a compliment. Thanks Dad.

    Dad also showed me what happiness felt like— freedom to map out my life.

“You can be anything you want when you grow up,” he said.

    I was probably 11 or 12 years old, but realized he believed in me. My career was my choice, with unlimited possibilities.

    Dad showed a genuine interest in my work. He was curious about how I was getting along. When I shared my stories of challenging co-workers, bad bosses, or temperamental team members, he shared how he coped with similar situations. One piece of his advice I followed: write my feelings about a particular person, then tear up the piece of paper. Just let it go!

My first driving lesson. 

    He was such an easy-going, not the person who held grudges, called in debts, or wanted to get even. I wanted to model his behavior for he was kind and generous to everyone. I appreciated his patience. (He taught me how to drive!) 

     A soft-spoken man who rarely raised his voice. His calm demeanor instilled confidence in his patients. Dad left his thriving family medical practice to work at the State Hospital. The position allowed him regular hours and more time at home.

    “He didn’t want to miss seeing you and your brother grow up,” Mom said.

    In his long career as a doctor at the State Hospital, I don’t recall him calling out sick. He was immune to illness; I supposed. He enjoyed work and tried but failed to retire three times. Finally, he retired at age 68, but worked another 14 years as a consultant.

    Before leaving for work, he’d give me a high five. Thwack! He slapped his palm against mine. “I’m off to save lives and stamp out disease!” He left before 8 a.m., came home on his lunch break, and returned home after 5 p.m.

    Lunch was a simple fare. He liked plain food—    soup, cottage cheese, or a sandwich. However, he loved sweets – puddings, pies, or ice cream. His grandkids knew they could count on him stashing chocolate puddings in the cupboard (for them!).

    He was modest in his dress, what he drove, and our home. His car was a big old Buick with an enormous trunk to transport his garden tools and produce. He grew corn, okra, zucchini, beans, cucumbers, cantaloupe, and watermelon. He also raised all kinds of tomatoes, from Romas to heirlooms that were black not red. Most weekends, he wore his old, faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Certainly, he looked like more like a farmer than a physician. 

    Our family admired his amazing memory. He studied history and that included family history too, recalling birthdates, anniversaries, and middle names with natural ease, as if he was stating what the weather was. His own childhood was a painful memory because He was orphaned at age eight. As a boy, his fatherly role models were likely his older brothers and his scout leaders. Those scout badges (especially swimming) and his Eagle Scout were hard earned.

    Last summer, while cleaning out his garage, I found certificates, plaques, and letters he saved, including his high school diploma, US Navy commendation, medical licenses, and volunteer church work. He graduated at the top of his naval academy class in Great Lakes, then served his country from 1951 to 54 during the Korean Conflict. His exam grades from medical school were impressive (scores in the high 90s) with his highest marks in surgery, principles and practice, diagnosis, and toxicology. He also had a rapport with his patients, that I saw firsthand when I accompanied him on house calls. 

    My father’s compassion, strong work ethic, generous spirit, and sense of humor made him special and I treasured my time with him. 

    For Father’s Day, here’s a high five to you Dad and all the fathers on earth and in heaven.

Updated June 14, 2025 

 

Bicyclists can Ride on the Cheap and Stay Safe, Look Great      

·         Substitute garden gloves for bike gloves. (Prevent blisters and poison ivy.)

·         Wear a construction worker’s high-visibility vest. (Safety first.)

·         Glue glow sticks to bike, helmet, clothing to create unique reflective designs in green, yellow, and blue. (Remove before washing clothes, or not.)

·         Use duct tape to fix punctured tubes. (Spare no expense when you forget spare tubes.)

·         Wear a child’s helmet. (Caution: Must have a kid-size head to model good behavior.)

·         Turn tube socks into arm warmers for chilly morning rides. (Cotton is the new neoprene.)

·         Recycle wheel spokes by bending spokes and attaching a dental mirror. (Cavities and cars are both scary and larger than they appear.)

·         Learn dog whisper Cesar Millan’s methods to calm Cujo whose cutting to the chase. (Ride with an attitude and a first aid kit for dog bites and bee strings. Just saying.)   

·         Pick up a T-shirt with a bicycle club’s century ride at the thrift store. (Impress friends and family without pedaling 100-miles.)

 

Warning: Content Warnings aren’t for Everyone

Do you read the content warnings for books?

    “Everything is a trigger!” a fellow writer says, as we discuss our obligation alongside the value of providing content notes for readers.  

    It’s impossible to flag every sentence, scene, or subtext that that serves as a negative trigger.  Afterall, one’s definition depends on their individual lived experiences. Consider triggers like buried mines set off with the lightest touch, or trampled on without exploding.

    Every day, I find something that sparks a smile or ignites rage. For example, I’m in awe at the tiny vivid green hummingbird that pauses, drinking at the feeder. A dear friend calls when I need a laugh. But later I cringe at the vulgarities spewing from a stranger’s mouth while I’m waiting in line at the grocery store. A still lifeless bird I find on my walk makes me cry. It’s life with terrific days and terrible times.

    But in my reading life, albeit fiction or nonfiction, I crave control. Perhaps it’s too simple an analogy but if I have a severe allergic reaction to shellfish, I am careful to avoid being exposed to shellfish.       

    I think authors have a responsibility to respect their readers. My writer friend alerts his colleagues when his pages include violence, racism, prostitution, sexual content, and gruesome guerilla fights. This novel takes place after the Civil War.  

    Throughout the novel, his protagonist seeks to avenge her father’s death, leaving a trail of dead bodies wherever she goes. Is she loveable? No. Yet, I root for her and hoping she makes better choices for her future. Is she remorseful for her actions? Ultimately, the reader decides.   

   In my writing, a colleague pointed out how alcohol plays an integral role in my fictional story. How easily alcohol serves as a plot device, character flaw, and motivation. In my novella, Anti-Italian sentiment and small town bias are major themes alongside minor incidents of bullying and absentee parenting. And I haven’t finished this story yet.  

    My advice for writers: First, don’t shy away from tackling tough topics. Second, don’t rely on shallow stereotypes that desensitize human conditions. Finally, there is value in disclosing content notes as a regular practice to help readers consume and engage with the story. I appreciate author’s notes that tell me to this story delves into grief because this lets me gauge if this book’s for me, right now.  

    I support skipping the hard sections, or not finishing a book rather than slogging through the pages that neither inform nor entertain me. Sometimes, it’s important to grant myself a grace period if I am in a healing or recovery mode.

    Unlike a decade ago, it’s easy to research a book before borrowing or buying it. Besides my bookish friends recommendations, I rely on The Storygraph, a book tracking database and social site whose features include a content warning section. Database users can choose from nearly 100 disagreeable subject material ranging from abandonment to xenophobia and label it as graphic, moderate, or mild.

    Yes, The Storygraph community takes its content warnings seriously. Most times, reviewing this section is not a deterrent for me. I crave the control and the challenge that my reading life offers.

 

Image of Daffodils showing off.

    Tales from the trail 

      What will become of the daffodil family as            newcomers to Flower Town? 

      I've obtained the following correspondence  from friends who will remain anonymous. 

    After reading this, I hope you'll extend your patience and enthusiastic support for the springtime leaders everywhere. 

          

The Daffodil Family at 217 Flower Lane:

Welcome to the neighborhood! We are delighted your family planted itself in Flower Town, where we strive to cultivate a safe place for all to bloom. We are here to nourish and support you and your family. 

The committee requests your presence at our spring block party. It’s a traditional event celebrating the arrival of spring. Consider the occasion as a wonderful opportunity to meet the neighbors. Don’t be late!

Sincerely, in springtime showers and sunshine,

The Flower Committee

Dear Committee:

Thank you for the warm welcome. We look forward to helping beautify Flower Lane, meeting our neighbors, and honoring the long-awaited arrival of spring.

Regards,

Sunbeam, Misty and the kids

 

Dear Sunbeam,

We are eager to meet you. Please expect an informal visit prior to the party to review your role as springtime leader.  

Sincerely, in springtime showers and sunshine,

Harold, President of the Flower Committee

 

Dear Harold,

It’s an honor to serve in a spring leadership role. I appreciate you meeting me during the busiest time of the season.  

Sincerely,

Sunbeam    

 

Dear Sunbeam,

My deep-rooted apologies as I have to cancel my pre-party visit because of the heavy rains in the forecast. That, and I am over committed. Let’s plan a brief meeting on the morning of the block party.

Sincerely, in springtime showers and sunshine,

Harold, President of the Flower Committee

 

Dear Sunbeam,

Members of the Committee are hurt that you failed to show at the party. They are a tough bunch with grand expectations. Despite my efforts, the Committee is sending a harsh letter. If you respond swiftly, you’ll still have the opportunity to participate in the spotlight tour.

The Committee and I are here to encourage you to flourish.

Sincerely,

Harold

 

Dear Daffodil Family:  

The committee and I missed you and your family at the block party. Please know your contributions are vital to spread happiness to human kind.   

We demand an explanation as to your absence. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

The Flower Committee

 

Dear President and Flower Committee:

Thank you for your concern. A furry orange beast violated our property and traumatized the kids last night. This tabby cat targets and terrorizes the entire neighborhood.

We will emerge when I feel it’s safe for my family.

Regards,

Sunbeam

Dear Daffodil Family

We will investigate this complaint immediately. We pride ourselves on protecting our members—even the late bloomers.

Regards,

Harold 

Dear Committee:

We plan to stay, but I suggest stepping up the protection efforts. Flower Town is a dangerous place. Misty still has nightmares about the gray squirrel gang kidnapping one of our children in broad daylight. Our sweet tender bulb is buried somewhere deep in the woods.

Yours Sadly,

Sunbeam

PS—Misty is mourning and the dig about late bloomers is cruel.

 

Dear Sunbeam and Misty,

We are sending a gift of fertilizer as our apology. All our watch dogs are on high alert for the furry terror, alias Tiger, should she arrive in our circle.

I am happy you will remain in Flower Town.  

Fondly,

Harold

 

I bring you the second half of a musing of the mundane and necessary renewal of the driver's license. I did learn "smiling" for your license's picture is acceptable. 

An Honest Account of What Happens at the DMV: Part Two 

Overheard in the DMV line on a Wednesday. “I was here earlier. The line was longer.” Another waiting person chimed in to add, “The other location had even longer lines. That’s why I came here.” 

People stand in a haphazard queue, which stretches around the block. Older couples lean on one another while the younger set stares at their phones in the midday sun. My impatience nudges me to walk away, come back another day. I reason I have weeks before my driver’s license expires.

Quit now or wait? The debate ends as I start a conversation with a friendly woman nearby.   

Rumor has it that anyone with a camera card can walk in without waiting. Supposedly, a guard will come out and usher the camera card renewal folks inside. Let’s try it. Four of us, clutching our camera cards as if they are passports to enter DMV’s short line, walk to the door. No guard is inside or outside. Only an empty chair. No instructions on the door. Only the hours.

Sun is beating down, and there’s not a sliver of shade. I’m hot and thirsty. Today, I have a book but not a hat. A middle-aged woman exits the building and looks relieved to see the sunlight. “What a pain in the ass. Good thing you brought a book,” she said, looking at my paperback. “I almost finished my book,” she said, waving it around.

The door opens, and a guard appears. We flash our cards, and the guard dressed in gray escorts us to a booth. The search for a short line works. An efficient worker doles out the magic number (A-279).  

Uplifted. I feel the weight of the wait disappear because numbered slip states only two people are ahead of me. My book stays closed. I chat with my new DMV friend who is fidgeting and looking at her phone. She has to leave soon to pick up her kids. Her number is next up.

Vexed. We watch the numbers and wonder what happened to “A” numbers? Only those with “I” and “E” before the number are called.

We wait and watch. What is going on? I open my book, but I can’t concentrate. It’s quiet except for an automated female voice announcing the numbers. Finally, it’s my turn. I follow the directions: “Look at the blue square. You can smile if you want to.” Of course I smile!

X. I sign my name after the X on the screen.   

Yay! My new ID card will arrive in four to six weeks.

Zooming away after a productive? afternoon at the DMV. 

Image of Unhappy at the DMV.   

It’s time to renew my driver’s license. This musing  comes to you before my visit to the friendly  Department of Motor Vehicles. 

Not all my experiences have be dreadful, but I do dread this necessary venture to the DMV.

An Honest Account: What Happens at the DMV

• Arrival: Take a number. Usually it’s a three-digit number like 813, that shows your place in line. It’s only 9 a.m.
• Book. Your book is at home, not in your bag. Now, invent stories about the 25 strangers stuck in the waiting room.
• “Cellphone Use Prohibited.” People ignore the handwritten signs. Everyone around you is talking into their cellphones on speaker mode, using their outdoor voices. Nobody is reprimanded. One timid woman mutters under her breath, but you aren’t sure what’s bothering her.      
• During the five minutes you are in the restroom, you sense you’ve missed your turn. When you ask the friendly-looking person in the first row, the one person not on their phone, about your number. He shrugs his shoulders. You look at the monitor, which reads number 15.     
• Egads! What’s that odor? The guy who reeks of cigarettes and dirt. What’s that cloying smell? It’s the scent when strawberries and passion fruit collide.  
• For real? The two people who came in after you are already leaving with smiles and paperwork.    
• Guessing games. Who is up next? You study the clerks behind the windows. Who will give you the eye test.    
• Hallelujah! It’s your turn. You pass the eye test, correctly answer all the questions, and have your picture taken.
• “Is this photo alright?” the kind person behind the window asks. You know darn well that photo doesn’t capture your inner beauty. The expression is all wrong.
• Jeez. Could you take it again, please? This time, you ignore her directions and give her a big smile.
• Keeper! The photo is a keeper.  License is mailed to you in four to six weeks.  
• Maybe you’ll be back in five years to renew your license.
• No, you’ll be back, unless you own a flying car by then, in which case, you will not need a license. But you could need a Real ID, also available at select DMVs.