Llama Enchantment 

Introduction: As a reporter working in a small town, I covered city council meetings, business openings, and odds and ends. I interviewed people from all walks of life. One of my favorite feature stories was an interview with a llama farmer in Missouri who invited me to witness the birth of a baby llama (cria). This musing was written after my late-night return from the barn after meeting the baby llama. A musing from the past:

    How can anyone not like llamas? Llama are loveable. Ask me about my first llama kiss (nose rub).

    Those who scoff at the notion probably haven’t met a llama. My first introduction to a llama-like animal was through “The Adventures of Dr. Dolittle.” Remember the two-headed Pushmi-Pullyu? It sort of looked like a llama, but this creature was a descendant from the unicorn. Dolittle had a knack for conversing with all animals, from the common mutt to the most aristocratic of beasts.

    It’s understandable that in today’s real world, there is little time to “talk with the animals.” Yet imagine what we could learn if it was possible? llama language sounds like humming. We humans hum as a happy habit, but is it the same for llamas? Only other llamas and Dr. Dolittle know for sure.

    How can you not admire such a dignified, regal creature as a llama? Especially when they captivate you with their large, dark, soft eyes. Then there’s that face with a hit of a smile.

    Llamas, like people, have distinct personalities, yet most are outgoing and inquisitive. They are nosey by nature—like reporters? looking for their next story. (Llamas, however, are considerably more charming than most of my cohorts.)

    Hidden beneath a llama’s long woolly coat is a sensitive, intelligent being. They perk up their ears when something new enters the pasture. But because they don’t like to be caught watching someone or something, they’ll turn their heads. It gives the false impression that they’re aloof As with any animal, becoming friends takes time. 

    Unfortunately, I didn’t come back with any good quotes from the llamas for my feature story. The family were a bashful bunch. However, I made an entire herd of new friends.

    I still believe llamas have a magic ability to spark a smile, create joy, and make me hum a happy song.

Let’s explore the weight of things. I have always collected things -- stamps, coins, rocks, postcards, books, and teapots. Some collections are on display, others are hidden in the closet or basement.  Let me introduce you to a few of my favorite things I have saved in today's blog

Have you heard of döstädning commonly called Swedish death cleaning?  

    Keep only the things you need. Rid yourself of the rest. Living with less is an act of kindness for your family and loved ones left to deal with your lifetime of things after you’re gone.

    “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter," written by Margareta Magnusson is the premiere guidebook. Her book inspired a program on the practice starring Amy Pohler, which aired on Peacock. (I haven’t seen it.)

      Recently, a friend told me how freeing the Swedish death cleaning experience was for her. She wished she had emptied all those boxes of things instead of moving them over the decades.

       For me, it’s easier to donate or discard stuff that hasn’t lived with me that long. But honestly, the age of something doesn’t matter as much as my memories connected with the something. Sometimes, I’ll box up donations and I change my mind the next day.

        I’d describe my dilemma much like the Butterfly Effect. If I change one small thing (get rid of one small thing) what will the larger effect be? Mmh, it’s ironic that I’m worried about chaos theory when I want to unburden myself and others from clutter and chaos.

       Let me introduce you to a few of my favorite things:  

1)                My first Mac computer in its original box sits on the top shelf in the basement. This computer (vintage 1990s) with its small screen, and soft hum kept me company as a freelance writer.  

2)                 A Prince tennis racquet with purple synthetic strings has hours of court time lives in my coat closet, ready for a game. Unlike the computer, this racquet still rocks. Every time I hit the sweet spot it makes a bonging noise.  Not only is the racquet too loud, but it’s also too heavy for me.  

L            Last year, I broke down and bought a new racquet but couldn’t part with my Prince.   

  In the upstairs closet hangs a form-fitting light blue denim dress, which I wore to the Kansas City premier of “Bird” about Charlie “Bird” Parker. My dress is not your grandmother’s long, loose denim jumper. This dress transports me back to 1988 standing in the theater lobby with bunch of jazz-loving friends acting as giddy as if Bird, the sax legend himself would walk through the door and thank us for coming to see him. 

Sadly, Parker died at the age of 34 in 1955. The most unusual thing he left was a plastic saxophone that resides in the historic 18^th and Vine jazz district, last I heard. An instrument made of cheap-grade plastic could have easily been discarded. Historians are grateful this sax was saved.  

    In my life, the less saved may earn more gratitude!  

 

 

What car, truck, or tractor taught you how to drive?

I honed my driving skills on our family car—a Dodge Dart circa 1967-1970. Even today, I still pride myself on being able to parallel park anywhere thanks to the Dart. What a machine whose manual steering required wrangling the car into submission, one inch at a time. 

Today, even the most inexperienced drivers ease into postage-stamp size spaces thanks to modern cars equipped with rear cameras and automatic steering.  Look Ma, no hands parking! Cars can even do all the driving for you while you look out the back seat passenger window. That’s not for me. In fact, self-driving cars are an accident in the making.  

    My first car accident happened close to home—in the driveway. First, let me explain the frightening experience of backing out of the garage into the driveway. Our driveway sat on a slope leading to our forest-filled backyard. Visibility was wretched. (Imagine an infinity driveway on a cliff.) My nightmare was one wrong turn of the wheels then the car and I would careen backwards, bouncing the steps, sliding into the woods, and landing in the creek. 

    Mom always backed the car out for me. She was fearless. Except when she was a passenger with me behind the wheel. Then she clung to the dashboard in the same way one adrift at sea would hold onto their lifeboat. Her right foot would mimic pressing down on the brake blocks before the stop light. It wasn’t funny at the time. But I can laugh about it now.    

     That day, after mom handed over the keys, I confidently backed out of the driveway. Bump! I ran smack dab into a telephone pole at the end of the driveway. Surprise! 

    For a teenager, I was a safe driver. That Dart, if pressed, could fly, with a speedometer that went to 120 mph. Speed wasn't my thing. I wanted the freedom a vehicle offered. This Dodge – we were a Dodge family for a while—was sturdy, practical nothing fancy four-door sedan, unlike the sleek more  expensive car my best friend's parents drove. The Dart was four-door beauty was an ideal beginner's car. Yet, whenever I drove it on weekends, it came home with a new “sound” an off-kilter ugly sound like a hammer hitting a pipe.   

    Those sounds caused my dad’s face to scrunch up in worry—a look I dreaded. He had questions asked in a calm voice, but I, the one with no answers, responded in a squeaky, broken voice. I don’t recall getting grounded or being in trouble. These unexplainable car things were bound to happen. Dad took the car to the mechanic. 

    Generally, I am attuned to abnormal stress sounds (clatters, clunks, etc.) my Chevy Bolt makes. It’s been making sporadic metallic pinging noises, coming from underneath the car. I miss Car Talk on the radio.

    We replicated the sound for our mechanic by pushing the rear end of the car side to side. The Bolt stayed in the shop and our mechanic checked and tightened everything, assuring us nothing would fall off. Mission accomplished.

    Not so fast. On the way home, a block from the shop, I heard the sound. 

    Then, this week, my hubby heard the sound from inside the house as I drove by. Much like my dad, he got serious and made an appointment at the dealership. Before we dropped off the Bolt we did online research. The verdict: I was not the only Bolt owner whose vehicle sang this song of unknown origin. 

    Our dealership has a drive through diagnostic device called Under Vehicle Eye or UVEye, which takes photographs of the vehicle’s exterior. The customer waits in the lobby and sees “issues” that appear on the seven-foot tall machine. We tapped the icon on the screen to see the photos with a brief description of the “issue.” My tires were 6.5 years old and worn. But what about the noise? No flash diagnosis for us. A real live mechanic would need to examine the Bolt.

    Two guys invented the UV Eye to detect bombs planted underneath vehicles and now is being employed by dealerships around the country. My Dad would be impressed with the technology.

    He was a family doctor whose philosophy was to make his diagnosis first based on talking with the patient, taking a health history, and listening. The tests he ordered were to confirm or rule out his diagnosis. He felt tests alone didn’t offer a reliable diagnosis.

    What was my poor Bolt’s condition? A broken axel torsion bar. Good news: I received word that my car will be ready in two days. Ready for more adventures!