Traffic

The only time we want more traffic is on a website, not driving down 6^th street in Eugene Oregon at 5 p.m. Or on the Hollywood Freeway for that matter.

Gosh, I remember the time years ago when my girls and I stopped rush hour traffic on 6^th Street because a momma duck with a string of babies had left the sidewalk and was determined to cross the street. I bet she was aiming for the wetlands that lie west of town. The trouble was, someone put a street in her path and filled it with roaring cars.

We frightened the momma duck by catching her babies, sorry, but we pulled a baby from beneath a stopped car. She flew in circles around us as we put her little fluffs back up on the sidewalk. Someone yelled, “Thanks for saving the baby ducks!”

Both daughters wanted to take the ducklings to our property where we had a pond, but I didn’t want them to lose their momma when she was trying hard to save them. Without her, I doubt if they would survive, especially since our property was overrun with duck killing raccoons. 

We left them to their devices, a family together, trying to weave through life’s obstacles.  I drove down 6^th street the following morning, and found no squashed ducklings on the road, so I trust that resourceful momma managed to save her brood.

Funny isn’t it what pops into our head in response to a word.

Baby ducks.

This You Tube is awesome: A man in New York saw a baby duck about to jump off a building’s ledge about 10 feet above his head. He caught it in mid-fall. One by one about ten babies followed. One by one he caught them. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMYGQ7ICKg8

Traffic.

I’ve been hearing a lot about traffic lately, and while 6^th street abounds with it, my website is a country road. Think of country roads, though, where people wave to each other, and sometimes ask if they ask to borrow a jar of #Grey Poupon.

In Hawaii with the long lava encrusted road, people would pull their cars aside to allow others to pass. We would wave and each move on. It was a cooperative affair. The mongooses, too, liked to get into the act. “Wait,” they would say, “here comes a car. Want-a bet we can beat it?”

We always let them.

Wish on White Horses doesn’t sound like a high falutin informational blog, or an entertaining one for that matter. Yeah, I know #50 ways to Boost Your Web Traffic sounds better.

Yes, boosting traffic is what we want on our websites. It means people are finding us. It means our words are worth reading. It means something to the publishing community who counts numbers, and to #Google who determines who gets top billing.

I know everybody and their dog writes blogs, and even my dog Peaches got into the act.www.dogblogbypeaches.blogspot.com.

She has been silent since she passed on to doggy heaven.  I intended for her to add posts from the great beyond, but she is having so much fun being healthy again, and running with Bear that she doesn’t have time to write.

 Bear sleeping on Peaches

I just had an epiphany.  #ProBlogger by #Jon Morrow, one of the biggest, mightiest bloggers in the business, has great give-a-ways, but to get them you must enter your email address. I have probably put my email address on his site 50 times. Does that mean he has counted me as 50 different people?

Ah ha, it’s the old numbers game.

Feel up to following me? And thanks to those who have. Love you guys.

Joyce

P.S.www.thebestdamnwriterbloggerontheblock.com

"Bon Voyage"--my Saturday with #Michael Larsen.

Absurd? I love it.

Have you ever...

• Wadded up a piece of paper only to have it unwad before your eyes?

• Been in a public toilet and, while virtually standing on your head, tried to pull toilet paper off a new roll the size of a European cheese wheel? And then after it has spun around about 50 times as you tried to find its end, you find it to be pasted down? Before all your blood runs to your head, you claw at the paper trying to loosen a piece, and finally, you get a strip of paper, only to look down and see you have created a rat’s nest on the floor.

• Spent 10 minutes trying to choose a toothbrush from the 6,000 displayed?

• Purchased a bag of chips to snack on while driving, and then spent the next ten minutes tearing at the bag, biting it ,trying to pop it open, and then you did, it exploded all over you and the car?

• Needed scissors to open a package of scissors?

• Purchased cold cuts, salami and roast beef, cheeses, olives, to create an easy meal and then spent a half an hour getting into the packages?

• Gone into the grocery story grabbed a quart of half and half--same brand you got before--but when you got it home and actually read the label, you found it was “Non-fat half and half—with sugar and corn syrup?  What sort of an oxymoron is that?

Ain't life’s grand?

To show some contrast, when I was a kid we licked Santa stickers to paste our Christmas wrappings together. Cellophane tape existed, but for some reason, we didn’t have it. Oh, I just found, cellophane tape wasn’t invented by a Scott, but got its name from a slur because the inventor was stingy on his adhesive.

He rectified that. The name stuck.

Here I am making fun of our modern times, but think of this: when I was a kid a little girl next door had braces on both legs because she had been crippled by polio.

“When I’m worried and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings…”—Irving Berlin

Live long and prosper,

Joyce

P.S. 

On the home front: Two weeks ago I lamented that I needed 35,000 words to complete my manuscript The Girl on the Pier. My goal was 55,000 words. Not possible, I thought. Saturday I told my husband I needed 350 more words. Sunday, 108. Today, Monday, Viola’.  I hit 55,044.

The Girl the Pier is a love story.

The Girl on the Pier is a painting. A customer came to view it, and offered two million dollars to purchase it, however upon viewing the painting he said, “That’s not the painting. There is another.”

Sara ,the executrix, didn’t know another Girl on the Pier existed, but is determined to find it, and why would Mr. Ahmad offer two million for it?

Something was fishy.

The book wrote itself, I just put my fingers on the keys…

Now little bird, fly…

Read at Your Own Risk

A Fiction Story

Once upon a time, there was a civilization where one person could talk to another on the other side of the globe.

This civilization invented the wheel, a way for man to fly, they sent a man to the moon and brought him back safely.

They found a way to interpret ancient cultures and marveled over the remnants of these cultures. The found messages from their forefathers written into stone. The ancients knew true North, the circumference of the earth, and that elusive Pi.

This great civilization, eager to learn, and constantly investigating, found scrolls buried in the earth and they found a way to interpret them. Their forefathers gave them a nudge with a rock called the Rosetta stone that served as a translator from hieroglyphs carved into rocks to the written word.

Stones, rocks, buried scrolls, paintings with codes encrypted, that was how important it was to the forefathers to preserve knowledge for future generations.

The great civilization that can send words around the globe invented the steam engine, rocket fuel, solar energy, the printing press and books made accessible to everyone, not just the learned scholars.

They began to write their stories, as the ancients had done. They wrote down the scientific facts they had found, the diseases they had healed, their formulas, and construction plans.

They built libraries so they could share the knowledge. People read the books for education, fun, and entertainment. Schools taught from them, scholars studied them.

One day this civilization build the computer, and they so loved the computer they began to pour their knowledge into it. Soon, they found it was much simpler and much more accessible to use the computer as a storage tank.

Bookstores closed because people weren’t buying books anymore. Libraries weren’t heralded as the hallmark of study. Because books were cluttering their houses, people began giving them away, clearing them out, for now, they had the computer, and it only took up a couple feet of space.

And then one day a great surge of electricity fried the lines to all the computers…

And because people revered one book, it had been in homes for generations, and for a time the only one read, it was, again, the only one read…

But wait, the rocks are still there.

A Fish Story

Come sit a spell. Have an iced coffee with me.

Iced coffee has become my fuel.  When I read that coffee is good for me, I threw discussion to the wind, gave out a loud whoop, and grabbed the coffee grinder.

Now I see coffee is touted even in Dr. Oz’s magazine.

“You live longer…”

“Feel happier, remember more.”

“Work out harder.”

Sounds good to me.

This is my favorite at home coffee: #Peets “House Blend,” fresh ground beans, French Press coffee pot.

Easy, boil filtered water, pour into pot over grounds, stir, let set a few minute, push plunger.  Viola’ great coffee.

I might have a hot cup, but the rest of the day it is iced—with real good ole organic half and half. I have no wasted coffee, and the amazing thing is it never tastes stale. It can sit overnight and still be good.

This is a far cry from when I learned to drink coffee with dishwater tasting coffee perked in the dental lab, while trying to make it palatable with powdered creamora. My reason for enduring it? I was trying to stave off hunger until one o'clock.

Whoops, I got carried away.  I intended to tell you a fish story.

I went into my accountant’s office the other day to pick up the tax forms, and, I saw a tiny placard on his wall, “I love Fishing.”

“You’re a fisherman,” I said.

His eyes lit up, and he pushed a sheet of paper toward me. It was a short story, just a few paragraphs. I was surprised and delighted that he wrote a story. I read of his experience on the creek bank, the sparkling day, him throwing out his line, a bite, the fish hitting his line with full force. It fought with all its might, and as he had no net, he managed to wrestle it onto dry ground.

Success. He landed the fish.

“My friend thought we ought to capture this monumental moment on film,” he said and shoved an 8 x 11 picture across his desk.

He was all decked out in fishing gear.

I looked closely, “Where’s’ the fish?” I asked.

“There, in my hand.”

Well, there was a tiny silver streak. The fish must have been about four inches long.

 “It hit that line with its whole two ounces,” he said.

That reminded me, once again, of the little accountant in the movie, #You Can’t Take I with You when Grandpa asked what the accountant what he would like to do, and he pulled a toy bunny from beneath his desk. “Make toys,” he said.

When a person is doing what they love to do their entire countenance glows.

And I wonder again what has been pecking at me for a long time, “How does one do the thing they want and get paid for it?” For without pay, you must work at something else.

#Jonathan Mead writes about, and offers coaching on “#Paid to Exist.”

I haven’t gotten it yet—either him or the concept.

Carry on.

Make it work,

Joyce

P.S. I got advice from an agent the other day. She said, “If you haven’t finished your book finish it.”

If you don’t have a platform, Build one.”

Well, duh.

I Saw God in the Sky the Other Night.

 My husband and I were walking in the rain and from overhead came a great honking noise.  I stopped and looked up into rain falling on my face, and there in the sky, a great flotilla of geese honked their way across the heavens.

They didn’t fly in big “V”, although there were some little v’s among the group. The majority flew in irregular circles, like the edges of puddles, black dots that ebbed and flowed over our heads in a dance of movement and music. How they honked and flew at the same time was a mystery to us.

Why did I call them God?

I was reminded of Izak Dinesen’s book, Out of Africa, “The natives,” she said, "think the God of the Americans is old and infirm for he spends all day in a church. The God of Africa lives in the forest and the fields and on the mountain when the rains come.”

This week I have seen God, my three chickens began to lay after a long time of winter fallow, I got my book up from 21,000 words to 31,000, I have been inspired by Will Rogers who said, “Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there,” I have let the pups in and out the back door 3,678 times, big boy hound dog, Layfette, has lost his testicles, and little Sweet Pea has had her first estrus.

The Daffodils are blooming.

I guess it’s spring.  

How was your week?

Dancing baby goose.

“How Do We Teach Values to Our Children With No Church to Rely On?

A beautiful young woman with two small children asked me that question.

At first, I thought it was a non-issue for me—having raised my children with no organized religion. And then I pondered the question…

It seems clear to me that ethics and values and humanity are outside the scope of religion. Unless you consider religion to be the holder of the philosophy of the ages, which it is not. Philosophy and ethics and morality teach rather than control.

We still bow to Popes and Priests like they are Gods, and think our ministers can set us straight. Authorities know more than we do. Fear is the paramount controller.

Sorry folks, if this offends, but look at it. How many of us were raised believing that if we were bad we would go to hell? What was bad? What “sin” did we commit as a child? We got angry. We experimented, we had “impure” thoughts. We were normal. We were human.

Now really, would any sane parent send their beloved child to eternal damnation? I think not. And the idea of original sin is absurd. If God had been a woman instead of a man, she would have known her kids would eat of that forbidden fruit. And remember they had an eternity in which to be tempted.

If you want to blame Eve, blame her for being smart. If someone told me if I ate of that fruit I would be like God, knowing the difference between good and evil. Do you think I would say, “Oh, but I can’t. Daddy told me not to?”

The Garden of Eden is an allegory.

If you look at the Journey of the Hero as put forth by Joseph Campbell, he explains the archetypes of the human, and it is a pattern that drives most stories—such as the story of Adam and Eve.

The  archetype of the innocent, as with Adam and Eve, must get kicked out of their comfort zone, for if not there would be eternal frisking and frolicking, but no growth, and no adventure.

The archetype of the Orphan enters, he is lost, alone, and becomes a Wanderer for a time, searching for his place in life. The Warrior raises his mighty head, and fights for his place in life, but wait, the archetype of the Martyr  knows that some sacrifice is in order to get along with his fellow man.

Finally, in our Heroes Journey our hero meets his mentor, he fights the dragon, and he emerges victorious. He  becomes the Magician, he has learned to use magic powers, to become wise, and thus he is peaceful again, like the Innocent. Our hero has become full circle. (Look at Luke in Star Wars.)

Someone long ago said, “Do unto others. as you would have them do unto you.” This has been attributed to Jesus, but long before he appeared on the scene others said it, Plato, and his voice Socrates.  Confucius said it, the Greeks “Do not unto others what you would not like to have done to you.”  And from The JewishTalmud:  What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellowman. This is the entire Law; all the rest is commentary.

Dear woman with the children, remember this poem:

All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten

by Robert Fulghum

Most of what I really need
To know about how to live
And what to do and how to be
I learned in kindergarten.
Wisdom was not at the top
Of the graduate school mountain,
But there in the sandpile at Sunday school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don't hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life -
Learn some and think some
And draw and paint and sing and dance
And play and work every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world,
Watch out for traffic,
Hold hands and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.

Multitasking Doesn’t Work

Oh Yeah?

I have read that we are tricked into thinking we are multitasking when in fact our minds are are doing one thing at a time. 

I guess the girl at the McDonald’s window is doing that when she takes our money while talking on the headset to another customer. Take order. (Brain switches gears.) Punch order into the menu selection. (Stop—take attention away from the customer at the speaker, to a customer at the window--us). Take our money. (Stop) Give us change. (Stop) Speak into the headset, “Does that complete your order?” (Stop) Now you wonder if she is talking to them or you. She hands us our change. (Stop.)  She smiles, “Have a nice day,” She turns attention to the headset,“May I take your order?”

My God, that girl ought to be hired by a corporation.

Speaking of corporations, here is a message from a CEO:

 “We foster sustainability and social responsibility through our people, technologies and on-going commitment to our global and local communities.”

What the heck?! Did you get that?

Once I picked up a little lady at the dump. (Or to be politically correct a Transfer Station.)  

This story applies, give me a minute. 

I was unloading my pickup into the Transfer Station’s ginormous trash receptacle when she came to me and asked if she could help. She did, we began talking, and I ended up hiring her to mow my lawn. I didn’t realize that doing that was like taking home a puppy.

She was a sweet person, quite messed up emotionally; being raised by nuns and beaten by them can do that to a person. But then we must be careful believing the stories some people tell. I believed her, however, as something dreadful happened to her to put her on disability for mental problems.

The point I am about to make is that once in awhile this little lady would pop out with some pithy advice. For example, regarding multitasking, she said, “Pretend you are washing the baby Buddha.”  In other words, if you were washing the baby Buddha you would place all your attention on your task at hand.

Another time, when my first-born daughter was about to be married in May, in Oregon, outside, by the banks of the McKenzie River, I was concerned that it might rain. It had been off and on. My little friend said, “Ask the Grandmothers,” meaning ask my grandmothers on the other side for beautiful weather. I did and the weather was perfect—shirt-sleeve weather.

You never know who the master is…

Thought for the day: Haruki Murakami once said “If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking” --Black Sun Reviews

Kudos for Shorts

Shorts

Some of the best talents are displayed in these short films--too bad they aren't easily accessible unless you have access to an Art Theater. 

The five above films were shown at the #Bijou here in Eugene. To decide which is best, is, to me, impossible, for all are different. Ave Maria is the funniest. The little girl in Everything Will be Okay ought to win for best actress. Day One is poignant, impactful and memorable. Shok will leave you shaken. The Stutterer is hard to watch at first, but all ends well.

Kudos to the film makers.

P.S.

All five are nominated for an academy award for best live action shorts. I had to mention them before the awards ceremony. Why don't we see more of these???

I'm off, my daughter inspired me about writing fiction--which I am efforting to do. Perhaps it deserves comment on 

www.thebestdamnwriterbloggerontheblock.com

See the Michael Moore Movie, See the Michael Moore Movie, See the #Michael Moore Movie

Movie title: “#Where to Invade Next.”

Don’t be misled by the title. The idea is that we invade other countries to take what we want. This time, Moore  has “Invaded” various countries to find valuable philosophical attributes and bring them back to the US.  Astounding. Wonderful.

The film was playing at the #Bijou Art Theater in Eugene, Oregon, not in one of the “big” theaters. They will wait to see if it is a blockbuster. Maybe if Moore is nominated for an award, then they will show it. (My seven-year-old grandson has gotten sarcasm already, guess I have taught it to him.)

I missed an opportunity to be involved in a discussion that was happening outside the theater. A few people were standing in a group talking. As my husband and I walked past I figured they were friends visiting, but on second thought, I said, “I bet they were discussing the film.” I should have poked my head in. Opportunity missed.

And then I read that theaters are having a hard time clearing people out of the lobby after seeing the film, for they want to discuss it. Imagine.

I don’t want to be a spoiler for the film, but some things sang to me with such vigor I have to say something.

Imagine, a school with no homework. “Children should play,”  the principal said. “They have other things they need to do when they go home.” I have said for years that if a school can’t jam enough information into a child’s head in the 6 hours they have them, they aren’t doing their job. For heaven’s sake, why send work home? Remember endless pages of  long division we had to do at home? Educators then thought that children learn by rote when people learn better by discovery.

The school system implementing that philosophy ranks the highest in education. Their advice to us,  “Stop teaching to the tests.” And I won’t even mention that a gourmet kitchen Moore found was, in fact, a school cafeteria where children were seated at tables set already with china plates, then served a healthy appetizer, main course, a cheese dish, and dessert, and they drink water. This was not a private school—no private schools there.

I had to say it. But I can’t steal any more of Moore’s thunder, you must see it. Don’t take the children, though, a few scenes in American prison’s are brutal. Generally, however, it is impactful and upbeat.

A lady in Iceland looked us straight in the eye and said that she wouldn’t live next door to an American, they don’t take care of each other. They think in terms of Me instead of We. And they don’t care.

Moore said, “I do.”

 Me too.

 How about you?

Oh The Places We’ll Go

Danielle Steel is my mentor. Rosamunde Pilcher is my inspiration.

Why Steel? Because she weaves description, character development, dialogue, and backstory into one seamless flow, and she is so prolific she has kept me reading for months. Pilcher because I just love her. Her writing is exquisite, and her first best seller was The Shell Seekers, about a painting.

My novel, The Girl on The Pier, too, is about a painting.

After completing a novel titled Song of Africa I saw that one publisher was offering a two book contract (not to me), but I thought, my God, two books? How could I ever write a second? 

Whap! A thump on the side of the head.  “Write about the young namesake from the Africa book, and about a canvas featured there painted by her uncle.

Sara Andrews, 22, fresh out of Parsons School of Design, and now with a job as a curator of a gallery in SoHo New York, meets the love of her life on page one of  The Girl on the Pier.

The following day Sara receives a call from a customer wanting to view the painting The Girl on the Pier, painted by her uncle, Clyde Dales. When the customer sees the painting, however, he says, “That isn’t the painting.”

Sara didn’t know there was another. Two paintings by the same name?  When the customer offers two million dollars for it, Sara acts as though she sells two million dollar paintings every day. Uncle Clyde’s paintings have sold for thousands, but never millions. 

Something is fishy.

Sara’s search takes her and her new love from New York to Los Angeles, to Seattle, to Gambia West Africa, to Kenya, to Paris, and with Paris comes my reason for writing  this…

Not knowing Diddy squat about Paris, I needed to find a museum there—not the Louvre, and so I searched and found Muse’e d’ Orsay. And within that museum, I stumbled upon a collection of Vintage American Photographs.

Shirley temple signing her first movie contract

I had to show you a few:

JFK and Jackie, 1953, in a photo booth

Girls at soda fountain 1940's

1939

Hawaiian surfer. The missionaries outlawed surfing, luckily the Hawaiians didn't listen.

Live Wild,
Joyce
P.S. See link below

Live Wild

Island Lilikoi* iced tea, El Yummo

Come sit a spell...I'd pour a frosty glass for you if I could,

We live on earth is experience life.

We write about it to make sense of it.

I tried to be wild once but gave it up in favor of ice.

We lived on the island without a refrigerator—well, we had an ice box, but it didn’t make ice. Strange how something as simple as ice can mean so much when you don’t have it.

Happy times on the Island were going to sleep to the tune of the #Coqui frogs, and awakening in the morning fresh as the #Lilikoi Iced tea pictured above. My computer was in front of a window and as the sun came up it enlivened the green outside my window as though the Morning Goddess was turning up her rheostat.

We saw no sunrises or sunsets where we lived on the island for the trees stood in the way of them, but when we were on the West side of the island we stood in reverence watching the sun sink into the sea. Fascinating again how exquisite a daily occurrence can be when you do not have it daily.

I said my mission statement is “Live wild.”  That doesn’t mean running away and living on a tropical island—although one can, and that sounds good--Swimming in a bath-tub warm sea, and being able to go to luxury hotels when the urge and pocketbook collide.

When I say “Live Wild,” I don’t mean going to #Waldon’s Pond as Thoreau did where he wrote 

I mean, follow that wildness that is buried deep in your solar plexus. You know the feeling. It burns with a desire to break free, to live the life you’ve always wanted, to have the courage to follow your dreams. It’s not coming to the end of your life and realizing that you have not lived.

What might those dreams be? And what are you willing to do to accomplish them?

Live wild,

Joyce

P.S. What really pushed us off the island? I have written rewritten, contemplated and journaled about that experience for what, about five years now? Maybe one day One Year on the Island will be a book. Hope springs eternal.

P.S.P.S.  This blog isn't about it being a business, I love you guys too much to enter that into the equation. I'm going to carry on as I have always done--rambling, contemplating, urging all readers to greatness. Whew! That releases the stress.

Ta Da

Lilikoi blossom. Isn't that exquisite?             Lilikoi passion fruit

Mission Statement

You know how mission statements can be boring, run too long, sound like they are God’s gift to the consumer, and promise to heal the ills of mankind? Sometimes when you look at a company and compare it to their mission statement you wonder if they live on the same planet.

I Googled, “#Mission statement” —you know the first place we go these days for information.  Google’s advice was, “Keep it short.”

Viola’ this popped into my head. “Live wild.”

That’s it. That’s short. That’s my mission statement.

Live Wild!

Perhaps a tag line could be: “Help people improve their lives.”

Yes, yes, I know, “Physician heal yourself.” I’m not a physician a psychiatrist or have any such illustrious job titles. Remember the old Bible story of the man on the road to Damascus and saw a fellow traveler lying wounded? The Good Samaritan stopped and poured oil on his wounds. The prevailing joke in college was, “Maybe the man didn’t want oil on his wounds.”

If you do, ask for it.

I’m asking this: If you would like to help with the direction of this blog, it would make me happy as our two pups running around the living room, circling the coffee table, over the couch, into the bedroom, over the bed…

Here are the questions:

1.                 Who are you? _______________________________________________

2.                 What are your hopes and dreams?______________________________

3.                 What is getting in the way of achieving those dreams?

                  __________________________________________________________

Copy, paste and send to my personal email jewellshappytrails@gmail.com

I won’t promise a perfect solution. I won’t always be upbeat because life isn’t that way all the time. I won’t try to be someone I’m not; even wild horses get pissed sometimes. (But that doesn’t remain a permanent condition.)

I’m staying with my title “Wishing on White Horses, www.wishingonwhitehorses.com as that is the title of this blog,  I’ve had it so long it is ingrained in my consciousness, it has a dot com, and I have some dear, wonderful, stupendous followers. Are you one?

How about a sign-up?

See, I’m learning to ask for what I want.

 How about you?

I can’t wait to see/read what is going to happen here. I’m jazzed.

Live wild,

 Joyce

P.S. If you want a personal answer to a question that’s been stuck in your craw, 

  Click here
livewildwithauntjo.blogspot.com

Now 15₵ (Price of living increase you know.)

The answer might be pertinent, or it might be “Go home and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”  It depends on my mood, my mental capacity, or whether or not Mercury is in retrograde.

Live long and prosper.