Okey-dokey

The Bow Ties of the 4th of July happened, but the air parade we were supposed to see above us as we sat on the deck did not come to pass. The city said it was canceled at the last minute because of problems with insurance. Most of our development didn’t get that memo, so we were all outside looking to the skies. We each did our social distancing by staying on our own property, but socializing with each other very loudly. Gradually, the news of the air parade’s cancellation got texted, tweeted, screamed, and facebooked up and down the street. Oh, well. We got to see the regular air traffic in the blue sky anyway. Hey, we’re free! No complaints here.

As you can see from her pix, Skitter had dressed in her patriotic tie to watch the parade. She’s still a little unclear of the concept of how to watch any kind of parade. On the deck, her skittishness kept her staring into the house the entire time, instead of out at the neighborhood or up at the skies.

4th o’ July

I had a tough time choosing neckwear today. Here in Centerville, we’re having an air parade later this morning. Social distancing is truly the etiquette of 2020. But what does one wear to sit on their deck to watch an air parade? Should I go with the patriotic stick mustache-and-bow-tie, or do I don the patriotic stick necktie? Nope. As is my usual 4th of July custom, I’m going with the Constitution Bow Tie o’ the Day. Have fun safely today, my fellow citizens.

A House Divided. Not.

I spent my childhood living in two houses simultaneously, without ever moving. Mom and Dad lived next door to my dad’s parents, Walter and Zola Walker Wright. In this slide, my grandma is wearing a kinda Bow Tie o’ the Day. ( I can’t tell for sure if the bow is attached to her dress or her apron.) If I wasn’t found in one house, I was likely to be found in the other. Or I was out in what felt to me like one bigly yard. The horse corral and the vegetable garden and the bee warehouse were out back behind the two houses. The whole spread was like my own private amusement park. I wrung the fun out of every inch of the buildings, machinery, and the land. I hated to take the time to sleep. My world, on that tiny portion of a block, seemed endlessly fascinating, and I couldn’t wait to get started exploring and playing every day. I was free, yet safe there. I was making my way through the world on my own. I was learning, hands-on. I would never feel that free, confident, or that safe again in my life.

Looking back, I realize I was very well supervised, though I felt completely independent at the time. I must have sensed somehow that I was safe and looked after. I do recall seeing Mom and Momo having impromptu chat sessions in the driveway between our houses. Many times, I would see them both turn to me as I arrived on the scene, and I would hear a duet of, “There you are!” in my direction. I am positive these little chats were more like a conference on the mound in baseball, where the two checked in with each other about my travels and then strategized about my care and supervision for the rest of the day.

Peek-a-boo! There It Is!

Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day and parrot Face Mask o’ the Day were grocery shopping with me at DICK’S when I realized I’m not the only one who is back in the public eye. Yup, the toilet paper is back on the shelves and in mountainous stacks throughout the store.

COVID-19 has made it such that we have all had to make a few changes in our routines, like donning masks and doing our best at social distancing. During these days o’ the pandemic, I am most proud of something I HAVEN’T had to do. During the upheaval of the last three or four months, I haven’t had one toilet paper supply worry. In our house, there has been no need for toilet paper panic or toilet paper hoarding. (Well, at first, Suzanne occasionally panicked about the size of our tp stash, but it was totally unnecessary. I had it covered, with rolls to spare.)

As the li’l homemaker-during-the-pandemic that I am, I am proud to say we have never run out of the ample supply of toilet paper I always keep stocked in our garage. To be honest, I guess you could say that keeping us supplied with the correct amount of toilet paper is about the only real homemaking skill I have. I certainly can’t cook. Overseeing the household tp supply is my one skill, so I have to pat myself on the back about my stellar permanent record on that front. A lot of people were caught with their pandemic pants down about the toilet paper, if ya know what I mean. Not I.

I wonder. Is my single, house-y skill of being Toilet Paper Monitor Extraordinaire alone mighty enough to justify my entire existence on the face of the earth? Why, yes! Yes, it is. Those of you who have ever had to scramble for a square or six of “bathroom tissue” know I’m right. In fact, I’ve probably always been worth my weight in toilet paper.

FYI I have been a zillion places. I have met a zillion people. But I have NEVER heard anyone actually refer to toilet paper as “bathroom tissue,” despite what the labels on the packaging say. Talk about hoity-toity!

I Do Believe I’m Back. Cross Fingers. Knock On Wood.

Magnetic LEGO Bow Tie o’ the Day heralds my most recent return from the city of Bipolarville, in the great state of Extreme Depression. Told ya I’d be back. This is a recent photo of me in my Face Mask o’ the Day, hanging out in the flag section of the Parrish Lane Walmart—prepping for the upcoming Fourth of July celebration.

I woke up yesterday morning wishing someone would write me an utterly frivolous TIE O’ THE DAY post to make me laugh, then I realized it’s my job to write said posts. So there I was… staring at Skitter’s hairy hip mole, eating a soda cracker, and casually letting some possible tblog ideas percolate in my crazy brain. I was getting nowhere fast—when suddenly my phone honked at me and announced the caller was Mercedes.

I call her Mercedes, but most of y’all know her as my oldest sibling, Betty or BT. She has been a faithful reader of my neckwear posts since TIE O’ THE DAY was nothing more than a bigly group text. Mercedes called to check in on how her bipolarly-benched little sister is doing, AND—most importantly 😜—to check on when the heck TIE O’ THE DAY posts would be returning to social media.

I can affirm that at the very beginning of our conversation, I could hardly form sentences without great physical, cognitive, and emotional effort. The inability to think and speak easily is one of the main symptoms of my extreme bipolar depression. But by the end of the phone call, we were both heartily cackle-laughing about a smorgasbord of current events, human foibles, and what I will refer to as “Mom stories”—as in, stories starring Mom. Pick an event, pick a topic. If Mom was part of it—or even has an opinion about it—there’s sure to be a full-blown, repeatable, mostly family-friendly story to tell for generations to come. Mom and her escapades are the gift that keeps on giving. I felt demonstrably better during and after my phone call from my bigliest sister.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying Mercedes cured my depressive swing. Nor am I saying that stories about Mom conquered my bipolar speed bump. Oh, that it were so! If BT and Mom were the cure for bipolarity, I’d take our Two-Helen’s-and-a-Mercedes act on tour from town to town, and the three of us would make a bigly bucket o’ bucks rescuing folks from their own brain chemistry. Although it was not a fix-it, yesterday morning’s phone conversation with my biggest sister clearly lit an oomph-spark under my TIE O’ THE DAY muscle. If you’re sad to see I’m back, feel free to blame my Mercedes. Or Mom. Mom has given me permission to blame her for everything. I’m sure she’ll happily let you blame her for everything too.

BTW I’m so madly in love with the “Raised in a BARN” cap I got in Arkansas last summer. Out of all my hats, I find it is my go-to hat during these bipolar-y, pandemic-y, protest-y days. I just keep putting it atop my noggin, day after day. Its attitude fits me perfectly right now. Perhaps it’s a rapid-cycling bipolar thing. Perhaps it’s a redneck thing. I don’t know why, but it’s currently my thing.

We Interrupt TIE O’ THE DAY For An Important Message

My new magnetic wood Bow Tie o’ the Day’s design reminds me of an abacus. As far as face masks go, this paisley Face Mask o’ the Day is luscious with its rich hues. Think of a mask as just one more clothing accessory through which you can express your inner whatever-ness you might want to share with the masses. Masks might become a staple in my dressing style if I can keep finding funky ones.

Hey, folks! Y’all are so good to me. If I don’t post for more than a couple of days, some of you message me with concerns about my well being (I’m ok.) or to make sure Mom’s still thriving in MCR lockdown (Mom continues to entertain the troops.). I appreciate your humanity. This tblog is about much more than neckwear, and y’all truly understand that. So thanks.

I haven’t been able to write a cogent post for the last five days. This post is your FYI that I need to take some more time off. Yes, it’s because of my stoopid bipolar head. I can never predict when my head is going to bench me or for how long. No worries. I will be okay. As you longtime readers know, this is routine for me, and I learned a long time ago to not panic about it. I tread water through my head’s craziness, and the crazy eventually subsides. I’ve temporarily disappeared from here before, and I’ll likely have to do it again. That’s just the chemistry of my brain. Rest assured that TIE O’ THE DAY will return as soon as it can. Could be in a day, in a week, or in 15 minutes. Thanks for your concern and for your patience. When I can rein in my brain again, I shall resume my mission of spreading the ties-and-kindness gospel while making a clown of myself for y’all. Be good.

Now, You Can’t Say You’ve Never Seen Me In A Dress

Y’all will be glad to know I ordered a gadget to help me digitize and clean up all these ancient slides I recently discovered. As soon as it gets here, the slide photos I post will be more seeable. TIE O’ THE DAY anecdotes based on the slides will improve lickety-split.

This afternoon, I’m too exhausted to even attempt a real story. I have not stopped erranding since Suzanne left for work this morning. What have I been doing? Well, I finally got Skitter’s new trailer attached to my bike, and I’ve been practicing making turns without turning over either the trailer or the bike, or both. I think I’m confident enough about safely dragging Skitter around in her new RV to actually take her on a trek early tomorrow before the heat hits.

Since I had to drive the car around in the pandemic world, in order to accomplish most of the tasks on my Honey-Do list, I grabbed a sandwich at the Chick-fil-A drive-up, where I learned cash money is no good. Only plastic money is accepted.

I then drove my car full o’ donations to the Bountiful Deseret Industries, only to find that right now you have to make an appointment to drop off your donations. I have an appointment there for sometime next week. I then checked in with the tattoo place I want to use, at which shop I learned I am required to make an appointment to make an appointment. ‘Tis true.

And then I went to Best Buy at Station Park to get the slide digitizer I mentioned earlier, so I could begin using it today. But you have to have an appointment to stand outside the store’s door and tell them what you need. You can’t go inside even if you have an appointment. You can make an appointment at Best Buy to pick up whatever you buy from them online and have shipped there. Why the heck would you have something shipped to Best Buy for you to make an appointment to pick up, instead of just having it shipped to your house? I decided it was better to not even ask the question out loud. I walked back to my car.

Anyhoo…I drove home and ordered the gadget online. But I had kinda hit my top nerve as far as not being able to actually finish any of my errands today, so I decided to just order the gadget through Amazon, and prime can deliver it right to my front door sometime next week. Errand done. With my current erranding luck, I fully expect the slide converter gadget will probably be delivered at the exact same time I have my appointment to drop off donations at D. I.—and the package will either require my signature before it can be left on the porch, or a package thief will pilfer it from my front porch before I arrive home in my donation-empty car.

Just sayin.’

I Am Not The Doll You See Here

Mom made a gaggle o’ dolls over the years, but the one in this slide was not one of them. I was not yet born when this photo op came to pass. Since my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless (SWWTRN) is holding the doll, I’m assuming it was hers. Perhaps she was channeling my future earthly birth with me while I was still in the Pre-existence. C’mon—it could have happened. Notice that my sisters have both donned long Bow Ties o’ the Day for what the date on the slide indicates was Christmas of 1958.

Dad’s a looker, eh? In my mind’s eye, Dad always has his Sean Connery beard—even though this shows me to be wrong. Come to think of it, Mom started making dolls about the same time Dad grew his signature beard—sometime in the 80’s. Perhaps that was how they each dealt with their newly empty nest and their proverbial mid-life crises. I dunno. I just know that in the 80’s, Dad’s beard sprouted its salt-and-pepper glory, and plaster doll parts were perpetually scattered throughout flat surfaces in the house, in their various stages of doll-completion.

FYI Here’s the birth order of my siblings and I, for anyone who might be wondering: Betty (front); SWWTRN (back); Ron (front, middle); Rob (on Dad’s lap); a bigly time-gap (a true pregnant pause); then, yours truly.

If you ever want to rile up Mom, just tell her I said I know I was an accident. She does not abide that “accident” talk about me. I can usually get her calmed down about it by explaining I meant to say I was more of an “afterthought.” At 89, Mom still shines with her comebacks. Not too long ago when I was egging her on about the topic, she said, “An afterthought? I should say not! There was no thought after.” And then I said, “Mom, get your mind out of the gutter, so mine can roll by!” We continued the back-and-forth, and we laughed until I lost my breath and had to take a hit off her oxygen mask. We are soooooo related. We are The Two Helen’s! Vaudeville is our next stop.

BTW Mom doesn’t really have an oxygen tank. It just made the story better to paint a picture of me stealing the old gal’s oxygen. Note to self and others: The key to telling good stories is to never let the truth get in the way—as long as you fess up to it later.

A Battered Blanket Happened

My name is Helen, and I’m a thumbsuck-aholic. ‘Tis true. I didn’t defeat my personal thumb-diction demon until sometime after 1st Grade. When I was in Kindergarten, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t. I did not want to take my baby habit with me to elementary school, but I did—at least to 1st grade. I distinctly remember “accidentally on purpose” dropping my pencil underneath my desk a dozen times a day at least, so while I retrieved my pencil, I could suck a quick puff o’ thumb with my desk as my cover. I never got caught committing my baby habit, but I knew my luck with getting away with such an embarrassing habit would likely not hold out much longer.

Besides, my 1st Grade teacher thought something wasn’t quite right with my behavior anyway. I’m sure the near-constant droppin’ o my pencil was one of the reasons she told my Mom she was sorry, but she thought I was probably retarded, and Mom and Dad should just face it. Mostly, my teacher thought something was wrong with me because I barely spoke. My teacher did not speak in low decibels: She was a yeller, and I had not yet hobnobbed with any adult yellers up to that point in my life. I handled her yelling by trying to be invisible and silent. I tried to blend in with the furniture and hoped to go entirely unnoticed for my first year in elementary school. Looking back, I can see I truly needed my thumb-sucking habit to help me reduce the stress of my 1st Grade experience. It makes perfect sense to me now why I couldn’t stop thumb-sucking before I got away from all the shouting.

Over the summer, I focused all of my superpowers on quitting my bad habit. I begged Mom to cut off my offending thumb (the right). I reasoned that if I didn’t have my thumb, I wouldn’t need to suck it. She would not do it. One of my brothers had his pocketknife at the ready, to lop it off if I gave him a dollar (which I did), but Mom didn’t let him cut it off for me either. Neither did he return the dollar I had already given him for his services.

I soaked my childish thumb in rubbing alcohol, so I wouldn’t be tempted to suck it anymore. But that didn’t work either. I held my nose and sucked my thumb. I was desperate. And as every pro-level thumbsucker knows, thumb-sucking isn’t merely about sucking a thumb. For me, it was about sucking my thumb while mousing my fingers in the fabric of MY quilt. See my raggedy blanket there on our clothesline, barely hanging together. See how tattered it is from my thumb-sucking, fidgety-fingered use and from all the dragging it around with me. See how I couldn’t be separated from it at home for the length of time it took for it to dry on the clothesline. See how I stood at the clothesline, clutching my quilt all day in the hot sun. #yesthatisthebattingyoucansee

Standing there with my blanket was for many years my idea of Heaven. But I needed to stop. So I begged Mom to burn my blanket, reasoning that if I had no blanket, I would have less desire to suck my thumb. Mom would not burn my quilt, and I don’t have any idea how I finally stopped the whole thumby experience. All I know is that my infantile thumb habit did not go with me to 2nd Grade, where my teacher was not a yeller. In fact, at the end of 2nd Grade, my teacher thought I should skip a grade.

BTW This washed-out slide is one of my faves. I haven’t been sure if I really did this or have just been “remembering” I did it because I heard the story from so many family members for so long. This slide proves it was not just a family myth. My quilt, my right thumb, and I were united. And I’m sure there’s a Bow o’ the Day tied somewhere on my dress.

Have Cork Gun, Will Travel

When I discovered the long-hidden slides of baby-me yesterday, I knew two things were bound to happen: I will be making Suzanne watch slideshows of me and my family every evening until we have seen them all many times, AND y’all will be seeing pix I take of the slides projected onto my wall. I’ll eventually get the slides scanned and turned into photos, but I can’t wait that long to show y’all.

With this slide, I am utilizing my bow-tied hoodie string around my face as our Bow Tie o’ The Day. Here, I am just amblin’ through the neighborhood, down our front sidewalk in my natural habitat with my natural prop: a gun, of course. I am a Wright, therefore, I shoot things. It would not surprise me if Dad put this gun in my arms as we left the hospital after I was born. I do remember the gun shot corks. A double-barrel cork gun! And please note that I am already carrying the gun barrel-down, which means Dad had already taught me to hold a gun safely. Heck, Dad had probably made sure I passed my Hunter Safety classes before he ever brought me home from the hospital in the first place.

For those of you Deltites over 50, you might remember the building in the far background of this slide. If my kid memory is correct, it is the old train depot. Yup, Delta used to be a regular stop for passenger trains. As a kid, I spent a lot of time hanging around the tracks and the depot. I did a lot of investigating stopped train cars, especially cabooses—with and without permission. I will always miss the sound of trains during the night. Trains were part of my natural habitat too.