The Insignificant Thief

 It had become a yearly mission. One that was particularly not looked forward to being accomplished.  A small task.  Nor one that was carved in stone as an absolute requirement. It could be completely ignored. Treated like a second thought.  Here one moment, gone the next.

Perhaps it would be different if the course of action did not take place next to one of the busiest thoroughfares in the county.  There is no privacy or secrecy in fulfilling the job at hand.  Wide open space, with many a piercing eye.

This time, it was nearly too late.  Justly caused by the afore mentioned second thought.  The harvest could still be gathered, but the harvest was likely to be in a most unfavorable condition.

The mission was to retrieve live plants from the graves of past loved ones.  There had been strict instructions, spoken so many years before…..No plastic flowers.  They needed to be rescued from their own untimely demise, beneath rainless blue skies. This year, there were four pots: parents, a cousin taken long before his time and two sets of unknown grandparents.

The first three targets are easy bullseyes.  The fourth is always a  game of hide & seek.

Standing in a sea of stones, looking for the needle in the haystack, makes it impossible to not start reading.  Reading names and dates.  Wondering who they were. What had they done with their time.  Did they live each moment following their hearts’ desires?  Or listen to the silent whispers of defeat?  Pangs of sadness at the passing of a child being replaced with a sense of awe at a long, long life.  

Turning in a circle, scanning and feeling so small and insignificant. Like a grain of sand on an endless beach.

Then it happened.  A name.  So familiar for so many years.  Glistening in the sunlight.  It was much further south than it was the year before.  How had that happened?

Trekking through the stones, offering up the occasional “sorry”, for possibly trodding too close, the fourth target came into view.  The second set of unknown grandparents.  Gifts of late in life children.

With the last dreadful looking petunia in tow, the inside of a sweltering car gave a sense of, not only a mission accomplished, but also a sense of shelter.  Hiding the thievery that was surely seen by many.

The soil around each plant was so dry it had shrunk from the sides of the pot.  Water poured out the bottom as fast as it went in the top.  They were placed in a square cake pan and watered again until the water nearly filled the pan.  Small words of encouragement were given.  All that was left was time.

The next morning, a small miracle had taken place.  Each plant was in full bloom.  Not one drop of water remained in the pan.  They will be enjoyed for the remainder of their season.  The feeling of being insignificant is but a fading memory.

One That Should Be Required Reading

First, I'm going to ask three things:  Please read this. Please share this.  Please get the book.  Because, what you will find within its pages will give you hope (because you did not know this information before), will make you incredibly broken hearted (because you did not know this information before) and will make you righteously angry (because you did not know this information before).  

The following is an excerpt from the book, Surviving Cancer Covid-19 & Disease  The Repurposed Drug Revolution by Justus R. Hope. M.D.:

"As in any repurposed drug discussion, it is always the scientist versus the regulators; it boils down to the doctors versus Big Pharma.  Here the scientists are led by Dr. Didier Raoult, the Dr. Pan Pantziarka of the anti-coronavirus movement, who brings the spotlight to the effectiveness of HCQ and CQ against SARS-CoV-2.  Raoult, a larger than life medical luminary physician and professor, is the top expert in the world in communicable disease........

Professor Raoult completed residencies in both internal medicine and infectious disease and earned both MD and PhD degrees.......

He has been referred to as the most productive and cited microbiologist in Europe.  He directs the IHU Mediterranean Infection Institute in Marseille, France, a world-renowned research and teaching center dedicated to the management and study of infectious disease.  Dr. Didier Raoult, both controversial and outspoken, is one of the world's most influential and productive scientists.  As of this writing, he is listed as either the author or coauthor of 2,909 Pubmed citations.

He is also the antithesis of Dr. Anthony Fauci or any regulatory body.  So, when Dr. Raoult published his landmark HCQ study, the first detailed human trial to show the benefit of hydroxychloroquine and chloroquine and those afflicted with COVID-19, he ignited a firestorm.  Chloroqine and hydroxychloroquine were long known to block both cell entry and replication in SARS and MERS.  They should also work well against SARS-CoV2.

However, these early studies were confined to lab testing only, testing the activity of these drugs in the test tube.  Didier was among the first, along with the Chinese, to show that HCQ worked in live human subjects with coronavirus infections.  But the Chinese declined to produce their data.

Didier, on the other hand, was quick to unveil stunning results.  In his pilot study, he treated 20 infected patients with hydroxychloroquine and compared them with 16 infected controls that were not treated.* By the third day, 50% of the treated group were negative  for the virus.  By the sixth day, 70% of the hydroxyhloroquine group were viral negative.

Six of the 20 patients were treated with Zithromax in addition to hydroxychloroquine.  Most impressively, these six patients tested 100% negative for the virus on day six.  Only 12.5% of the non treated group, however, was virus free.  These results suggested a 100% cure rate for the group receiving the hydroxychloroquine and Zithromax by day six compared with a 90% infection rate for the group untreated.

For reference, the Chinese had already shown that untreated COVID-19 patients could remain infectious for some 19-20 days; in some cases, up to 34 days.*  Dr. Raoult felt that the information contained in his study was so significant, that he was ethically bound to release the results immediately, prior to the usual peer-review process.  Dr. Raoult recommended that COVID-19 patients be treated with hydroxychloroquine and azithromycin to both cure their infection and to curb the spread.  He freely admitted that although better and more scientific therapy, such as a specific vaccine, might later be developed, the current treatment was imminently necessary to treat the COVID-19 threat in real time.

By eradicating the virus at day 6, Raoult had shortened the time for contagiousness by 66% from 19 days to only six.  The implications were staggering.  If his results held up, that meant quarantines and isolation times could end 70% sooner.  It meant quicker recovery times in infected patients.  It also implied lower rates of death.  It meant health care workers could take the drug preventatively and not pass the virus to patients.  Dr. Raoult had given the world a gift, a crucial tool to stem the pandemic, a discovery worthy of a Nobel prize.

Raoult and his colleagues wrote, "We therefore recommend that COVID-19 patients be treated with hydroxyholorquine and azithromycin to cure their infection and to limit the transmission of the virus to other people in order to curb the spread of COVID-19 in the world.  Further works are also warranted to determine if these compounds could be useful as chemoprophylaxis to prevent the transmission of the virus, especially for healthcare workers."*

Raoult's study found what the CDC researchers working on test tubes in 2005 had strongly suspected.  Chloroquine and hydroxychloroquine might work against the coronavirus in vivo just as well as in vitro, in life just as well as in the lab; it might just be the answer to SARS-CoV2 and the pandemic: a repurposed drug that might attack not only cancer but also the novel coronavirus. 

DR. Fauci's Reaction

Here we had the result of an open-label non-randomized clinical trial involving 36 patients studied with a drug the CDC knew killed the SARS virus.  How would the US task force respond?  On March 20, 2020, I watched as they commented on the news.  The head of the NIAH had one word.

"Anecdotal."

Without so much as a blink, I stared at the television in disbelief.  I replayed the recording to make sure I had heard correctly......."

* reference numbers in the book, linked to the original studies.

I know, it is hard to believe that sources, we have been programmed to trust, would intentionally keep vital information from us, but this is exactly what has been going on.  Please, take the time to do some research on your own.  Don't sit and be spoon fed.  If not for yourself, for all the people who have suffered or been lost, because they did not know this information before.

Go Ahead, Rock The Boat

I. Sat. Silent.  I've been doing it for a long, long time.  Over a year I have spent lamenting my failures.  Keeping the shaker of salt, always within arms reach, to pick up and add a few grains to a wound that was nearly healed.  Last night, I did it again.  

Far from the days of my rebel, mouthy youth, I felt the spark of that part of my past slightly flicker.  It was similar to rolling a thumb over an old worn out butane lighter, the wheel turned but the spark was nil. 

I attended the local high school homecoming, always considered a gala event, even to a rural, small town school.  The main reason for my presence, a grandson was in the mix.  Things are a lot different today.  Back in the day of the rebel, homecoming was always preceded by, hopefully, a rousing game of basketball.  The time between the junior varsity game and the varsity was filled with dance routines, mini cheerleaders and numerous other forms of student entertainment.  After the games were over, the crowd would sit in anticipation of the upcoming coronation.  If anything is the same, it would be the lack of comfort of sitting on hard bleacher seats.  Finally, the homecoming court of couples, from each of the four seasons of high school, would gather in the front foyer of the gymnasium.  Glimpses of beautiful long gowns and black tuxedos could be seen as these young people got into the correct formation.  Then the procession would start.  Each couple would enter, be introduced, walk to the stage.  The crowning of a new king and queen would commence, the procession would then leave the stage and walk around the the entire gym, much to the delight of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.  Getting home before The Tonight Show started was always a huge accomplishment.

Yesterday was different.  The coronation was held at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, followed by both games and the whole thing was over before the sun set.  In all fairness, the students still dressed up, some for the second time and had their evening of fun and dance.

While sitting on the bleachers, watching the court royalty milling around in the foyer in all their finery, is when I felt it.  That rolling, gritty wheel on the old lighter.  But, even though it was trying again to ignite, if not a fire, just a tiny spark, I sat silent.

I watched these young people full of excitement for what was to come.  The girls had spent an endless amount of time on their hair, their makeup.  The boys had undoubtedly spent a good deal of time in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, enjoying the reflection of looking mighty fine.  Then they donned their masks.

What I wanted to do and had plenty of time to do it, was to get off that uncomfortable bleacher and walk to the foyer.  I wanted to tell them, "If you feel you must wear the mask, wear it on your wrist."  I wanted to explain to them the power that one small act of non-compliance would have.  But, I sat silent.  

First and foremost, this is not a call for disrespect of young people to their parents, or to adults in positions of authority.  Parents are tasked with the job of raising kind, decent, caring, small humans in the hopes that they will grow into the same kind of adult.  Children are to honor that job.  But, young people, one day you will come to the realization that, even though most were trying to do the best they could, your parents did not know everything.  You will also come to realize that those people in places of authority, were not always right.

We are living in the most amazing times in human history.  Many people who have been elected or placed into positions of leadership have forgotten who put them there.  Most do not care.  One does not have to be a wizard of information technology to find glaring examples of "rules for thee, not for me" and right now, I'm only referring to face masks.  The 'powers that be' have been maskless when it suits them.  They have gone to parties, restaurants and many other outings, completely "FACE FREE", while telling their constituents to do just the opposite.  Or worse, telling their peasants not to go anywhere, period.  They've been photographed sitting maskless in a room full of masked children.  But, perhaps the best example of their audacity and irony, is giving a FACE FREE interview, to be viewed by people whom they 'seem to deem' lesser than themselves, about why YOU need to wear a mask.  

The unfortunate part of this is, the more people comply with this kind of tyranny, the more the tyrants realize they have the upper hand.  It's time for a call to action.

Yes, there does seem to be a light shining at the end of the tunnel, in this area, for the young people and many fine people have spent countless hours fighting for that glimmer.  But, do not think that the wheels, gears and cogs that have been turning for years in the mastery of control will go silent into the night.  You can be sure, they will not magically accept defeat.  They will fight like hell to keep the power they so dearly love.

So, here is an idea, a spark.  Wear the mask.  Wear it on your wrist.  Better yet, wear it on your upper arm.  Not to bring up grim reminders of the past, but to exemplify what the leaders have become. 

Go ahead, rock the boat.  You will cause waves that will travel farther than you can imagine and ripples that will give others courage and hope.  Be FACE FREE.

The Tale of the Thanksgiving Eve Trivet

trivet:  noun  

1.  a small metal plate with short legs, especially one put under a hot platter or dish to protect a table.  2.  a three footed or three legged stand or support,  especially one of iron placed over a fire to support cooking vessels or the like.

This trivet, would be steel......since a magnet sticks to it.

How old is this trivet?  Who knows.  Mother had it for at least forever, meaning it is older, or as old, as yours truly.....60+ years.  There is a memory, from WAY back, asking as to the use of this object, aka, the steel trivet.  Mother explained it was, in laymen's terms, to transfer heat.  Meaning, if the pot that was used for cooking needed to cook for a rather long length of time, placing the trivet between the heat source and the pan would keep whatever delicacy was in the pan, from burning.  Perhaps, a good way of describing radiant heat. 

Mother has been gone over 14 years and of all the things she held dear to her heart, bird figurines, candle sticks (that had no mate), teapots (mostly brown ones) and other items,  the steel trivet has made the journey with me.  It has traveled a thousand miles away from what was home and back again.  It has been used on flame, electric coils and glass top electric stoves, all without incident.

The call of duty was mac&cheese.  Again, Mother's recipe.  It is the bestest of the best and always a crowd pleaser.  Since it seemed a good idea to double the recipe, for a large family gathering, the trivet, which always sits within inches of the stove, would be a useful tool.

This glass top cook stove has a burner that is rarely used.  The reason it is not used often would be that it has a TURBO setting.  Being married to a gear head, turbo should only be used for something that has 4 wheels and a small block under the hood.  

The chosen pan for this project was a medium sized stock pot.  This pot is not "Cooking TV" style.  Its metal is thin and has had many a dish chiseled out of the bottom of it.

Looking back, boiling the water in this pan, without the trivet, would have probably worked just fine.  As of yet, there's never been a story about burning water in a pan.  Yes, they can be boiled dry, but this was not the case.  The trivet was set on the burner, the pan, full of water, was set on the trivet, the knob that controls said burner, was set on nearly turbo.

It did seem to take a long time for the water to boil so.....the knob was cranked up to turbo.  It wasn't long before a rolling boil had been achieved.  In went two pounds of macaroni.  Of course, anytime something is put into boiling water, it takes a bit of time for the temperature to reach boiling again.  Once achieved, the temperature was cranked down to a nice mid simmer.  Macaroni can be a funny animal, cooked too much, it turns to mush....not enough and it may still retain a crunch.  This macaroni was to be perfecto.  

The timer had been set for 8 minutes, when it sounded the alarm, the pot was taken off the stove, the macaroni drained, the burner turned off.

The trivet was still on the burner.....but.......the burner was off.

Since the dish was not going to be baked until morning, time was taken to make sure all the ingredients were added to the same pot that had cooked the noodles.  It was, after all, a large pot and a double recipe.  If you are aware if my kitchen antics, using the same pot to mix up all the ingredients seemed like a no brainer.

As all the ingredients were being placed in the pot, a loud cracking noise was heard.  The TURBO burner had basically fractured the glass and sent shock waves through its side of the stove top, leaving it to look like some ancient map of dried up waterways.

It could have been a lesson in science, physics or welding 101, but there seems to be a part of the glass stove top that actually melted.

The trivet sits silent on the counter, next to the stove, waiting for its next assignment.

What Year Is It, Ladies?

 1970.  I'm nearly 15 years old.  The very first year of high school, for the graduating class of 1974, is about to begin.  As of this writing, it was 51 years ago.  A freaking lifetime.  

I want to take Ag, aka shop.  My friend, a female friend, she is with me on this idea.  We are denied.  Girls do not take Ag, aka shop.  51 years ago.....a freaking lifetime.

1970, again.  First year of high school.  Girls are not allowed to wear pants to school.  51 years ago.  That freaking lifetime ago.  True story, girls were not allowed to wear any sort of pants to school.  Let that sink in.  51 short years ago.  

FACT: for the fact checkers.  In 1970, the first year of high school for the graduating class of 1974 at Griggsville High School in Griggsville, Illinois.  This particular class had a fresh out of college English teacher.  Our class nearly drove her crazy.  I'm not sure any of us realized at the time, she was just a few years older than we were.  She survived and she showed the females of this class that we had power.  She led us onto a battlefield.  Not one with guns and cannons, but one with cotton and cloth.  She alone, helped us design and put into action a petition to the powers that be.  We, the female students of that graduating class of 1974, wanted to wear pants to school.  AND.  WE.  WON.   Oh yes, there were limits and rules to follow.  Things like absolutely no denim jeans, no shorts and whatever else the shell shocked administration could think of at the time.  Shortly after, surrounding school districts followed in our path.  So, young ladies of today, as you slide into your most favorite pair of jeans this coming school year, give your grandmothers a special nod, perhaps a word of thanks, for something you take for absolute granted.

1974.  We were not only wearing, rocking, I might add, bell bottom blue denim jeans, but shorts as well.  BUT........there were still no females allowed in Ag, aka shop class.  47 years ago.  Let that sink in.

The women's liberation movement lasted nearly 20 years.  It's purpose was to put women on the same level with men.  Not only in the work force, but in the brain department.  I never doubted the idea, over 40 years ago and when I hear women today saying they are still not equal, it makes me want to PUKE.  Again, I never doubted the idea and went into an occupation completely dominated by men.   I wanted to build stuff, I wanted to be a carpenter.   My wonderful father, who told me, "Girls do not drive pickup trucks.", relented and went with me to purchase my first one.  This was 43 years ago.  The timeline is getting shorter.

The movement of women's liberation should have never meant to put the two sexes at war against each other.  It should have meant a level playing field and for women, a choice.  A choice to be a mother, a homemaker and still have a tool box, with the knowledge of how to use all the tools within.   I applaud all women who have entered the workforce in what ever occupation they BELIEVED they could do.   For the women who chose to enter a predominately male line of work, kudos to you.  You know first hand how hard it can be.  To work along side the male species, in the same capacity, trying to match strength, can be daunting.  There was no shame in asking for help because we know that male bodies differ from ours and that is ok.  We are different, have been for millennia and most likely will continue to be.

2021.  Fast forward.  We are supposed to be living in an "accepting" society, anything goes.  There is no more reason to think for one's self because if one disagrees with the main stream narrative, they are labeled and singled out.  So much for the accepting society.  

I'm not sure what has happened to the women's movement of yesteryear.  Today, on several social media platforms, there are channels dedicated to showing videos of women making absolute idiots of themselves.  This has earned them the name of "Karens". They have totally lost control, scream, curse, get into fights and accept no responsibility for their actions.  Yes, mental illness is partially to blame, but not for all of them.  They feel entitled to act, however they see fit, with no repercussions.  I admit, I have watched many of these videos.  I'm not quite sure why, other than thinking maybe I will finally see one where the woman, someone's mother, sister, daughter, friend, has a moment of clarity and begins to wonder what on earth she is doing.  These videos, in my opinion, set the movement of being on a level playing field back decades, if not eons. All for one simple explanation......men keep their emotions in check far better than women.  Obviously, teaching this to the last few decades of females has fallen short. 

Now, men who want to be identified as women are taking the spotlight.  Although I have always had an opinion, something on the back burner of my grey matter, about beauty contests for women, they are still a thing.  I would reckon that it might have something to do with the difference between the female and male physique.  But now, it is permissible, in many areas, for men, who identify as woman, to compete against biological women in above mentioned contests......and win.  It is possible for men, who identify as women, to participate in women's athletic contests.  It is even possible for men, who identify as women, to dang near be named woman of the year.......even though, as biological men, they still have all their man package.  Some have had surgeries and implants but the package of man contains something the female body has, but not near the quantity and that is testosterone.  If ever there were a magic potion, testosterone would be it.  But, if the biological women were to use testosterone, to even their playing field against the man who identifies as a woman, they would be banned from their sport, or whatever they were competing in.

2021.  Where everything is supposed to be acceptable, except facts.  Ladies, are you going to continue to back peddle yourselves to a point where your voice falls on deaf ears?  I sincerely hope not. 

The Philanthropy-ing Philodendron

 Her eyes opened.  It was dark.  Darker than dark.  She knew better than to look at the clock, she already knew.  She stared into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to any tiny slice of light that might be hiding in the darkness.  There was none.  Just blackness.  The thoughts that had greeted her, upon awakening, were strange.  Why, after all these years?  She tried to grasp any trailing gossamer thread, of an old web, of sleep, that might have been filtering through the air.  None was to be found.  She rolled over to look at the clock. The clock hands glowed in the dark.  3:00 a.m.  That reality was not a shock.

Why now?  It had been years.  Decades.  But, the visual was just as vivid.  

The first time it happened, she was the perfect victim.  Wondering what in the hell she had done to deserve it.  He hit her.  It wasn't bad, just a couple of scuffs and shoves.  That was her rationale.

The second time, she should have known  better.  Again, if she had only not said anything, all would have been fine.  He grabbed her by her hair.  He pulled her from the couch and began to swing her around the room.  By her hair.  All she had on was a tee shirt and panties.  When he tired of this, he gave her a flip and somehow, she landed on the grate.  The grate belonged to the floor furnace, the only thing that heated the small house.  It was hot.  Hot enough to leave seared, charred, marks on the backs of her thighs.  Her backside  looked like the neighbor's charcoal grill.  She should have kept her mouth shut.

The third time was the worst.  She thought maybe, just maybe, she might die.  He sat on her chest, her arms pinned under his legs.  He had lured her into this position.  She did not see it coming.  Suddenly, he began to hit her.  He slapped her, as hard as he could, with both hands.  The blows landed at her temples.  Her face wore a halo of bruises, from ear to ear, across her forehead. They lasted for several days.  Had he used his fists......she decided not to think about that. 

The last time.  It always seemed to start because she had said something that made him mad.  That part was  probably true.  It usually started with her asking, "Where the hell have you been?".  He stormed across the kitchen, furious.  His arms were already flailing.  She threw her arms over her head, for protection.  He began to hit her.  Again.  She tried to back up, but then she spotted something on the floor.  Slightly under the kitchen table.  It was a six inch piece of a philodendron.  A plant that she had cared for, watered, had a special attachment to.  There it was.  Injured.  Broken.  Wasted.  

She rose up from her cowered position.  She hit him as hard as she could, with an open palm.  The blow sent him under the kitchen table, with the broken vine.  Looking back, she always wished she had doubled up her fist.  Knowing that the battle was not over, she ran to the front room.  The same room that held the char-broil floor grill.  She hit the couch like a freight train and got into position.  Back against the couch.  Legs and arms in fight mode.  He ran at her.

She kicked him, as hard as she could.  He still kept coming.  She kicked again.  Suddenly, he had his arms wrapped around her head.  She thought they were moving towards her throat.  They were.  As his arms passed by the front of her face, she knew there was only one thing left to do.  She bit him.  She bit him so hard that she felt as if it would end with a chunk of human flesh in her mouth.  Then, a miracle happened.  He gave up.  His excuse.  He was just trying to calm her down.  Sure. Right.  From that point forward, he never laid a hand on her again.

Did she leave.  No.  She thought her love could save him from the path he was going down.  But, she came to understand that it didn't matter.  It didn't matter what she did.  She would never be what he wanted.  In order to be what he wanted, she would have to change.  She would have to be someone she was not.  That understanding, as heartbreaking as it was, was the beginning to finding herself.  

She learned that she had put more importance into a six inch piece of plant, than she had ever put into herself.  It was not easy.  It did not happen overnight.  But, it was the starting point to a new beginning.

She can still see that strand of philodendron, laying on the floor.  Its heartfelt message, most likely,  saved her life.  

 

Dough Boy

 Reaching for the phone, it is always a delight to see a name on the screen that signals one of the five grandchildren is on the other end.

"G, what are you doing?" asked the youngest of three grandsons.

Regardless of whether my day was filled with a to-do list or if I was already knee deep in the latest project, the answer is always, "Nothing."  At this point, on the time line of my life, being needed by a grandchild is a rare delicacy, not to be taken for granted.  The 'nothing' was followed with "What's up?"

"I want to bake bread."  This was spoken so matter-of-factly, as if he had been baking bread for some time.  "Not just any bread", he added, "Texas Roadhouse Rolls bread."  

He arrived a short time later.  In his hands was a basket full of ingredients and a quickly scrawled recipe.  The latter, I assumed, had been found somewhere in the cyberspace of the internet.  As he unloaded the basket, he explained that his other set of grandparents were having a family dinner and everyone was bringing some sort of food.  He decided on bread.....rolls to be exact.

Anyone who has more than one grandchild understands that it is not only possible, but most likely a requirement, to view each one as a special and unique individual.  This idea also holds true for the inner wisdom of feeling different towards each one.  After all, they each have characteristics that set them apart.  Having raised only daughters, finding out the specific, eye opening, head shaking qualities of boys is a never ending learning experience.

This particular lad, soon to be 14, is the "McGyver" of the family.  His brain works in ways that, at times, leaves us speechless.  When he was two, he showed the babysitter how to open a locked door with a credit card, after seeing it done once before.  As I looked over his basket of goodies, I chuckled at one of the ingredients listed in the recipe.....flower. "I know, I know!"  He laughingly explained that his younger sister had already pointed out his faux pas.

Holding up a container of Bragg's Nutritional Yeast Seasoning, a flaky concoction of inactive dry yeast and vitamins, he explained that was what his mother had sent.  Obviously, bread making was not a recurring theme in our house, while the daughters were growing up.  Having several packets of active dry yeast in the cabinet, all was not lost.  

There were no instructions as to how to put the mixture together, but he was sure it all went into the mixer at the same time.  He finally accepted the idea that warming the milk, then adding the yeast and honey to the milk, might be a good thing. Putting all the flour into the mixer bowl and turning the dial, to blend the dry ingredients, resulted in a plume of dust that nearly resembled a mushroom cloud.  Then, it was time to add the liquid.  

We watched as the dough hook went round and round, but nothing was sticking together.  The suggestion of more milk was met with some resistance.  But, it was obvious, no matter how long we let the mixer spin, nothing was going to happen.  The additional milk was the ticket.  Finally, the dough began to stick together until the entire blob was sailing around inside the bowl.  He dumped it out on a floured spot on the island, gave it a couple of kneads, formed his dough into a somewhat round shape and placed it into a previously oiled bowl.  We covered it with oiled plastic wrap and placed it in the oven, with a pan of hot water set beneath the bowl, to help the dough rise.  

The dough needed to rise until doubled.  Living next door, he told me he would see me in about and hour.  With that statement, I watched as he exited stage left.  

In his absence, I looked for the recipe online.  The milk was short 1/4 cup.  The liquid part of the recipe was to be put together first, then the flour added........slowly.  

Glancing at the oven, the dough looked pretty much as it had when first put into the bowl.  Nearly half of the allowed rising time had passed.  I recalled having fixed a failed bread dough.  As I walked to the cabinet, to retrieve another packet of active yeast, the Voice, that lives inside my head spoke.  

I had not heard the Voice for quite some time.  Not exactly sure why, perhaps because I was too busy trying to convince myself on how I had been wronged.  The Voice asked me a question.  "Do you not remember what you learned about fixing things?"  I shut the cabinet door, looked at the dough one more time and remembered.  It was from a book, A Course in Miracles.  The subject of fixing things was the topic.  Being an almighty fixer of all things, be it a broken thingamabob, a relationship or a ball of dough, I was always looking for a way to make things right.  The latter sentence is a glamorous way of explaining a control freak.  The lesson was a simple one, but not easy to swallow.  It was not for me to fix things.  My job was to accept them as they were.  I pondered over this revelation again.  Maybe, just maybe, acceptance was the answer.  Was acceptance the apex?  The top of the mountain?  The end to the hardest climb ever? With acceptance, did a solution form that could not be seen before?  I left the dough alone.  The Voice sauntered off to the back recesses of my grey matter.  All the while, playing Her Strut, by Bob Seger.

With the return of the grandson, I watched in silent delight as 'punch the dough down' turned into a visual of a UFC battle.  Rolling the dough was just as entertaining.  He barely skimmed the surface, sending the rolling pin flying into the air on each pass.  He folded the dough, cut it into individual rolls, placed them on the baking sheet and tossed them in the oven.  It was at this time I learned that he had watched a Tik Tok video on how to make the rolls.  The internet and Google are becoming so old school.

The end result was a beautiful set of rolls.  One in particular, cut larger than the others, quickly disappeared for taste test purposes.  The family thought they were the best rolls ever.   

I shall just wait until the next time my assistance is called for.  May it hold as valuable a lesson as did the Dough Boy.