Sorry for the late posting today, baboons. Today’s guest blog is by Jacque.

The autumn skies are spectacular, especially at dawn and dusk. There is a point immediately after the sun sets on a clear day, when the light is dim, all silhouettes crisp. The exclamation point is the moonrise looming over the nearly night sky. Several weeks ago, driving home from work each evening at dusk, beautiful sunsets were strutting their stuff. Gorgeous shades of pink, yellow, orange, blue, and lavender spread across the western horizon. The car was headed westward, so each evening I saw the whole thing, start to finish. What a beautiful drive home.

It made me think of my late father and his favorite color. My sister, our friends, and I were obsessed with determining our favorite colors. We experimented with all the colors from the Crayola box. We also polled our parents and neighbors, persistently asking, “What is your favorite color?” Mom’s was orange. Dad’s was Sky Blue Pink with a Heavenly Border. Wow. Nobody could top that one. And he would show us this color at sunset.

“Look. There it is!” he would say, pointing west to the horizon.

So in September, when the sunsets were so lovely and I was making my way west towards home, I began to think of him. This prompted me to write a blog, with a picture of a sunset, of course. I had to carry my camera everywhere, so I could pull over and catch the color for the blog.

It took weeks. The sunsets were suddenly bland. The camera broke. I had to buy a new camera, learn to use it, and catch the just right sunset. I waited for days for the proper color and scene. It was tough. I took many pictures which were colorless, uninspiring, just not Dad’s color. Finally I found one that would do, even though it does not have quite enough Heavenly Border.

Then one morning, as I headed out to walk the dog I saw it again on the mailbox in the form of Morning Glories:

The beautiful sunset inspired memories, pleasant thoughts and a photographic binge. I learned new skills after the colors made me spend money on a new camera so I could share it with you. You just never know what a sunset will inspire.

What does color do for you? Do you have a favorite?

Today’s guest post is by Jacque.

Tuesday morning I went to the gym at about 7:00am. I was still a little groggy, waiting for the coffee to kick in, as I wandered toward the door of the community center when I heard hissing. To the right next to a bush was a Mama Duck protecting at least 10 little fluff ball chicks. And that Mama was MAD. Clearly I had committed a duck faux pas by thoughtlessly walking too close.

One of the most fascinating things about living in the Twin Cities is the population’s attitude towards these broods of ducks and geese each Spring breeding season. Normally fast moving traffic on the interstate will slow to a crawl, then a full stop, to allow a misdirected Mama and her babies to clear the road. These are drivers who sometimes seem willing to run their own slow Mama off the road.

In the mid-1990’s when I worked at a local Chemical Dependency Treatment Center for teenagers and young adults there was a Mama duck who returned to an interior outdoor courtyard of the facility every single Spring to build a nest and raise her family. The facility custodian would haul out the kiddie pool each spring, install it in the courtyard filled with water then place a plywood ramp up to the pool so the ducklings could learn to swim. These ducklings learned to walk up the ramp then jump into the pool for swimming lessons. Our teenage addicts stood for hours watching this through the window. Soon they would have to learn to swim in life stone sober.

When ducks could swim and walk the facility Executive Director would announce the date of The Duck Walk a week in advance. Each treatment group held Duck Walk Orientation so the kids would know what to do! During the duck walk every juvenile delinquent in the place was responsible for holding his or her piece of large cardboard in just the right place so the Mama and Family could be escorted through the building without escaping, then out the door. These juvenile delinquents and addicts found this event thrilling, often mentioning it as a highlight of the rehab program.

Last year on my way to work a goose family was confused and stuck in the middle of a four way stop. Traffic was carefully edging by them, slowing, stopping. When my turn came at the green light the family was positioned in a place where I would hit them if I proceeded. No one was moving while the panicked Mama tried to get the goslings off the road. But one crazy driver behind me wanted to MOVE NOW and laid on her horn. Not one other car moved to allow that driver through. Did she really want to run down the geese? Apparently so.

However, that lady is the exception. If you want to see living beings treated with compassion, gentleness, great care and loving kindness come to the Twin Cities during the Spring when Fowl run our roads and nest in our yards.

Do you have stories of Families most Fowl?

I was going to offer some pithy insight as an introduction to this intriguing post, but it has totally slipped my mind.
Today’s guest blog is by Jacque.

I guess I’m getting old. I can’t remember anything dependably anymore. My excuse is that the last two and a half years have been really stressful. My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, that repository of forgetting all, in the fall of 2008. I had to clean out her house and assist the siblings with her future plans. That took 9 months. By the time that was over, my business changed with someone suddenly leaving and someone arriving to fill the void. That was stressful, too, as I tried to keep the business up and running. Then another person was on a maternity leave. Those transitions went on until 3 months ago. I’m still recovering. But it is like child birth, you forget the pain over time.

I call this “Effective Forgetting.” But I’ve forgotten both the pain and everything I should have remembered over that 2 ½ year period. Like where I put stuff that I want. Where did I put the charger to my cell phone’s little hands -free microphone? And what happened to my favorite black turtle neck, anyway?

This is disorienting to me. I have always have had a really good memory. I loved history of any kind and could reproduce those facts on a college essay test so accurately that I could be accused of cheating. I did not cheat. It was just interesting, so I remembered the facts. Like my father before me, I used to remember faces and names with such deadly accuracy that sometimes I pretended NOT to remember names or people. It is just too embarrassing to remember everyone. And not everyone wants to be remembered. Plus they often don’t remember me, which is even more embarrassing. Thankfully, age has removed some of that burden.

But lately my memory is inconsistent. I still know my high school friends’ birthdays and most of their childhood phone numbers:

Ruth: July 14.
Carol: April 13
Debbie: February 19
Mary Kay: October 22.

Since they were all born the same year I was born, I have conveniently and effectively forgotten the year we were all born. Thus I don’t have to really face the reason for my wandering memory – age.

So along comes the “blog ahead idea.” After BBC (Baboon Book Club—see link on upper right hand of this page. All are welcome!) on January 9 I was inspired by Anna’s idea about guest blogs. She writes blog entries ahead of the actual date needed in order to be prepared for the next request.

“What a good idea,” I thought. “I’m going to do that.”
“I have to write those down or I will forget. And when there is a request for guest blogs I can’t think of anything,“ I thought. This blog ahead idea really appealed to my inner Martha Stewart, that master of organizing and homemaking for money. Martha is on top of everything. And her assistant must have a great memory.

My husband, Lou who attended the BBC with me, and I were chatting about the meeting on the way home, so I forgot to write down the ideas. (His fault. He distracted me). And I forgot the ideas. Then I forgot I was even going to do some really clever blogs to have “in the bank.” So of course, within days of forgetting it all, Dale posts his next request for guest bloggers.

“Oh, yeah,” I thought. “I was going to write those, whatever they were. I forgot.”

I can remember those old birthdays, but I cannot remember those killer ideas that seemed so inspiring. So instead you get a blog entry about forgetting. I also never remember the calorie count of those cookies I should not have eaten or the pounds they put onto my hips. I’ll eat those same cookies again, given the opportunity. That is not Effective Forgetting because I have to turn around and take those calories away somehow.

What do you need to remember?

A Guest Blog by Jacque

In my young adult years I worked in a library twice, once in college “keypunching” the stacks during the first computerization of the collections, then later, at the front desk of the Public Library in Grand Rapids, MN. There in that presumably intellectual, quiet, sedate literary setting, I found a noisy, messy, colorful human parade.

It was not at all what I expected.

One day while I was at my front desk post, a quiet man who frequented the library shot through the entry door carrying a bag, making a beeline for me. He abruptly stopped, spun around to face me, then reported to me that he had just returned from a trip to Martinique where he owned an estate. He handed me the bag saying, “These figs are from my estate. They are for you. Next time I go there, you must accompany me.” He turned and fled out the front door. I was stunned. I looked at the bag of figs. The bag was from the local green grocer who was offering figs on a special. The library book he returned was a book about Martinique. Although he was at the library often, he never spoke to me again, silently presenting his books at the checkout station, then moving on.

Another patron routinely checked out grocery bags full of paperback romances—Harlequins, bodice rippers, tattered and torn books. She always returned them on time, then took another bagful with her out the door. However, the patron was so shy she could hardly look at me. When she did look at me she frequently had a bruise on her cheek or her arm, or a black eye. Not a romantic life at all I feared.

Most afternoons at the library between 2:30 and 3:30 p.m. local businessmen would come in and sit in the lounge area near the front desk where the newspapers were located. They would read and chat with each other. It was a party atmosphere.

One afternoon at that time when the area was full of these patrons, a ditsy blonde approached the front desk. “I’m going on a vacation to England,” she announced to me loudly and proudly. “But I am afraid of flying. I need the book Fear of Flying by Erica Jong!” hitting the J heavily.

“Excuse me?” I said, surprised. “Fear of flying?”

“Yes! I’m going to England on an airplane. But I get so nervous, so I want to read that book to get over it.”

I cleared my throat, uncomfortably viewing the room full of businessmen and lowering my voice. “Well, ma’am, actually, you might not want that book. That is an erotic book. It’s not really about air travel.”

“Oh, yes it is!” she insisted. “ I read about this in a magazine.”

“Um, no, Ma’am, it is an erotic book.”

“Erractic?” she said loudly. “Well, of course I’m erratic!. That’s why I’m scared on an airplane! Now, where can I find that book?”

The businessmen were looking at us. She had certainly garnered their attention. Several were chortling.

“Ma’am,” I said in a whisper. “Not erratic. EROTIC. It’s a SEXY book.”

“Well, I want that book.” She demanded.

I gave up, my face reddening, then directed her to that section of the stacks. She brought the book back and checked it out. I thought it might cure her anxiety – surely the subject matter of the book and the shock of the content would distract her from her fear of air travel. But I’m sure that this book was not what she thought it was. She had a significant misconception about the Fear of Flying. I just wish I could have watched her read the first few chapters.

Have you encountered anything that turned out to be very different than what you thought it was? A book? A job?