"K" is for K - an Affinity; a Kinship

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One thing I love about blogging is how much it helps to increase my understanding of words. As I write, I may have a certain word in mind that might be good to use, but I look it up in 3 or 4 sources first, just to be sure it'll say exactly what I want it to. 

Of course, then there's the possibility that a reader may not do the same, i.e. look it up, and just might have a different idea in mind when they read that word. To a certain extent, that's the chance a writer takes. But on the other hand, that's also part of the trust relationship between the one reading and the one writing, i.e. that the words were chosen to the best of that writer's ability in considering his or her audience. But isn't this true of all communications?

Language skills and our use of words should be, I would think, highly respected and guarded, as in protected or preserved. Hard to admit, but integrity in saying what is meant and meaning what one says, is almost a lost art in this day and time. It has become much more commonplace to read between the lines -- almost expected. If authors thought that way as they wrote, we probably wouldn't read books.

So...all of this being said, allow me to share a definition (or two) that I found today for the word, affinity:

1. A spontaneous or natural liking or sympathy for someone or something, 
2. A similarity of characteristics suggesting a relationship; a kinship.

I have a definite affinity with the letter K. You may think I say this simply because my name is Kathy. Aahh...true, but it goes much deeper since my given name was actually Mary Kathleen. You see, because my mom's name is Mary, and Junior doesn't work very well for a girl, they chose to shorten my middle name to Kathy, for...uhh...practical reasons?! That's okay. I finally made my own preferences official, causing a strong affinity for the name, M Kathy.

Etching in a Granite Monument

Another strong affinity is with my maiden last name -- Kalkman. It's German, meaning man who works with stone. This holds special interest to me, because my great grandfather started a monument business called Melrose Granite Company. Both my grandfather and my dad worked for Melrose, not as stoneworkers, but as sales reps for the business. That's a paradox to me, which intrigues me, which somehow causes a greater affinity to that name, which begins with...

Then I married Kelly, whose given name was actually Kevin, who has a brother and only sibling named Kerry. Go figure. You would tend to think I must have a thing for K's. 

 

And to think...I was almost going to write about kites today...of which I have absolutely no known affinity!

"J" is for Jumping Jacks

Have you ever tried to do a thousand jumping jacks? 

You get to 100...200...300...and you just keep going until your legs turn to rubber. Then you finally look down to see if those rubberized appendages are okay, and they aren't even moving...but you thought they were.

You're thinking you should quit. You're thinking it's all good because at least you tried. That's when you hear the voice of your favorite Star Wars' character:

 

"No," scolded Yoda. "Do, or do not. There is no try." 

So you ignore the sensation and continue to "jump" with your arms flaggling in the air as if you no longer own them. You have no idea what number you're on, but someone else is counting for you, so it doesn't matter. 

Then it happens. Suddenly you realize neither your arms or legs are actually moving -- not even twitching -- but somehow your mind is convinced you're still doing jumping jacks. Reality creeps in and you are terribly aware of how silly you must look. 

You glance around only to discover that many of the other jumpers aren't moving either, or have melted to the floor. The leader is still up front, jacking with near p-e-r-f-e-c-t form, while counting aloud. How does he do it?!! you ask yourself. 

Finally, the counting stops. It's over. And...you're still standing! You try to walk away, but can't. So you sit down right in the middle of the floor where you were once-upon-a-time jumping a jack...now...recovering. 

Carefully stretching each muscle as your breath and pulse return to that familiar quiet and steady rhythm, you start to feel as if someone just figured out how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Ever so slowly, you rise, and methodically walk away.

You know you are no longer the same person. You've changed. But you can't explain exactly how. You smile with satisfaction as a solitary yet powerful thought comes to mind:
     I was still standing :~)

"I" is for Island - the Catalina Kind

I always thought there is one thing I am not, and that's a romantic. Who's a romantic? Or should I say, What's a romantic? Actually, either one will work. At least the online dictionaries don't state much difference between the two.

Romantic ~ adj.

1. Inclined toward the feeling of excitement and mystery associated with love; as a romantic candlelit dinner
2. Relating to love, esp. in a sentimental or idealized way; as a romantic comedy
3. an idealized view of reality 
4. relating to the artistic and literary movement of Romanticism 

After reading through those definitions, I would still tend to believe that I'm really not much of a romantic. But...I'm also starting to realize that I may have been lying to myself. 

Cao Yong ~ The Vision Beyond

Why? Because of these other definitions I found: 

• passionate and imaginative, rather than structured 
• a soulful and amorous idealist to the extent of being impractical 
• a visionary

These insights reveal why I might also be part of that illustrious group of dreamers called romantic, and perhaps this also explains why I would choose Catalina Island as my #2 choice for a vacation. 

It was our first real vacation -- the kind that you actually go somewhere other than visiting family. All the plans were in place -- two complete days of fun at Knott's Berry Farm, Movieland Wax Museum and Disneyland, then over to Long Beach where my husband and I would board an early morning ferry headed for our romantic getaway on Catalina Island. 

Although there are actually two towns on the Island (Two Harbors being one of them) Avalon is the port of entry. It has a very beautiful bay, especially at night when the entire beachfront comes alive with its inhabitants seeking fresh fish cuisine or an evening stroll.

We chose the Victorian-style, historic Glenwood Hotel for our 3-day stay. They offered a wine and cheese social every evening, and a continental breakfast in the same courtyard where luminaries such as Amelia Earhart and Teddy Roosevelt often sipped their tea. The crowning touch was our room, which pleasantly depicted a bygone era, along with a very comfy bed. 

The best Italian restaurant I've ever eaten at was Prego's on Catalina Island -- an ultra tiny, family-owned taste of Italy on the waterfront, all done up in red checkered gingham on the tables and in the windows. I asked if they were connected to the grocery store sauce, and was informed they were one of a kind...no others...including the sauce.

So...maybe you're wondering why I called Catalina my #2 choice for a vacation. Maybe, just maybe, you thought for a moment and wondered what my #1 choice might be. Answer? The Grecian Islands...sigh. 

Okay. So...no...I'm not a romantic. Me?! Uh-uh...not at all. That's why I write NON-fiction...right??! ...HA!

"H" is for Hennessy - Mixed by Ray

This is not my normal subject or purpose in writing, but I simply have to tell someone about this new drink I invented...well, me and Ray.

Last night, my husband and I simply had to take one of our best friends (visiting from out of state) to this super cool speakeasy-type jazz bar under the historic Armstrong Hotel, called Ace Gillett's. Their house band, John Olson's Subterranean Jazz Trio, was setting up as we were being escorted to our table. That's when we asked for our favorite server.
 
Kelly has the looks, charm and personality that appeal to both men and women -- a very rare quality. She brings half the fun of the night to the table, and makes you feel like she's the genie in the bottle, saying, Your wish is my command.

When Kelly asked for our first round of drinks, I was utterly stumped. I knew the master bartender was nearly a drink genius, so I told her I was in the mood for something with brandy or cognac, mixed with kahlua and topped with Gran Marnier. She replied, "Martini?" I nodded and she headed for the bar to talk it through with Ray.

In the end, I received one of the yummiest martini drinks ever, that even included a reasonably yummy price tag. I began with Korbel Brandy, but switched it up to Hennessy Cognac VS for my 2nd and 3rd rounds.  

This is paradise, I thought. Smooth to the palate, tingly-warm going down, and an almost chocolaty finish. I decided to call it my:
                     Kahlua-Cognac Gran Maritini.

This is why "H" can only be for Hennessy...at least for now :~)) 

NOTE: The pictures of Ace Gillett's and Ray are courtesy of Ace Gillett's on Facebook.

"G" is for Ginger

2008 proved to be quite an eventful year for me. 

The four of us -- my mother, my husband, his mother with her Bijon Frise, and me -- all moved into this little green remodeled ranch-style house built in 1980. Nothing too fancy, but it was home.  

In fact, some of you may have read the story of how my husband dug a hole for the koi pond in the frozen, mud-packed, March earth amidst the roots of the aspen trees just outside our front door. 

By July we needed to replace our teal 1993 Ford Crown Victoria, so we chose to lease a new red Mazda CX-9. A wise choice, but I'd never recommend acquiring a new car in the first year after closing on a home.

What's all this have to do with "G" for Ginger!?

Well...not even a month later, we found ourselves looking for a way to break up boredom, when I suggested driving down the road to where an animal rescue tent had been set up...just to take a look. So that's what we did...with one exception.

I was ready to leave when my husband informed me that we didn't drive down there just to go home empty handed. Yikes! This really wasn't part of my plan to break up boredom. I turned towards him and said, "But there's only one dog here that I'd be interested in...that tiny female blonde Cocker Spaniel." She just sat there -- upright, sort of regal-like -- quietly observing everything going on in the midst of all the chaotic hub-bub. 

We soon learned how that little dog had lived her entire 5 years as a puppy-mill mommy, still showing evidence of nursing her last litter. The only home she had ever known was a wire crate about 2 feet off the ground. Sadly, green grass, toys and a vet were foreign to her, as was good food and exercise. That made it a done deal.

Once home, we  began to try on a dozen or more names over the next few days. The Rescue had named her Chloe, but that was not going to work for us. We finally chose Gingersnap, but decided to shorten it to Ginger. Somehow, it just seemed to fit.

So...they call this the kitchen.

Actually, I kinda like this grooming thing.

All mine!

This is a... toy.

They let me pick my bed out all by myself!

Am I dreaming or is this real?

Looking good and knowin' it : )

Practicing my new "p-l-e-a-s-e?"

This is where I learn tolerance.

Aaahh... MY chair!

Didn't know I'd fit under here so nicely :)

You moved MY rug.

Get off!?

Let me think about this...

Okay... but I want it back.

Finally, where it's supposed to be.

Do you want to... play?

They say I'm a little... dear?

Well, there it is. In a mere 6 months we had managed to move into our own home, lease a brand new car, and rescue a dog. Yes, 2008 was quite an eventful year indeed, as were these last two with our Ginger.

"F" is for F.E.A.R. - and its Demise

Fear is a strange creature. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I even dared to believe that it was a good motivator under certain conditions. Yes, it may indeed provoke a person into action, but it'll be short-lived. True motivation is when a person responds from the heart, and long-lasting desired results are achieved. 

Then, a not quite as long so-very-long-time ago, I was taught how to confront fear -- be it mine own or anyone else's. This, I craved. But how scary it seemed to even begin to take it on! 

Actually, it's not nearly as daunting as it first sounded to be. The seed of fear is doubt, which breeds worry, which eventually brings on the fear. It lessens the hair on the beast to break it down.

On the flip-side, the opposite of worry is trust, and the opposite of doubt is confidence. This means it's possible to derail the fear train at either of those two points. Where there is worry, simply build trust; where there is doubt, focus on whatever it takes to get rooted in total, undeniable, confidence.

And to seal the deal and stay focused, there's a nifty acronym that has always kept me from falling off the edge of panic or freezing in my tracks and just going numb. It clarifies and defines fear in such a way that it truly shrinks it down to near bite-size. Perhaps you've heard it before:

F-alse. 
E-vidence. 
A-ppearing. 
R-eal. 

I just look that not-so-hairy tiny creature right in the face in the mirror, and tell it what a big fake it is! I remind it how it wouldn't even hold up in a court of law! Then I just go about my business building the trust and instilling the confidence, until I'm good and saturated. 

Actually... it's sort of fun to get rid of that stuff :~)


~~With that all being said, I can now get ready to head out for the evening with some absolutely wonderful people for the best and most unique tasting pizza -- anywhere -- "F" is for Falbo Brothers' Pizza!  

"E" is for EARTHWORM

At the end of the month I would turn 8, making this the first Fourth of July I was allowed to have my own firecrackers, which I had tucked nicely away into my back pocket.  My dad had rented our normal little cottage for the long holiday weekend, that was somehow big enough for all 4 of us kids. My grandpa and grandma would be there for the day to fish, visit, and watch Dad set off all the fireworks from the dock that night.

Patty Calfy/Shutterstock

The morning was overcast, but I had a hankering to go fishing. Getting up early, I spent a good amount of time in the wooded area behind the cottage, digging for night crawlers -- those nice big over-sized earthworms that come up to the surface at night. I figured about a half dozen in a paper cup would do it, and grabbed my pole as I headed down to the dock. Dad had concluded it was too much of a bother to take the boat out in the misty drizzle.

I was pretty good with a rod and reel in my hand, casting out a good distance, and liked using a little red and white plastic bobber to watch in the water. The first worm sat tight on the hook, but was still lost to young perch -- just nibblers. My next one gave it up when the hook momentarily caught on some underwater debris. By now I was even more determined to catch something worth showing off.

My next cast landed at the edge of the lily pads, and down the bobber went -- a good hard hit. I didn't even have to set the hook! As I began to reel it in, I realized there wasn't the normal fight of a fish at the end of my line. Closer...closer...almost up to the dock...and I finally could see it in the dark water. A turtle!

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Lifting it out of the water with my pole, I swung it over to the grassy bank. Running down the dock, I called out to my two teen-aged brothers, "Come and see! Come and see!!" By the time I got to the crawling turtle, both of them were already there investigating. Yep. The worst thing had happened. It was a snapper!

Placing a stick the size of my finger into its mouth, they showed me how the little green guy would just snap it in two. I faced a dilemma: how to get my line out with the hook intact. The boys walked away, saying I was on my own. Great. I knew I would have to get Dad to cut the line and attach a new sinker-weight and hook, but I also knew Dad wouldn't want to mess with it right then.

I moved the turtle and pole a good ways inland, then headed up the embankment to the cottage. Dad seemed rather busy entertaining everyone there when I spoke up, but leaning down he told me I would need to find something else to do. As far as I was concerned, that was simply not an acceptable solution.

With renewed determination, I patted my back pocket, grabbed my pole, reeled the line in till the turtle was right up to the end of my rod, and marched out to the end of that dock. Then...carefully...I took not one, but two firecrackers, out of my pocket and carefully twisted their fuses into one. Lighting the mini explosives, I held them up to the snapper's mouth. As he chomped down hard, they held together, and I quickly lifted my rod and cast the turtle out high over the water -- as if it was going to be bait for a bigger catch.

Kapow!! Blam!! Pieces flew everywhere! My eyes scanned the shore to see if anyone had noticed. Not a soul. My moment of glory, and no one saw it! Not that I enjoyed the fact that I had just blown up a turtle, but I reveled in the realization that I had just solved my impossible dilemma! 

Slowly, I reeled in my line, relieved that the sinker and hook were still in place. But, then I looked again. I could hardly believe my eyes! There -- sitting on the hook completely intact and almost like new -- was my nice big over-sized EARTHWORM!

"D" is for Doughnuts

While growing up, my hometown had an absolutely dynamite bakery called Ralph's. To this day I have never found any other place quite like it. They had everything, and everything they had was melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

My oldest brother and I would always save enough money to stop at Ralph's after a Saturday matinee, for our mile-walk home from the theater. The custard filled raised doughnut dusted with powdered sugar was my favorite, but the warm raised and glazed ones with the holes ran a close second. Totally yummy!

By the time we had reached home, the evidence was gone. It always seemed to puzzle Mom that I didn't have any appetite on movie day - how can just a candy bar and small popcorn, over 5 hours ago, ruin your supper?

Many years later, I was living in Houston, Texas, when I discovered a pretty amazing bakery less than half a block from work. At each morning break, having skipped breakfast, I would find myself at this enticing little shop ordering my all-time favorites to take back to the office. (Being in my early twenties and skinny, I figured it was no big deal at the time)

One particular hungry morning, having just spent my very last penny on my scrumptious delights, I had to leave them on my desktop while I met with my boss in his office. As we talked, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the office mascot, Brother Slick, get up and leave the room. Wrapping up the details, I headed back to my desk.

My eyes raced around the room then back to my desk. No doughnuts! It had to be a practical joke. I asked everyone at the office. No one had seen anything...no one had a clue! I was so dismayed I was nearly heartbroken. My absolute favorite custard filled raised doughnut dusted with powdered sugar -- gone!! 

That's when I noticed the evidence. The powdered sugar was on my chair and on the floor. Even more was found a few feet away, but then it seemed to go cold as the white powder trail came to an abrupt halt. I looked up and there he stood -- the remaining white dust all over his muzzle. Our mascot, Slick, was my boss' black lab, and the evidence was undeniable. The little crook!  

You dirty little black devil doughnut eater! Those were MY doughnuts, I told the dog. Amidst the background of muffled laughter, I was trying very hard to keep a straight face. Meanwhile, thinking he was just living up to his name, Brother Slick moaned and belched and sauntered back to his nook in the boss' office and lay down -- satisfied.