Drawing Hope from A New Hope

https://www.starwars.com/video/help-me-obi-wan-kenobi

“If you strike me down I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” — Obi-Wan Kenobi
“It’s not impossible. I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, they’re not much bigger than 2 meters.” — Luke Skywalker
Okay, this one’s from Episode V—The Empire Strikes Back, but I needed a little Han in my life.

2020 has been a year to try men’s and women’s souls, but it’s hardly the first time that our country, our world, has faced such incredible odds. I know the Star Wars universe is fictional, but still, I draw hope from the resistance. We might’ve lost our Obi-Wan when we lost Ruth Bader-Ginsburg, but just maybe we can rise up in her honor, making her more powerful than anyone could possibly imagine.

Peace, people.

The Right Side of the Force

I just bought a new white helmet to go with my new white bike. Matching is extremely important to me.

But the more I look at this stark white helmet, the more I feel like I’m ready to play a stormtrooper.

Straight out of the Star Wars universe. But, I’m one of the good girls, right?

May the Force, and peace, be with you.

From my personal collection.

eBay or Goodwill

Last week we had new carpet installed here at Doright Manor. In preparation for the arrival of the carpet layers I had to clean all of the stuff from the closet floors. Simple enough.

Finally I’d moved everything that might be in the way of the workmen into the seldom used living room and decided this afforded me the perfect excuse to assess every item, Marie Kondo style, to see if any joy was sparked before putting anything back in its old storage place.

After nearly a week of sorting through the odds and ends I’ve come to believe that joy is relative. Just because something doesn’t spark joy today doesn’t mean it won’t tomorrow. I’m hopeless.

That’s not to say I haven’t decided to get rid of a few things, but the manner in which they’re to be disposed of is giving me a few headaches.

I’m an avid Star Wars fan, and have collected dozens of action figures, plush toys, calendars, mugs, and silly promotional items over the years. But they aren’t being displayed. Instead, they’ve just been sitting and collecting dust. I did list a couple of items on eBay:

Vintage Yoda
Vintage Max Rebo

So far, I have one bid on Max and no bites on Yoda yet, even though he’s priced dirt cheap, and is in slightly better shape than Max. I’ll end up losing money on both items, but at least someone will get some joy out of them. And I’ll likely cry when they’re gone.

One of my problems in purging stuff is deciding if if an item should be tossed, sold, or donated. Actually, the tossing is fairly straightforward. Some things don’t deserve a second chance like the chewed up, stuffing-less cat toy I discovered in a box of clothes. But also in that box was this:

Vintage pleather!

This deep pink (I stress “deep” and not “hot”) pleather suit was my grandmother’s in the 80’s. Yes, my grandmother’s, and she looked gorgeous in it. I can’t remember why she gave the suit to me, but she must’ve been in her 70’s at the time and told me then that she was keeping the matching trousers because she’d still wear them. I just love that.

I wore the ensemble once many years ago to a party, but it wasn’t “me” for a number of reasons, and now the size ten is a tad too small. Plus, it still isn’t “me.”

BUT, should I send it straight to Goodwill or might someone browsing on eBay see it and say, “My goodness! I MUST have that deep pink suit!” This is my dilemma.

I think I’ll ruminate a while longer, and honestly that suit isn’t taking up too much closet space, right?

Peace, people.

Power of Observation

Never will I claim to be the most observant of humans. In fact, my husband of nearly 44 years, Studly Doright, is fond of telling me that I have “awareness issues.” I’d disagree with him if he weren’t so right.

Yesterday I wrote about a woman who, while visiting in my home, thought that when I said that I’d just finished my first novel that I meant I’d just finished reading my first novel.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2020/06/08/my-first-novel/

Okay, I get it. I don’t look all that scholarly, but she was in my home, where literally the first thing one sees upon entering Doright Manor is this:

And this:

Look around a bit and you’d see this:

And this:

And even this:

Oh, and then there are my Star Wars books:

And

The dust is real.

Most of my books are on kindle nowadays, but the evidence that I’m a reader is pretty clear. So perhaps I’m not the only one with awareness issues. Maybe we can start a club.

Peace, people.

Memory Glitch

Memory is an odd thing. There are happenings from my past that I remember with certainty, and I’d argue vehemently with anyone who suggested that my memories might be corrupted by time or experiences pre- or post-event. Or even that the memory wasn’t even my memory.

The truth is, though, that memories are subject to outside influences. Perhaps we’ve heard a story so many times that we believe we actually were part of the story. We’ve incorporated the ideas into our own psyches. I knew of this phenomenon, I just never had real evidence of it until recently.

Studly Doright and I were reminiscing the other night about an event that occurred twenty years ago when we lived in Great Bend, Kansas. Our dog had developed an infection in one of his toes and I walked him over to the veterinarian’s office just around the corner from our house. Our daughter, Ashley, accompanied me.

The vet took us back to the examination room immediately and looked at Snapper’s puffy paw. Apparently the dog had gotten some sort of seed embedded in his nail and it had become inflamed and contained a hefty amount of pus that needed to be drained. I held Snapper while the vet swabbed the dog’s paw with antiseptic and Ashley looked on, the scent of alcohol heavy in the room.

All went well until the moment the vet lanced Snapper’s paw and blood-laced pus came pouring from the infected area. I heard my daughter moan and watched her eyes roll back in her head as she began falling to the floor. I was holding the dog and grasping for my daughter’s arm to keep her from hitting her head on the floor. Meanwhile, the damned vet stood there laughing!

Somehow I managed to slow Ashley’s descent without dropping Snapper, as the vet calmly told a story about watching a big strong cowboy faint watching his horse undergo a similar procedure. Ashley still ended up on the floor, but not at full velocity. The vet bandaged the dog’s paw as poor Ashley lay unconscious. She was only out for a few seconds, but woke up thinking she’d overslept and missed a band concert scheduled for that evening.

We paid the vet (who I never took any of my pets to again) and slowly walked the block and a half home. Ashley, other than being a little disoriented, didn’t seem to have sustained any injuries, and we related our story to Studly Doright in full gory detail when we returned home.

Over the course of twenty years, Ashley and I both have told the story dozens of times. Never once has Studly Doright been at that vet’s office with us, that is, until he told the story during our little trip down memory lane. According to him, he was the one holding the dog. He was the one who kept Ashley from hitting the floor. He was the one who became exasperated by the vet’s silly nattering. No amount of arguing with him could convince him that his memory was false. Hell, I began wondering if I was the one with the faulty memory.

Then while at Ashley’s home in Illinois for Christmas I asked her to recount the story. She did, almost word for word the way I wrote it above. Studly couldn’t believe his ears; although, in the face of such strong evidence he began to realize that perhaps he had internalized the details of our story to the point he’d convinced himself that it had happened to him. He won’t quite admit that he was wrong, but he is no longer adamant that he was there.

It’s kind of fascinating, isn’t it? That the brain can trick itself into believing something. It makes me wonder what memories I have that aren’t accurate, or that aren’t even my own. Like that memory I have of Han Solo and me kissing on board the Millennium Falcon as we evaded Imperial ships on our way to Cloud City. Don’t you dare tell me that never happened!

Peace, people!

Timberrr

Studly Doright is making progress with his recovery from surgery on his sciatic nerve. He still isn’t sleeping well due to intense nerve pain, but he manages to push through somehow. He’s tough.

Saturday he joined his golf group for lunch where they regaled him with tales from their morning round. He misses golf almost as much as he misses his sleep.

Studly returned home at one, just as a thunderstorm rolled in. He and I both took a much needed nap while the storm raged outside. When he awakened Studly surprised me by asking if I wanted to go to a movie. Well, duh. I ALWAYS want to go to see a movie.

I’d already seen Solo, but Studly hadn’t, so we spent the afternoon in that galaxy far, far away. I enjoyed it more the second time than I did the first, and Studly gave it his seal of approval. Afterwards we enjoyed dinner at a Japanese steak house to round out the evening.

Before the film started, though, our neighbor texted me a picture of a tree that had fallen in our neighborhood. When we returned home we drove passed our home to take a look.

It’s hard to tell from this angle, but the tree fell on top of a trailer loaded with sod, narrowly missing the pickup truck that had been pulling the trailer. We aren’t sure if it was felled by lightning or if our oversaturated ground gave way. Such is life in the forest. Hopefully no one was injured.

Studly went to bed early, hoping to get some sleep. Fingers crossed.

Peace, people.

The Scoop on Solo

Yesterday I wrote of my intentions to see Solo: A Star Wars Story and of my trepidations. Han Solo, as played roguishly by Harrison Ford in the original trilogy and in the more recent, The Force Awakens, has been the inspiration for many of my romantic sci-fi daydreams over these past forty years.

Han Solo has been my imaginary hall pass. In other words, if Han, as played by Harrison Ford, ever shows up at my door in the Millennium Falcon Studly Doright gives his permission for me to spend some quality private time with the scoundrel. No questions asked. Mighty open minded of my Studly, wouldn’t you agree?

The film, Solo, is set in a time before the original trilogy, taking us back to before Han made his fabled Kessel run in twelve or so parsecs. Obviously Harrison Ford couldn’t play the part of scoundrel Han, having grown too old to play the younger version. I was genuinely concerned about the casting choice of Alden Ehrenreich. In the trailers he appeared too short, too boxy, too callow, too “not Harrison Ford.”

But, I am happy to report that not only is Mr. Ehrenreich a perfect Hal Solo (too young for me to lust over, but that’s okay), but Donald Glover is a fittingly rakish Lando Calrission, and Joonas Suotamo is a marvelous Chewbacca. The entire cast, including Woody Harrelson as the thief/smuggler, Becket, and Amelia Clark (also known as Game of Thrones’s Khaleesi) as young Han’s love interest, Kira, is spot on.

The pacing of the film is reminiscent of Star Wars, A New Hope. It’s fast and fun and chock full of wise cracks and charm and surprises. I was transported back to that world I fell in love with as a young adult.

Now, back to Han Solo. There’s one brief moment in which our young scoundrel is shown in profile, almost a silhouette, and he’s the spitting image of Han as portrayed by Harrison Ford. It almost took my breath away. Han lives on.

Go see the film. Let me know what you think. I’m curious to know if anyone else saw that scene as I did.

Peace, people.

Solo, Solo

I’m off this morning to see the newest Star Wars movie, Solo. Studly Doright can’t go with me due to a silly thing called work, so I’ll be seeing Solo solo.

Studly will want to see it once the new has worn off, so I’m sure I’ll see it more than once.

I’m torn, though. Harrison Ford IS Han Solo, so how can this young whippersnapper, Alden Ehrenreich, even dream of stepping into his boots? I’ve got mixed feelings about this.

I’m willing to give him a chance, though, to become the scruffy looking nerfherder I gave my heart to a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. May the Force be with him. And with all of us.

Peace, people.

Minimalist Challenge, Day 22: A Disturbance in the Force

As I journey deeper into February with the Minimalist Challenge, I’ve begun to realize how much I cling to certain unnecessary things: empty boxes, shopping bags, expired spices. Ridding myself of those kinds of items, though, caused me little to no angst. Today’s choices, by comparison, almost made me cry.

I’m a Star Wars geek, having lost count of the number of times I’ve watched episodes IV, V, and VI. And during the desolate years between the film Return of the Jedi (episode VI) and the prequel series beginning with The Phantom Menace (episode I), I consoled myself by reading books about the Star Wars universe.

The collection pictured above is but a drop in my personal Star Wars bucket. The books commence where Return of the Jedi ended and follow the intrepid rebels and their imperial enemies on one adventure after another. Some of the books are outstanding, stand alone novels that would have made great follow up movies to the original series. I fervently hoped the story lines in these George Lucas approved novels would be pursued on the big screen. Alas, the writers and directors went a different route.

I’m going to see if my grandson wants these books. If he doesn’t I’ll donate them to the Goodwill book store. Farewell. May the Force be with them.

Peace, people.