I Got Tail-Wagged

Oh my goodness! What happened? My friend's uneasy eyes were focused on the deep blue black bruise on the back of my thigh. Because of its proximity behind me, out of my normal range of vision, I had nearly forgotten about it. At least that is, unless I was sitting with a chair edge pressing on it to remind me.

A couple of days earlier during a visit with my son and daughter-in-law and two grand-babies, I got tail-wagged. They share their home with a large dog, Dozer, a fine four footed pal. He enjoys his human family and their guests with exuberant paw prancing and tail wagging.

That tail of his whipped my bare skin like a wound up damp towel in the hand of a fourteen year old brother. I felt the sting but didn't think much of it. Continuing to feel the sting a minute or so later I reached down to rub it out and was startled to feel a large lump at the point of the sting. Looking, I was even more startled to see where my leg indeed had swollen and was bruising.

I did what doctors always say to do in such a circumstance, apply a cold compress. In this case it was my grandson's chilled juice pouch. I sat for fifteen minutes or so, as the juice pouch provided relief for the stinging and reduced the swelling, it proved highly effective.

By the time my friend spotted the unsightly evidence of my frailty, the bruise was at its worst. It did look like I had been involved in some sort of dreadful accident, but no, I simply wore the proof of an excited k-9.

For a few days it was a reminder of how something as small as that one bruise on the back of my leg, can have so big an influence on the rest of my body. It demanded a lot of my attention and would not let me forget it was there.

I was careful when I sat and when I moved at night, even when half asleep. I was conscious of what I would wear for the day, making sure that if I would be out in public, that part of my leg could not be seen. It was not a pleasant sight, no one should have been unwittingly subjected to the same uneasiness my friend experienced at seeing it.

I thought about how my body's built-in healers sounded the alarm, like the siren of a volunteer fire department house, summoning the special ops team to the emergency, immediately getting to work minimizing and repairing the damage, and how this human body is a fascinating thing.

An ever so faint shadow remains now after a couple of weeks. That too will fade away completely. But this seemingly insignificant experience produced thoughts that are so applicable to living and being alive. How one thing, even a seemingly insignificant thing, one look, one word, one slight wrong move, has the potential to become so much bigger than ever thought possible, for harm or for good. And, though I am only one person, I should never underestimate my God given, God encouraged potential, and should bare in mind that same potential for every one person. Remembering also, that like my bruise, one person has the potential to inflict harm and damage that the whole is effected by, and that when the whole rallies to the aid of the harmed or damaged, healing ensues. One, but not alone, is the DNA of our divine design.

I could have done without the tail wagging as far as the discomfort and unsightliness goes, but the thoughts inspired by the incident are keepers. Those two life ingredients demand attention, and when attention is given, potential produces.

In the future, I will make a better effort to stay near the front end of Dozer, having been once wagged. I will also probably think about all the thoughts that tail wagging prompted. I will pat his head and scratch his ears and say to him, "good boy Dozer, good boy".

I Was Supposed To Be a Princess

No-one ever knew, what I always knew, I was supposed to be a princess.
Not in the traditional sense, of carriages drawn by prized horses on a stone crescent passageway right up to a servant flanked large double door castle entrance.
Not the sort of multi level estate that rose from foggy moors, with turrets and towers where unseen eyes peer from upper room's harlequin leaded and dimpled glass windows.
Not part of a royal bloodline, of governess's, boarding schools and unhappy arranged marriages, that lead to family secrets.
No, not like that at all.
I was to be the happily ever after type of princess.
It was never the wealth that I desired, I knew enough that money would not be the determining factor in my happiness. It was never the grand estate that I needed, I always said I could live in a shack as long as I knew I was loved. Never was it about status or image, I did not aspire to make a mark in the world as a whole, only to the people of my own little world. I always loved beautiful clothes and shoes and jewelry, I loved to have perfectly manicured nails, as well as freshly scrubbed floors, two enemies of one another. Still none of these were to determine my position of princessness.
The one and only determination had always been, the prince.
It would be he whose arm I graced in the world, and into whose arms I would daily securely rest, in our castle, even if it were really just a shack. It would be him, my prince, whose eyes would only ever see me, and what he saw in me would always be more than enough to satisfy. My prince would possess a supernatural devotion that would always and forever, above and before anyone or anything else, protect, honor, and defend, us.
I have lived a lot of life. I have gathered a very fine collection of experiences. Rich, rewarding, fulfilling and even astonishing experiences. But I learned that wishing to be a princess does not make it so.
What I did not know from the beginning was that prospective princes did not automatically enter the would be kingdom wearing rose colored glasses, the kind that I apparently had been wearing unbeknownst to me. Too many potential princes wind up choosing beer goggles as their preferred vision enhancer. Certainly I have always been able to see with an optimistic eye, but in my princesslessness, hindsight has proven blindness.
Some days it is so sad to me. Not many, I could recount the total of them on my fingers, but on those days it is a permeating sadness that I feel. A sadness that overwhelms, and oozes hot from my pores and wet on my cheeks. Why couldn't I have had a prince? Some girls get a prince, why didn't I get one? Should my youthful inexperience be held against me for every day of the rest of my life? Other girls were just as youthfully inexperienced and they were given a prince, why was I not given a prince? The one requirement for my princesshood, denied.
I wanted a Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights, one without whom, neither of us would be whole. That was not, and never can be. That is imagination.

On occasion, for a very few hours, I allow me to indulge in senseless emoting over what is lost, time, youth, or just never was even possible. I don't know, maybe it is just part of the chemical and hormonal makeup of the mysterious female.
It will pass and I will be none the worse for it, in fact maybe I will even be improved.
It is in times of misplaced wishes and dreams that didn't come true, that I redirect focus. As if placing an oxygen mask over my face, shallow breaths first, leading up to deep rejuvenating, life infused, cleansing, invigorating, cool fresh air.
I breathe deep.
Inhale hope in, exhale sadness out, inhale power in, exhale fragility out, inhale color in, exhale gray out.
It works, it cures as I say these words through the oxygen mask to no one listening, but One, Jesus loves me, Jesus loves ME, Jesus LOVES me, JESUS loves me!
I knew I was a princess.

P.J.

A Great Day!

It's been so long since I pecked out (my personal method of typing) a few blog words, that I feel like a stranger to the idea.
There's been a lot to type about but time to invest in the activity has been short.
I have been writing daily in a journal, one poem per day, some days have produced two, for almost a full year. March 11 will complete that goal.
There is also the not so small matter of classes that I've somehow gotten myself mixed up with, demanding my attention.
And I am very careful to take time for me. Time to step back from obligations and commitments, time to sip life's nectar, time to not just look but see, all there is, in every day.
To see what is perfectly infused with beauty, peace and joy, absorbing it into my soul like a sponge at the shore, even if only for a few minutes, is essential to living, like oxygen and water.
This day, this Sunday, I was fortunate to begin the day with the sweet innocence of my precious five year old granddaughter. She had dressed herself for church before anyone else was out of bed. Having twice mentioned her happiness yesterday that tomorrow was church day, she was looking forward to it. She was a vision with her little bohemian influenced outfit of multiple print dress, bracelets and a feathered head band. Any day that begins like this one is bound for greatness.
All day long I have had intermittent thoughts of the service this morning at church. I said to myself in those thoughts, that this may have been the best presentation of the passage of scripture in Revelation about the bride preparing for the Bridegroom, that I have ever heard. I am so inspired by its truths and can only imagine what that ceremony will one day, soon and very soon, actually be like. Just as when Jesus came the first time, people were caught unaware, so will it be when He comes the second time. Prepared or not, He will come. There is an urgency to prepare, for gathering all who are to attend the wedding, and together with them, prepare. As a bride prepares for that special day, with the perfect dress, shoes, hair, makeup, venue, guest list, photographer, food, cake, all in order, no detail left undone, so too should we be ready.
To top off this day, a friend invited me to the fine art, jewelry and antique show, always a feast for the eyes and inspiration for the creative heart. One exhibitor gave me two frame worthy glossies of a particular artists that I am enamored with. I brought home a couple free publications too, another favorite thing to do.
All of that brings me here, to my long neglected but much loved blog.
I'm going to pair these words up with a photo or two of the Valentines day tulips that are on the baby grand piano that dominates my small, but ever so much lovelier because of its presence, kitchen.
Just a few beauties and joys.
What a great day.

P.J.

Thankful's

There are an awful lot of things I wish were different. Everyone could say the same. In fact, some make a habit of saying it, stuck in an "oh woe is me" mode. Sometimes the circumstances of life hurl us into that mode with such force that we cannot catch our breath as we spin, helpless to stop, but thankfully circumstances change, that is one certain thing, nothing stays the same.
I wish for more money. Everyone does, especially these days, a ton of it, money provides more opportunity, and who doesn't wish for that?
I wish none of us would ever get hurt, or sick, or grow old, and we could always be together.
I wish my house had enough table space that all my family, children and their in-laws and friends, could gather in one place for holiday festivities, so they would never feel obligated to choose, or that their time had to be divided.
I wish that there was a park right next door where everyone could spread out and have plenty of room to run, and roll, and romp, and hop, and throw, and bat, and bump, and jump for joy.
It sounds like the song lyrics my little kids sang with gusto in the back of our loaded station wagon.- "a big big house, with lots and lots of rooms; a big big table, with lots and lots of food; a big big yard, where we can play football; a big big house, it's my Father's house". Sweet were those days!
With all that I wish I could make different, I am a thousand times more grateful for how right and good so many more things are, have been, and will yet be.
It has probably been about two decades since beginning our family tradition of naming three things we are thankful for before enjoying Thanksgiving dinner. It was an idea I happened to hear about on the car radio one day near Thanksgiving, while going about my usual motherly chores. Each person at the Thanksgiving table would be given 3 items, unpopped popcorn kernels were suggested, to be dropped one by one into a jar as the person dropping them stated what they were thankful for. The idea of it being, to have tangible representatives of all of our "thankful's" as they accumulated in the jar through the years.
The first several years of additions in the mostly empty jar, barely had a presence. Slowly they occupied more and more space, and with time, beads, and other tiny objects, have indeed filled to the brim, that little jar of thankful's.
It was easy back then to get stuck in oh woe is me mode, there were so many difficulties, but those little kids needed positive influences to be stronger than the negative. We all needed to make ourselves consider what was right and good, to consciously refuse the vortex of negativity permission to suck us in. So began our habit of at least one time a year, thinking and speaking aloud in the presence of eachother, of that for which we were thankful.
Little boys being little boys, meant the idea was first met with eye rolls, as they were more intently focused on dinner rolls, while little sister loved and took advantage of every opportunity to take center stage. Sometimes they could not resist the chance to be a comedian for a ready audience, and would name something they were sure would get the whole gang laughing and fooling around, I should add here, that some big boys find it equally impossible to resist being like little boys when they all get together at Mom's house, like the good old days, which means that this is a continuing activity of family gatherings to this day. Sometimes the named things were just that, things, like a bike, skateboard, or skip-it. But every year, at least one would take the ritual seriously, having given genuine thought to what they were prepared to say they were thankful for, and at the risk of appearing corny, be brave enough to put into words what is not always easy to. Eachother. Home. Food. A mentor. Jesus. Grandparents. Parents. It was an activity that bared hearts, exposed vulnerability, helped us establish who we were, who we would become, and who we are today.
The family has grown; grown up, grown out, grown larger, and grown comfortably accustomed to expressing love and care. It is obvious now, that this Thanksgiving tradition which started out being a somewhat bothersome activity to keep us impatiently waiting for all the good food that was getting cold, has become something we would all miss most about the day if not continued.
The tradition has been fine tuned and perfected since those early days. We now wait to put hot foods on the table until after we've done our thankful's, and the last couple years we have written our thankful's on paper, as well as stating them, so that in the future we can look back and remember exactly what each little bead, or popcorn kernel, or button in our thankful's jar, represents. Instead of one jar, a separate jar for each year will contain our beads, papers, and a photo of those present for Thanksgiving dinner, my daughter-in-love's idea (my friend Mary calls her kids' in-laws, "in-loves"; another idea I think is appropriate and have adopted, thanks Mary!).
One of my daughter-in-love's parents joined us this year, we broke her Mom in by unintentionally neglecting to tell her that the bathroom doorknob sticks; she was locked in. With all the activity in the house, when we heard knocking, it didn't seem like anything so unusual that it needed to be addressed. When she had repeatedly knocked and called for help to no avail, she finally managed to jiggle, (which is the effective method) the stuck lock, and enable her own freedom. She was a good sport, we thanked her for the days first belly laugh.
My heart is full. As we went around the table, each taking a turn to name our thankful's, it was a beautiful traditional activity to participate in. The children made us laugh as the little one new to verbal communication was thankful for "1) bus, 2) bus, 3) bonk" (the sound his bead made as it hit the bottom of the jar!), and my granddaughter raised her hand and said "pick me" as she sensed uncle Andy needed help choosing what he was thankful for! My daughter was thankful for brothers who were like "six dad's". We were thankful for opportunity, ability, family, friends, health, Volkswagens, children, grandchildren, spouses, jobs, troops, safety, freedom, love, peace, joy, Santa, another year, energy, the Bible, and Jesus, always Jesus, and, that we carry on this family tradition.
There was play time as the festivities of the indoors moved to the out, with fabric tunnel crawling and rolling, and an all time uncle favorite-picking up children and spinning, and potato sack (pillow case) hopping. G-ma came through with a train whistle, harmonica, spoon and pot lid, and plastic container of peanuts for shaking, that combined for a band. Auntie brought out an old favorite, sidewalk chalk. We wore everybody out, and then ate pie, again.
There are an awful lot of things I wish were different, but as I sit at a makeshift dining table fashioned by my Dad and I a few years ago, of plywood stretched across two smaller tables, to be assembled and taken apart as necessity warrants, I am thankful.
I am thankful for the free fabric leftover from my work, that drapes perfectly in one long stretch down its length.
I am thankful for a space, tight as it is, that accommodates that table, surrounded by mismatched chairs.
I am thankful for My Mom, who unlike me, loves to be in the kitchen putting to good use her culinary skills, with sincerest and deepest love and esteem for those who'll benefit from her servants heart.
I am thankful to share the moments around that table, as I always have, with the people who are my family and friends. Sometimes, as they take their turn telling everyone what they are thankful for, even as they are all now adults, they have a certain facial expression, or smile, that for a split second shows me the face of who they used to be, and I melt inside. Sometimes the new additions, my daughter-in-love's or grandchildren, bare their own hearts, and again, mine melts.
I am thankful that my parents share these moments.
All things considered, I guess it really would not be as meaningful if my space were larger, and I didn't have to re-arrange every piece of furniture to accommodate a homemade dining table and hodgepodge of chairs, and we would have lost a laugh if my bathroom doorknob didn't stick. If I had a ton of money, I would probably have had the whole day catered to save all the work in the kitchen, Mom would not prefer that. And what of our jar of thankful's? Well, we wouldn't want that to change.
I guess when it comes right down to it, there's really not so much I wish were different after all. It's a matter of perspective. A heart attitude of gratitude.
That collection of mostly useless objects in an old jar, has turned out to be even more than I imagined it might, and hoped it would, all those years ago. Each otherwise useless object bears the responsibility of representing a piece of what has been important to us. As we took the time then and do still today, to consider the many things we could name, it is sometimes difficult to narrow down to just three, but just those three thankful's have filled to capacity that little jar, and now overflows into new jars.
Very much the same as all the thankful's in my heart.
My jar/heart/cup, runneth over!

going and going and...

It all just keeps going, and going, and... well, you get the point.
I used to measure the year strictly according to the calendar. As the end of the year approached, and seemed to go faster because of all the holidays and festivities associated with them, I could not help looking back over what the year had held for me. I don't wait for the calendar's cue anymore.
These last couple of years the "end" invaded my thoughts much earlier than the calendar's indication, it now begins with school bus traffic signalling the end of Summer, and the first hints of the arrival of Fall. This has prompted a need to go visit the Fall, since here in Florida it comes and goes mostly unnoticed. It was important to me that I witness this briefly offered display with my own eyes, with my own soul. I knew I should not allow myself to miss it. The opportunity would not present again for considerably more than 300 days.
Utilizing my usual method of planning, I made the decision the day before I left to head to Asheville for a tour of the Biltmore Estate. It seemed like a great dual purpose plan. I would finally, after years of telling myself I should, see this grand architectural phenom, at the same time that Autumn would be dressed in her most spectacular Fall frock. And with that plan, I was off.
Driving alone, aiming my car north at seventy miles an hour for more than eleven hours, provides ample time for thought, contemplation, and reflection. The complete change of scenery is inspiring.
I thought about the people in the vehicles I shared the highway with. Where were they going? Did they, like me, divert from the routine of daily schedules because they too saw the importance of time out, time to look, time to be? Did they, like me, consider that we were headed down this highway as fast as the law would allow, in a hurry to a reach a single destination, and in so doing think it better to slow down because of the little treasures we were surely missing along the way? Isn't it just like life? Always busy, always over scheduled, always running late for the next something. Speeding along in a hurry to get there, without much consideration that when we do get there, it's almost over.
When I arrived in Asheville it was a beautiful, crisp, blue sky Smokey Mountain day. The temperature was a sunshiny sixty two degrees. I looked, I walked, I hiked, I wearied my camera, and my feet, and found a place to call home for the night so I could have some sort of Autumn enjoying repeat the next day.
That next day was invested driving along the Parkway. Together with the sun, clear sky and cool breeze, I was treated to Fall's finest pageantry. I absorbed it all into the deepest depths of my soul. It was my soul food. I could feel my soul swelling with fatness, and I liked it! But the sun kept getting lower in the sky and I was reminded of the long drive still ahead of me. It was time already, to go.
I stopped for the night, since I had left late in the day and didn't really want to drive after dark, you know, deer and all. I thought about just bucking up and driving the eleven hours all the way home, it would save the expense of another night in a hotel and get me into my own bed. I decided against it. My Mom told me I shouldn't drive after dark in case of car trouble, I wanted to be able to tell her I obeyed. At more than half a century old, I still wish for her to be happy with me. I also knew that as much as I love home, once I pulled off of the expressway, the much too quick trip would officially be over. Well, there was unpacking yet, but that part of the trip is better left out.
I was not ready for it to be over.
But again, isn't it just like life,
with all that is passed by as we go as fast as we can along life's highway,
and after all that hurrying to get...where?
All of life's plans and dreams and schemes and anticipations,
come,
and then go,
and then its over.
It just keeps going, and going, and... well, the point is,
When God shows you beautiful,
and He constantly does,
look,
and thank Him.

P.J.

Pure

At fifty something, it is not easy to have an untainted view. There are of course, some very positive results that come with having lived enough life to accumulate the knowledge and wisdom that comes only from experience.
Much has been learned, and from that, certain emotionally expensive things will not be repeated. Certain other things will be repeated as often as possible, like chocolate and trips to Disney!
It has been a beautiful pleasure in the last several weeks to have some nice long visits with my grand kids. Without any effort on their part and with no intention of doing so, they teach.
Their communication is simple, basic, their best attempt based on their very limited experience with life, to relay what their heart feels to what my mind comprehends. Like a sort of missing puzzle piece language of verbal prattles and squeals, along with facial expressions.
When my own kids were just babes and tots they taught me to be fluent in what I liked to call "gobblygook". That language disappeared as the more common universal language took over, but has recently reappeared as the second batch of wee ones to the family are fast becoming linguists.
The youngest of the three, not even yet a half a year old, has a smile that not only lights her whole face from ear to ear and hair to chin, but her whole little self wriggles in delight. Unhindered, untainted, pure, heartfelt to her fingers and toes delight! In fact the glee she experiences is too much to be contained in her little self and actually shoots through her fingers and toes to everyone who witnesses the phenom, and the proof of my words is clearly written on the faces of those witnesses whose own ear to ear upturned lip expressions fall under the spell of her influence.
The same sort of delight is evidenced as it continues to have similar affects with the two year old who throws his head back with a belly laugh at what has just tickled him, the simple hilarity of a greeting card with a monkey sound! Over and over he opens that card to repeat the process that was at first so immensely enjoyable, and it proves to be just the same each time. Again, all the onlookers are sucked in to the vortex of pure glee and delight.
At five years old things are beginning to change, life is pressing it's way into the once innocent thoughts that are slowly, as experiences are gained, seeping in and stealing away what can only be held onto for just a short time. Still, when her eyes spot me in the room she runs and hops up into my arms speaking my name as if it were honey dripping from her genuinely delighted to see me lips! And that honey makes Grandma, the only name she knows me by, sound like a choir of angels to my ears!
It is in those moments, those brief, too seldom moments, that experience knowledge and wisdom don't count for anything and hold no value compared to the delightful innocence of the children.
At the age of fifty something, I get to know the true secrets of living life full. Because of them, I witness and experience ever so briefly, the wholly satisfying essence of purity.

Dish Washing

Several years ago my son presented me with my first dishwasher.
It was life changing.
There are occasions since that time when I have washed dishes by hand, like Thanksgiving or any special occasion that uses more than the usual amount of dishes, or some that I want to be more careful with. But mostly since that very first time deciding which line to position that beautiful black wash cycle knob on, I have relied almost exclusively on my machine.
It has been like a good friend who has kept the dirty little secrets of what is hidden inside, behind the closed door, and it has relieved me of that one more job at the end of an already job weary day, offering silently and dependably that I sit down for a while, take a load off, put my feet up, let it do all the work. Of course I have been thankful to oblige.
When I remodeled the completely inefficient, grossly undersized space to a space only slightly more suitable to the needs of my family and I, a double sink was installed next to the opening fit to hold a dishwasher.
As the number of us who utilize the space has decreased, the space has increased. Where there once was barely enough room for all the kitchen gear, there is now room enough. This also has to be attributed at least in part to my weeding out of unnecessary or too seldom used items, keeping only what I really like to use.
Considering all this and the fact that it’s just 3 adults who live in my home now, I find it a little unbelievable that we would ever have a dishwasher and both sinks full of dirty dishes!
True, the dish washing detergent was gone but only that for the dishwasher, there was still liquid detergent, there are 3 licensed, employed, able bodied adults in this house, any one of whom could have gone to the store to purchase detergent and any one of whom could wash dishes the old fashioned way…
After a trip to the store to purchase detergent and a few other items equally important to the smooth function of the household, I for the umpteenth time, turned that little black knob without even thinking having done it so many times previously, and the machine faithfully began its chore.
I pressed the plunger on the stopper to plug the drain in the sink and filled it with hot sudsy water to wash by hand the remaining dishes, a task I had not done in a long time. I was a little surprised to admit to myself that it sounded like a good idea. I actually used to like washing dishes when I lived in Illinois because it warmed my perpetually freezing winter hands, which warmed all of perpetually freezing me. While I was not cold or in need of warming up there was still something about the act that was inviting. The smell of warm suds, the way they fell off under the light pressure from the faucet for rinsing, I liked it.
I thought about the times of washing dishes with my sweet friend 25+ years ago, and what a wonderful time in life it was because of her friendship.
I thought about my little boys whose job it was to wash the supper dishes night after night for years and with our big family it was no quick task. I remembered how they complained and really did not want that job, and how I wished they did not have to do it. They did have to do it though because I needed help, I was tired, and each family member should contribute to the overall quality of the life of the family as a whole, pulling some of the weight of what needs to be done as they are able. They did have to do it.
I thought about the photograph I have of a couple of those boys hard at work and play as they arranged the washed and dried dished in a stack one by one, creating a dish tower on the counter. Their ability to improvise a less than desirable situation to be an opportunity to express creativity impressed me.
I smiled about it then, and again as I washed my sink full of dishes.
Among the items to be washed was a large 1 gallon Tupperware pitcher. I bought 2 of them 20 or more years ago and still own them both. They were to me, in the life of my large busy family, a most ingenious piece of kitchen equipment with push button release vacuum sealing lids to keep drinks from spilling out the spout making drips all along the way to a glass, when carried by a small person who is not mindful of such things.
I thought how it is still as good as new even after accommodating hundreds, maybe thousands of gallons of Kool-aid and sweet tea guzzled down by hot sweaty little boys anxious to get back to the business of serious outdoor activity.
How much tea went over that spout to fill the glass of a thirsty boy just taking a break from a bike or car repair, how many friends found refreshment in the contents of that pitcher, how many sips for tea parties and picnics spilled over that spout for my little girl and her friends, countless.
Washing the dishes today was perhaps the best or at least one of the best spent 20 minutes I have had in a while.
I am not suggesting that I might be better off hand washing my dishes regularly by any means.
I would not suggest that I won’t be upset when my poor old dishwasher finally gives out as has been recently indicated by the unusual sounds it makes now.
I would certainly be surprised if I am not frustrated the next time the kitchen is a disaster because of the dirty dishes of 3 adults while apparently only 1 of the adults is on dish duty.
I am just pleasantly pleased at how thoroughly I enjoyed the chore of dish washing today.
It can have a transporting effect on ones memory.
P.J.