Mr. Green Jeans through the looking glass

I just read a really good article on the Web that, of course, I didn't bookmark and can't find again, on the new fad of being gluten-free. Alas, it triggered memories of what I call "Signature Ailments and Cures" across the many decades I have been a resident of this big blueberry in sky.

When I was a child, I watched a kiddie show hosted by Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshum). His sidekick was farmer/handyman, Mr. Green Jeans (Hugh Brannum). Green Jeans was the voice of natural healthiness. I would sit on the floor, in front of our  black and white TV, munching on my Skippy peanut butter and Welches' grape jelly sandwich on fluffy Wonder Bread, totally ignoring what he was saying about "eat your vegetables."

“Getting old is not for the weak” is an adage that makes me want to scream, “No kidding!”

My libido has gone li-bye-bye and when I tell my husband he’s “hot,” it means we’ve just climbed six stairs and there’s beads of sweat on his forehead that need mopping.

“A touch of osteoarthritis,” my doctor said the other day during one of my many visits. A touch!? For months, my knees had felt like someone was performing a never-ending root canal on them. Okay, so I’m just this side of eighty and no spring chicken. But how could my knees wear out when I hardly ever use them? I never exercise so, what the heck, they should be like brand new. Shouldn’t they? So with yet another prescription, I leave his office.

Going to the grocery store when you’re my age is always a hoot. The other day, I pulled my shopping cart into the cash only, ten-items-or-less checkout stand with only three items in my basket (Depends, a gallon bottle of prune juice and a tube of Preparation H). And who’s in front of me but a guy with fifty items who’s written a check and can’t find his I.D.

In today's political climate of gun violence, I thought it might be  time to talk about my own experiences. If you've followed my stories at all, you know I was not a cautious girl growing up or as an adult. Actually, I was a bit of a slut/hippie/Holly Golightly—only not as elegantly beautiful as Audrey Hepburn. But, then, who is?

As with most young people, I had a no sense of mortality. No matter what I did, I knew I  would be okay. Thus my many mind-numbing acts of stupidity. Okay, back to guns.

I know it's not a popular thing to say in my circles of liberal, left-wing, metaphysics, but I  like guns. I have a fascination with them. I don't own any. Nor do I want to own a gun ever again—I know, never say never. There are a lot of things I like that I don't want to own: horses, for one. I think horses are beautiful and amazing creatures but have no desire own one. Kids, too, but that's another story.

I've had a lot of exposure to guns from antique to modern. To me they are amazing machines, an art form of sorts, albeit a dangerous one. Gun control is a complicated topic and I won't get into it, except to say that I think Congress is acting like a bunch of petty children having a tantrum  about gun control—on both sides. Shut up Anita. Don't get political here.
You'd think that because I've been on the  business side of a loaded gun twice in my life, that I would be anti-gun. I'm not. For the most, though,  my gun experience has been safe. Odd, sometimes, but safe.

It was late at night and I was meeting an acquaintance. This was just after I got out of college in the early '60s. I think he wanted to impress me that he was cool and as usual, I played his recipient for verification.

It was a hopeless situation. I was not cool nor anyone who could be used to say, "Yes, Jack is cool." So, that was understood by me, if not by Jack. He led me to the cellar of a building next to a complex intersection on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood. We had to go down a dark stairwell and I was suspicious of his constant convoluted approach to life.

Anyway, there I was, again, wondering why ....... again. The cellar was full of very cool. . .what can I say, ahhhh Beatniks. The center of the gathering, which turned out to be an art class, was Vito. Vito was a skinny older man with with eyebrows that went every other direction, sort of like mine are now.

I have always been drawn to horses since I was a little girl.  The blue aqua glass menagerie sparkled on my antique dresser when the sun shown through the windowpane. My horse pranced around and around in circles in my imaginary world. A merry go round birthday cake was loving made for me one year by my mom, Elizabeth.  I loved to go to Griffith Park and ride the merry go round.  The horses seemed so real as I would go round and round on the carousel.  In the heart of Hollywood, a carnival park had the pony rides. I loved to ride the ponies. I dove heavily into the mystical world of reading about cowboys, Indians and of course horses.  I created in my mind that I was galloping across the pastures on my horse.

  So it seemed quite uncanny, as I was driving past the Burbank Riding Stables on Riverside Drive, to the Disney studios on my regular route, that I kept feeling this tug. Why was this particular stables beckoning me?  What on earth was Spirit trying to convey to me?  Was I supposed to take up horseback riding lessons?  I asked Spirit for a sign.

Symbolism came into play. The Santa Anita racetrack billboards appeared out of nowhere.  I noticed a silver horseshoe on the receptionist’s neck at my optometrist’s office. I did the numerology on the name horse and came up with the number 3, which meant creativity and working with the Ascended Masters.  A light bulb came on. I am supposed to work with my spirit animal/angel horse. The question was who?