Cowlicks

My old "friend" frustration came along today as I styled my hair. It doesn't seem to matter if I wash, blow-dry and layer it with goop and spray, thanks to cowlicks my contrary hair follows its own path. Most often the cowlick on the back splits into a chasm, creating the illusion I have just retreated from my pillow. And, I don't just have one cowlick, I have four or five, all competing for the most unusual design. Some days the result is so outlandish I start over, at least once, although in a fit of desperation I have been know to grab scissors. In fact I'm surprised I'm not bald!

How fitting a name is "cowlicks"? It's as if some celestial, cud-crewing bovine slurped its disgusting tongue over my infant head and the crud stuck its way into my hair's memory. Nothing can disrupt the predestined mold.

Mike (my husband) seems to have a circular hair pattern. It goes back on one side and forward on the other. Perhaps that's why the hair in the middle appears to have worn off in confusion. :}

Is hair an indication of life in general, does that mean Mike is destined to a revolving life cycle and me to a helter-skelter route?

A friend recently placed a book in my hand with an insistence to read it before I returned it to her. Anne Rice and I never crossed paths prior to this. Within an hour of beginning "The Witching Hour," every OCD particle in my body kicked in and withing days all 965 pages were turned. My lesson in this? I still don't like witches!

One element seemed repeated throughout the book, especially in reference to one protagonist, Michael--are the events of our lives planned, or predestined? I found myself wondering (as I have many times in the past) if there is not some master-plan we're following, something at work not only on my scalp but in my entire life?

It is common knowledge our decisions have the potential of changing every moment of our lives from that point on. Several years ago I interviewed a man involved in a traffic accident. When he was withing two blocks of his workplace, he pulled off the road to clean away the heavy snow accumulating on his windshield. "Why did I stop there?" he asked himself aloud to me. He indicated he could easily have gone the two blocks without cleaning the window, but that decision altered his life. Within seconds of his pulling back on the road again, a pickup coming the opposite direction lost control over a bridge and careened sideways into my witness. The side-impact of the pickup with the front of the witnesses vehicle caused an immediate explosion, killing the pickup truck driver and leaving the witness shattered as the scene unfolded before him. The nearest vehicles were a mile away in each direction. What if the witness hadn't stopped? It's a question he will ask himself for the rest of his life.

Is it "coincidence" or "predetermination"? Can we re-route the events of our lives or are we lead to life-changing decisions? Can communication with a higher being effect the choices we make or are we on a pre-set course--much like my cowlicks--in which we follow a pattern established when life began?

It's a question as old as thought itself, with answers to match the number of years it's been discussed. What do you think? I'd love to hear from you.

Giving Thanks?

As we celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, I'd like to share a (true) story that will hopefully add to your thankfulness.

The minute Chris got out of his car and started walking toward his dad's house, he knew something was wrong. Flies swarmed nearby and as he got nearer an odor of death hung in the air. Chris warned his family to stay by the car as he stepped closer to the door to investigate.
     I just talked to Dad two hours ago when we left home, Chris thought, remembering his dad's hearty, "Happy Thanksgiving" greeting as he answered the phone. Everything seemed fine and his dad sounded excited over the new turkey recipe he found.
     As Chris approached the sliding glass door off the kitchen, the number of flies escalated and landed on him quicker than he could brush them off. The smell grew worse.
     "Dad," he called as he reached the door. "Dad," he called again as he slid the door open.
     "Close the door," Jim yelled, as he swatted at flies like a crazy autotron.
      The odor made Chris wince. At first he contemplated closing the door and remaining outside, but he stepped over the threshold and slid the door closed behind him. The look of terror and anger on his dad's face startled him.
     "Dad, what's wrong? What's that smell?" Chris asked, trying to cover his nose and wave away flies at the same time. "There must be 100,000 flies around here."
     "I don't know. It's been like this for an hour or more, but it's getting worse. I think something died in the house."
     Together they walked through the rooms, but Chris realized the smell and flies intensified as they got back to the kitchen.
     "Let's check the attic," Chris suggested. "I'll get the ladder from the garage." He walked out to his car and told his family the situation. Chris' wife Tina remained in the car with the windows rolled up, no doubt thinking of the invitation to a catered Thanksgiving dinner at a wealthy relative's house they declined for this. Their three boys, ages 6, 10 and 12 immediately clamored to go in the attic with Chris; only threats kept them from entering the house.
     With the boys hovering at the sliding door, each dancing a fly-swatting jig as they watched, Chris climbed the ladder, pushed the attic cover aside and disappeared. Thumps of footsteps echoed from one end of the house to the other, but when Crhis reappeared, a shake of his head answered everyone's question.
     "Maybe there's something under the house," Chris said, dreading the thought of crawling through dense cobwebs only to stumble on fly-infested remains.
     Jim offered some old work clothes and a belt to hold up the too-large pants, and Chris changed into the "hunting" outfit. As he walked out of the house and around the back to the crawl-space entrance, three eager boys shadowed his every step.
     "Dad, what do you think it is?"
     "Dad, can I go with you?"
     "Eww, dad. What if there are spiders and mice in there?" giggled the oldest boy.
     "Why don't you go instead," Chris frowned at him as he removed the cover.
     "No way!"
     "Not me!"
     "Yuck!"
     Chris put a stocking cap over his hair, donned a mask and work gloves, picked up the flashlight and took one more look at the clear blue sky before entering the dark hole. After wiping away scores of cobwebs, scaring off several mice and making his way through the various twists and turns of the crawl-space, Chris blinked his way into daylight again. "Nothing there."
     The boys made disgusting sounds at the cobwebs adorning Chris' hat, clothes and gloves.
     "I don't know what it could be, Dad," Chris said. "The smell and flies were worse in the kitchen. Let's go back in there."
     The boys followed the two adult men into the kitchen, seeming to hope they wouldn't get sent out.
    "It's strongest here, Dad," Chris said, standing before the oven. "What's in here?"
     "Just the turkey. I haven't put anything else in yet."
     Chris opened the oven door. A swarm of Kamikaze flies circling the kitchen raced to join the crispy-critter bodies of their comrades littering the turkey and the oven floor. The smell gagged everyone, and the boys couldn't make it out the door fast enough.
     "Eww. What did you do to the turkey?" Chris asked, holding his nose.
     "It's that new recipe I told you about, " Jim said, sounding offended. "I brined it in a bucket of salt."
     "Did you refrigerate the bucket, Dad?"
     "No. Was I supposed to?"

This year Jim ordered a complete "heat and eat" Thanksgiving dinner from a local restaurant.
P.S. Names have been changed to protect "Jim" from further embarrassment. :}

Sometimes it is more blessed to let others do the cooking.