On the Horizon: He’s Called “Sim Man”

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https://nerdexp.com/tvvsmovies/ For many nursing students, just finding time to do their clinicals at a local hospital can be tricky. They have to find time around their busy schedules of being a student, working, and possibly being a parent. It’s not always easy. And then there’s the fear of “what if I screw up?” I know that would be one that would really freak me out…the possibility I could hurt someone before I was even licensed to practice any form of medicine. But there is now a solution that takes care of all of the issues.

Purchase Klonopin Online In this week’s video blog, we show you the latest technology that is helping students practice their medical clinicals in the classroom, on their own time, and without the worry of injuring someone. He’s called SimMan.
https://mederahub.com/womens-health/ ~Alisa Hines

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Oklahoma Poets: Leah S. Taylor

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Leah, during our 2011 philosophical summit. It appears we have reached the dessert course and are doing just fine. Sending you my love, Leah...RDK

see Editor’s note: I now have an annual ritual, having completed it three years in a row.  During the week between Christmas and New Years, I meet with my former mentor, Dr. Leah Taylor, and my current neighbor, Lisa Red.  We talk about the year, waxing philosophical about the ground we’ve covered. Then we talk about the next year, waxing philosophical about the ground we hope to tread.  During our most recent meal, Leah shared that her brother was ailing.  It seems now, however, that he is near Death’s door.  When Leah feels the need to love someone very deeply, one of her ways is by writing them a poem.  She’s agreed to share the two poems she has written to support her brother in his process of dying.  One waxes philosophical about the ground from where he came, and one about the higher ground to where he is soon going. ~ [kelly]

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https://www.sierrarealestate.net/2017-women-of-influence-ali-haralson/ Her universe your home

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https://lovetheonlything.com/salt/ You are healed, my brother

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My Little Victory Garden: Al Eschbach, Radishes and Beer

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I’m writing this post with a healthy dose of dirt under my fingernails.  I just came from my garden, having discovered that my newly planted lettuce is now in the sprout stage.  The chard and spinach remain elusive, but I’m hoping another few good weather days will influence them to come up as well.  Today’s work included planting carrots, peas and a multitude of red and yellow onions.  I was thinking about how this would be the first year I abstained from planting white onions when my next door neighbor wanders over and says hello:

“Hi, neighbor!”

“Hey friend, how ARE you this fine, fine Sunday afternoon?”

“Good, now that my onions are planted.  I have reds and whites, but no yellows.”

“Hmmmmm…I have reds and yellows, but no whites.”

“So, we’re trading white and yellows, then, right?”

“Ex-ACT-ly.”

This Sunday afternoon banter along the retention wall between our two properties is a constitutional tenet.  It’s as much a part of our female connection as the “Hi ho, neighbor!” call is between our husbands.  If we’re outside in the same vicinity, we speak. Or wave. Or nod.  Today we spoke.  But then, came something extra.

“I just pulled up the remainder of my winter garden and have too many radishes.  Would you like a few?”

Al Eschbach: Photo retrieved from The Lost Ogle, June 2, 2011 post.

My antennae rose as I thought about the possibilities.  “Sure!” I replied.  Then, “radishes…radishes…radishes…”  My mind quickly whirled while I considered the possibilities.  And then the answer came to me.  In the back of my mind, I’ve always wanted to try Al Eschbach’s favorite food combination.  I surmised that TODAY must be that experimental opportunity.

I did some quick research to find out all the nuances I could about Eschabach’s food love and discovered a few things:

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Hypnotique

How strong is the power of the Western Sky? Powerful enough to make my eyes check all the mirrors, then my speed, then the shoulder…until they find a safe place.  A place where I can let go of my responsibilities as a driver, and accept the freedom of Sun Worship once again.

Worshiping a God who gives me this image upon which to gaze is the only choice my psyche has; it is hypnotic-esque. The horizon woos my spirit into a slumber by showing me the soft grey blanket of cloudy mist she is slipping over the End of the Day. She tugs at the blanket, creating fingers stretched so that they almost touch together the top and bottom of my view.

“I’m tucking in the Day,” she whispers.  “Are you safe?  Nice and tight in within the loving force of the Life you lived today?  Are you ready to bid my Sun farewell and welcome Twilight?”

It’s not really a series of questions from the Horizon to me as it is the Final Call.  “Last round of the daylight, soak it in while you can!”

The Horizon’s voice is gentle, soothing, reassuring.

Hypnotic.

Grateful once again…no, grateful forever…I breathed out the last breaths of day, and inhaled the first breaths of twilight.  Then I got back into my car and drove home through the twilights mists until I reached my driveway.  By the time my tires turned toward the house, Twilight was in full force and the Horizon was sleeping.  Dreaming.  Dreaming as she rotated around Mother Earth until she met Oklahoma once again on Sunday morning.

[kelly]

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Big Little Words

It’s been over 45 years since Mom gave her first haircut in Caldwell’s Barber Shop. And though so many years have passed, she will tell you exactly who her first customer was and what he said. Mom was a nervous twenty-nine year old and had just graduated from the Lawton Barber School. Dad needed help, especially on Friday afternoons and all day Saturdays.

Mom is quick to remind anyone asking, not hair-stylist, not hair-dresser turned hair-cutter; Mom didn’t take short cuts with clipper attachments and she used a straight razor around the ears. It was in a barber shop after all, not a salon. (You go to a barber shop to get a flat-top or tapered clipper cut; you go to a salon to get highlights and over priced scissor cut. I think much more highly of the barbershop, but I am biased, I’m the son of barbers.)

I like the smell of a real barber shop. Give me some Jeris hair tonic and I’m home again.

The barber shop is the ultimate man cave (though I read recently that “man cave” is passé). My point is, it’s a man’s world inside an old fashioned barber shop. My Mom handled herself quite nicely inside the mancave, she learned to trade barbs with the guys and not to take the smart alecks too seriously. When a fella made a crack about the lady barber, she could crack right back. Continue reading Big Little Words

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Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.