Saundra M Bobbish - Dyer
Bio
Massage Therapist. Essential Oil Guru. Mother. Wife. Writer. Artist. Reader. Nature Lover. I wear many hats, most of them at once. "Every good thing comes from the Lord" is truth. I'm obsessed with French Bulldogs. Writing is my outlet.
Stories (2)
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Know It All
Growing up, I was called a know-it-all. In fact, for my 15th birthday, my dad got me a tee-shirt that said, "Feel free to ask me anything, I've reached the age, where I know it all." I would hope, after almost 30 years, I have grown out of that attitude of conceit, but considering the arguments I still have with the man-child husband, it is a problem I still struggle with. I find it difficult to just sit silently when hearing someone talk about, well, anything, that I have any knowledge about. I'm quick to interject a random factoid, or argue the case when someone states a fact that I object with; not based on any confirmed research, mind you - I simply just know it. Drives people crazy. I don't mean to be so aggressive; blame it my zodiac. The Aries in me despises to submit defeat and likes to be at the center of attention. "Hey, look at me! See what I can do!" Mother tells me I was a handful as a child; even at a small age, I knew how to command attention. Growing up in Alaska meant you found any ways possible to entertain yourself, and storytelling was one of my favorite things to do. Once during a 2nd or 3rd- grade recess, I commenced telling a group of younger kids that the woods surrounding our Christian school were filled with witches and demons, and on days that it rained, when the mist hung like spider webs in the blue spruce branches, you could hear them, pattering through the heavily mossed forest, approaching the fence that separated the trees from our playground, plotting which child to grab. On Kodiak Island, the smell of petrichor was always near, since it rained nearly every day. (see what I did there - I snuck in another bit of uncommon knowledge: that ozone-type smell of rain just before it arrives actually has a name. Petrichor). Needless to say, my mom got called to the school for that one. Alaska was a fantastic place to be a kid. The most amazing landscapes you could ever imagine were all around you; everywhere your eyes landed, was like an eyegasm. If that is not a real thing, it should be, because truly, your senses explode with overload at the colors and pristine beauty above and below. And the wildlife...I challenge you to find another place where a simple day trip into the woods to go ice skating during the winter, could produce 5 or more different species of wild critters. Speaking of critters and Alaska, did you know that the willow ptarmigan is its state bird? I think it is pretty cool that a group of about 6000 school kids had the say in that choice; they voted it to be and sent their choice to the Territory Legislature BEFORE Alaska was even given the title of 49th state in the USA. Another interesting bird factoid that I already know, having had lived in Alaska, is the puffin, (those cute little black and white birds with orange beaks that float in the ocean), lay eggs that hatch to become baby pufflings. Say it with me "pufflings". See, I'm loaded with a plethora of useless helpful information. I can cook up a bunch of stuff you may already know, but I bet some of it will be new. Speaking of cooking, you know those tall, white chef hats, usually worn by "professional" chefs? I use that term lightly these days, however, in this case, I'm referring to the actual pleated hat worn by pros. Those random folds actually serve a purpose - or they used to. Each fold on a chef's hat represents their level of experience; how many different ways they could cook an egg. I guess there are more ways to cook eggs than frying, scramble, poach or steam... Thanks to Google, anyone with access to a computer can type in "ways to cook eggs" and figure it out. Computers. If you were born anytime after 1990, having a computer in your house probably wasn't that big of a deal; a lot of people started buying them as prices came down. Did you know in 1977, the Apple II launched a personal computer that sold for about $1300.00 USD (today, that would be over $5000.oo USD), and that bad boy was considered by most, to be the first widely successful PC (personal computer). Nowadays, you can get a decent laptop for under $400.00 USD. When I was in high school, in the late 1990s, I could not 'Google' my research papers; I had to actually have my mom drive me to a brick -and- mortar building (called a library, for you tech-spoiled youngsters), to look up information. My senior year, I had to do a report on Scotland, so I had my mom drop me off after school at the library for a few hours so I could pull every book I could find on "Scotland". In doing so, I learned this little nugget - the unicorn is Scotland's national animal. Seriously. The unicorn stands for purity, innocence, as well as strength and its presence of importance goes way back to Celtic mythology. So far as national animals go, Scotland wins, in my book. All animals are pretty awesome. I mean, have you seen how many You Tube videos involving dogs and cats, alone, exist? Personally, I never get tired of seeing cats getting scared by plastic bags that wind up around their tails, and doing terrified zoomies throughout the house. I laugh so hard I cry at these videos. This topic leads me to insert my last bit of uncommon info - cats can be allergic to humans. I found that to be interesting while I was searching the web for cool bits of data. So, I leave you, reader, with this bit of wisdom: no matter how much knowledge you 'google', or how many bits of information you pick up online, know that only about 8% of it is actually available on the internet. Books, journals, and written text still have much to teach us, if we are just willing to look.
By Saundra M Bobbish - Dyer5 years ago in FYI
Natalia's Find
Natalia did not believe in blind luck. One had to work hard, just to survive one month to the next. Life had taught her that; namely, her parents. Russian immigrants, they had settled in New York in the 1970s; her mother already pregnant with Natalia. Her father was a baker, and soon had moved his wife from the poorly maintained building they were staying in, to a small, but clean, two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, New York, due to him having procured a reliable job as head baker in a popular nearby bakery. Fondly, Natalia recalled her younger life, waking every morning to the aromatic, warm smells of cinnamon, or the yeasty tang of bread dough proofing, as her father prepped in their tiny kitchen. Every day, he would rise from bed at 4:00 A.M, doing his best to move around the apartment quietly, as to not disturb his sleeping family, while he worked. Often, five-year-old Natalia would wake though, and creep as close to the kitchen as possible, so she could watch her papa, as he expertly mixed, kneaded, rolled, and layered everything from bread doughs to a spongy Russian honey cake, called medovik. Those took the longest to make, so in her mind, that meant they must be the best – her taste buds certainly thought so. Sometimes, papa would notice her sleep tousled head peering around the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space, and he would act surprised, every time she was “caught”. He would call her over to him, pick her up, and set her on the counter right beside where he was working. She loved to watch him create delicious things from simple ingredients. He would add flour and some other mysterious powders together. To another bowl, he would blend butter, sugar, and eggs until they looked very different from when they had first entered the bowl. “Now,” he said, mixing everything together slowly, “see how all of these different things, which are not so delicious on their own, come together, and create something new, which is delicious.” He placed a dollop of the finished cookie dough (for that was what he had been making – butter cookies) on the tip of her tongue, and laughed when she exclaimed, “that is yummy papa!” Natalia had many memories similar to that one; she had always cherished those early mornings with her papa, while he patiently explained each step of his baking process. It was never boring for her to listen to him talk about something he was so passionate about; even at five, she could respect that. Most mornings would end with one of his flour- covered fingers bopping lightly on the tip of her nose, making both of them, laugh. Once she had asked him, “Papa, why do you get up so early every day, just to bake pastries that are going to be eaten up by other people so that you have to do it all over again? Seems like a bunch of hard work to me.” He had laughed heartily at her, not unkindly, but with great humor. Placing large, but gentle, hands on both her shoulders, he replied, “Malyshka, anything in this world that is worth something to you, is worth working hard to keep. When you love something, you do not mind working hard, to keep it yours. You understand?” Natalia sagely had nodded her head, grasping what her dear papa was telling her. He gave her a big smile and hugged her to his chest, where she rested her head, breathing him in, those warm cinnamon, and yeasty bread smells, permanently imprinting him into her memory. She thought of him now as she was sitting in the attic of his home, surrounded by boxes filled with pieces of their family’s life. Her father’s propensity for hard work, coupled with his passion and talent for baking, eventually had paid off, and when Natalia was ten, he had surprised his wife and daughter with the news that he had bought them all a “real” house – complete with a garage and back yard. Those years that had followed, were, the best of Natalia’s life. Her parents were working at a bakery which her father owned, she herself was making new friends at a better school, though still in Brooklyn, and she finally had a bedroom that wasn’t next to the only other room in the house. But then. Natalia figured fate had noticed her family’s contentment, and stepped in, uprooting it. The summer Natalia turned 16, her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She would die before Natalia’s 17th birthday, leaving papa to raise an obstinate, moody teenager, alone. He did alright, Natalia supposed, musing to herself. They had been alright, once they found a routine that worked for both of them. Dad baked and she ran the bakery when she wasn’t at school. Needless to say, she hadn’t had the greatest social life. She had moved out when she was 20 but still worked for her father. The pay was great and it afforded her the ability to get her own little studio apartment, a short walk from the bakery. Things had been flowing just fine until fate took notice of them once again. The proverbial “rug” had been pulled out from under her just one week ago, when she got a phone call from the hospital, informing her that her dad had suffered a heart attack. She went to see him and was grateful she at least was able to say goodbye. It had been 2 days since the funeral and until this morning, she had not been able to cry. She had come here to her dad’s house last night to sleep, knowing she would be going through his things today. When she woke up this morning, it was the first time in her life, at this house, that she had not smelled the reassuring scents of cinnamon and yeast wafting from the kitchen. The reality of her papa’s death penetrated her heart, and she wept. Great, wracking sobs of grief, both for the loss of her father, and grief for herself – knowing she was now alone.
By Saundra M Bobbish - Dyer5 years ago in Humans
