This week, the Women Who Run with the Moose (me and my friends Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot and Shirley), took a class in CPR. I know, first Zumba, then CPR. What next?

See, we’d been talking about us girls needing some kind of cause to get behind. “What’s wrong with Zumba?” Rita asked.

“Doesn’t count,” Shirley replied. “It’s too much fun,”.

A new topic has been cropping up in conversation lately. People everywhere are comparing their “bucket lists.” Apparently, a bucket list, a term lifted from a recent film of the same name, is the “to do” list of stuff you hope to experience before “kicking the bucket.” That’s a new name for a very old idea. I suppose I must have a “bucket list,” although when I think about it I am struck by the number of my childhood dreams and aspirations which have actually come true. I’m very fortunate that way.

“Is it snowing where you are?” the excited telephone caller from southern Maine asked. “It’s just raining where I am.”

Yes, I said, it’s snowing. It does that every year around this time here in the western Maine mountains.

Well, I’m having a hard time concentrating on my blog this morning because my house needs cleaning. I mean the “I can’t die today because if anyone saw the state of my house, I’d die” kind of dirty. I’ve been just flat-out busy and housekeeping got away from me, and now it’s driving me crazy!

I confess that I am not now, nor have I ever been “good with my hands”, the durable old Maine phrase denoting mechanical aptitude. What makes this such a bitter pill to swallow is that I am a Mainer from a long line of Mainers and all Mainers are pretty much presumed to have been endowed at birth with a basic, practical, intuitive mechanical sense. It’s part of that whole “Yankee Ingenuity” thing , right? Sadly, in my case, the answer is “not likely, chummy!”

It’s partridge hunting season in Maine, and on opening day, a friend of mine set out with his shotgun to fill David Cassidy with birdshot.

Just kidding. There’s no hunting season for David Cassidy. He’s fair game anytime. Be warned, however, that if you’re planning to go after Danny Bonaduce, there’s a special permit required to carry firearms in Old Port bars and other dens of inequity. As for the rest of that family, the state sets a bag limit of two a day.

When I see folks splitting and stacking wood this time of year, it always makes me think of my dad. Back when he was a kid, they did all their cooking and heating with wood, and he spent most of his childhood splitting, stacking, and hauling wood, to hear him tell it. He swore he’d never do it again, so we didn’t have a wood stove growing up. And Charlie and me don’t either, though we have a generator, in case the power goes out.

I’m pretty sure I’ve touched upon this topic a time or two in my previous blogs. But, by all means double check that for me, would you please? The idea that you’d care enough to do that is strangely comforting to me. But, I digress. The topic I’m referring to is that question frequently tossed my way by folks to whom I’ve never been formally introduced. You know who you are.

Every weekday, thousands of innocent children go to school in Maine, seeking the knowledge that will allow them to make explosive devices out of common household chemicals. Their young minds are open to all manner of influences, some positive – such as listening to adults blather on about whether our state’s youth should be allowed to learn that homosexuals exist, living things evolve, and President Obama wants them to work hard – and some negative.

Very negative.

Such as:

You’ve heard of the cha-cha and the rumba, right? Well, this week the Women Who Run With the Moose (me and my friends Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot, and Shirley) took our first Zumba class.

In the adult ed flyer, it says, “Zumba is the latest, hottest Latin dance exercise craze.” Then, the big selling point: “No matter what your fitness level, you can enjoy this class. The hour will fly by!”