Everything Does NOT Mean Something

I, for one, am getting tired of seeing and reading about all the secret signs and symbols that "don't really mean" what we think they do. Or that they have any meaning at all.

The latest secret meaning is a safety pin. I haven't read any of the details yet, but apparently, especially in the UK, wearing a safety pin has some secret ritual meaning that the world is only now becoming aware of.

Nope. If you see me wearing a safety pin, it means I found one and picked it up, and stuck it in my clothes to keep it until I get to my safety pin keeping-place. That's all; that's it. (Unless, of course, it's perhaps holding my clothing together until I can get to my clothes-fixing-place.)

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A purple butterfly means a lost twin. Yes, but only a specific design in specific places -- a NICU.

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A black dot drawn on the hand means "help I'm being abused." Seriously?

First of all, after all the publicity, do you think an abuser is going to let his (or her) victim out with marks on her (or him)? Do you think an abuser is NOT so controlling as to notice every detail of dress, hair, markings? You don't know much about controlling persons, do you?

Imagine the confusion and embarrassment this could cause. For you, for the assumed victim, for the assumed abuser, even for the police involved.
Because if I have black dots on my hands or anywhere else, it probably means one of my grandkids got busy with an ink pen or marker.
It could mean I washed (and maybe dried) an ink pen that broke when I discovered it in my hopefully clean laundry.
It could mean I was pondering phrasing while writing something out longhand, and I tap-tap-tapped myself while rearranging the words in my head, trying to choose which looked best and sounded better.

Please don't make me have to explain that to the police.

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Pink or purple heart designs on girls toys are a secret symbol for child predators.


Pink and purple hearts have been part of girls toy designs for godonlyknows how long. At least 60 years. Major toy companies have used some form of these designs for decades Are they in a conspiracy with perverts, and have been all these years?  (There are probably those who would say so.)

What if the child predators prefer boys? Some do, y'know,

Buying girls' toys, whether they have purple hearts, pink butterflies, yellow daisies, or anything else symbolic, are by themselves a sign that there is a little girl in the buyers life. Age indicated by product. This is obvious and about as unsecret as it gets.

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Quit worrying about secret meanings.
Worry about common sense.

Posting your child's school and school functions (especially in advance) will do more harm, and put her in more danger, than buying a baby doll with a pink heart.

If your coworker shows up with black eyes, fingerprint bruises or often just moving tenderly, suspect possible abuse and react accordingly. (That is according to your personality and theirs; your circumstances and theirs; and how supportive and involved you are able and willing to be.)

If you find a safety pin, don't be afraid to pin it to your lapel. You might need it if you lose a button.

There are plenty of real symbols, with real not-hidden meanings, like swastikas and burning crosses. Like earthquakes and meteors. Like wars and rumors of war.

We don't need to induce panic with ignorant modern superstition.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

Apparently, the latest thing is Signs.

On Facebook.

On YouTube (for heaven's sake!)

Now, there's nothing wrong with signs.
There's probably good in signs -- it (they?), after all, sort of promote literacy. I say sort of, because they are not all spelled and punctuated in ways that make sense (to me, yes.)
The Written Word is not dead, after all. People are using it to make signs on social media.

If I see another sign about showing the kids how far a sign can go, I just may scream at it. This was an original and thoughtful idea the first hundred or so times it was done. Now it is overdone, and it has become the same thing as many another adult lecture on the evils of an evil world.
Who listens to that?

Or you may be looking for your biological family so you write your personal information on a sign and post a picture of you holding said sign. Exposing your personal information to all the identity thieves trolling the internet, even letting them know what you look like.
Not to mention, once your quest has been successful, for the rest of your life you will be getting clicks, clues, and info you no longer need or want. For the next fifty years. Your grandchildren may someday be sharing your picture of you and your sign.


Worse, though, at least to me, is the way signs are taking over YouTube. YouTube is a video site. Where you can talk, sing, dance, jump, play, tell stories, make a fool of yourself, sing, share, instruct, learn.

Lately, YouTube has been taken over by signers.
And I don't mean ASL.

Many many bullying stories are told by having someone hold up handwritten signs that explain, one sentence at a time, why someone did something -- suicide, attempted suicide, or self-harm such as cutting.

Wouldn't it be healthier and helpier to hear the voices of the victims?
After all, anyone can write a sign, and anyone can claim to be anyone, if there is no voice to go with the words.

Isn't the point of these videos supposed to be that the voices be heard?
Rustling paper is no one's voice when the medium is visual or aural.

Recently there has been a story making the rounds of what a mom did when the family SUV was going over a cliff. (Or something) This story is told by the daughters, one piece of paper at a time.
With a very loud soundtrack, but not a word is spoken. (That I know of. I have yet to be able to watch the so-called video to the end. It's boring to read that slowly.)

Now, obviously, they know how to add sound to their presentation.
They know how to use the camera.
The signs do indicate that they know the rudiments of story telling.

But they aren't telling anything.
One cannot even hear their emotion.

Poor Mom. Her kids love her sacrifice so much that they can't and won't even speak of it -- just wave sheets of paper around.
At least they get them in the proper order for the most part.


Ah well, as a writer, I shouldn't complain. There has been so much said -- and written -- about the demise of the written word.

Perhaps I should take this as a sign that there is still work for me in this field.

Officially silly Road Signs.

Governing organizations are always looking for ways to cut costs. One way for the Departments of Transportation (DOT), whether state, county, township, or town, might be to take a look at some of the silly and unnecessary road signs they
1) have manufactured
2)have installed  (temporarily or permanently) and
3)pay maintenance for.

The first such sign that comes to mind is one that proclaims "Limited sight distance."
Huh?
Bet that sign is a real treat for ESL drivers. Or the illiterate. We draw pictures of stopsigns and deer and curvy tire marks in the rain, and post "limited sight distance" for the non English readers.
That sign is a poser for intelligent English speakers.

But, never fear -- if you're still driving, you've probably figured it out.
It means that you can't see very far.
Since my eyes are connected to my brain -- a rudimentary necessity for driving, one would think -- I can SEE that I can't see very far. You don't have to tell me that.

Then there are the ever-popular "No Edge Lines".

Duh!
You think I need a sign to tell me that the white line isn't there anymore? I had to pass a vision test to get my license, ya know. Most drivers do. And a white line on a black road is usually obvious, so when it isn't there -- most people notice it. No signage needed.

I saw a new one last night. "Pass With Care." Okay, that's fine, but what I want to know is -- where are the roads where it's acceptable to pass without care?

I'm not sure if I want to know so I can avoid those areas or so I can drive them. I suppose it will depend on how suicidal I'm feeling when I leave my driveway. Or maybe after I've been driving roads where I can't see very far, and the white lines at the side are wearing cloaks of invisibility.

I might want to Pass Without Care after that ordeal.

I Concede to Spring

Much as I wanted to put it off, hoping yet for a Big One to  wrap up winter (not impossible but unlikely), I have to give in and admit that it's Spring. Tornadoes have already been wiping out whole towns and taking bites out of others. Temperatures are getting warmer. The clocks have been set forward in the yearly joke that doing so creates more daylight in a 24 hour day. (That one day is a 25 hour day -- maybe it's that hour of daylight they are thinking of.)

But none of these are the deciding factor for me. These things are all indicators of Spring, but they are not the boiled-down essence of Spring.

I admitted it might be Spring when I came home from the grocery store with two boxes of flower seeds.
I conceded that it is indeed Spring today when the man across the street mowed his lawn.

I observed, long ago, that the definitive signs of Spring are when women start talking flowers and men start talking mowers. This is a general rule of thumb, not a defining of genders. Go to a bar, a diner, a store and listen to the bull talk sessions. Then, you'll know it's spring when women talk flowers and men talk mowers.

When they actually do something about it, then it really is Spring.

lighting the darktime

For centuries, Christmas lights and candles in the windows and blazing fires have spread the light in the darkest time of winter. That solstice, every year, is the time of briefest light, and mankind has been fighting back from the beginning.
After the season -- whichever of them you celebrate, daylight begins creeping back into this old world. Minute by minute, day by day -- or maybe it's minute by day -- the time of not-dark increases. Our joyous blazing celebrations have brought back light, even if we don't think of it that way.

Recent years, the wooing of the light starts earlier and lasts longer. We begin, now, with ghost lights in October. Orange and white, only the orange has a tendency to look a lirrle red. We leave the spakling clear lights on through November, and then comes the extravaganza of Yuletide.
Carnival, which culminates in Mardi Gras, begins at Epiphany -- the twelfth day of Christmas.
But, between then and now, there are more secular holidays, made for fun and cheer.
Red lights and reshaped wreaths on doors celebrate Valentine's Day, the time of year when the sap rises in our spirits as well as in our yards. Green lights replace the red, and the wreaths are joined together in threes, to celebrate St Patrick and the return of the Green to the northern hemisphere.

And the twinkling lights give way to pastel ornaments and blushing bouquets, awaiting the full touch of sun as they burst into bloom.

From ghost lights to green lights, we keep away the darkness.
Or at least we try.

How cheap is that?

Now that gasoline is over $3.00 a gallon, even the service stations don't rush to put up their prices. Some few places let their signs fall into disrepair, surviving on convenience customers instead of competing actively for business. Others are looking for new ways to attract the drive-by consumer.

The price signs proclaim 3.09 for regular, 3.45 for diesel, and under those there is often an .89 or .99. Now, it has been a long, lo-o-o-o-ng time since any service station has sold anything for so low a price. What could this alluringly priced item be? Why should I stop here instead of there?

It is coffee.
Gas stations are pricing their coffee on their street signs, in an effort to get you to stop here instead of there.  The emphasis is no longer on fueling your car, but on keeping you going. They know the gas prices will no longer bring you in, but you still need some reason -- any reason -- to prefer their business to the next one down the road. 
So they offer coffee.
Any kind, any style, any size. Well, some places have any size for .99. Others have 16 ounces for .89.

Just like with gasoline, it depends on where you stop.