CAPTCHA, ReCAPTCHA, NoCAPTCHA, Please

June 24, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 6 Comments

Okay, some days are meant for stories, others for delving into important writer issues, or spouting off an opinion. Today, is bitching day. I’m annoyed to hell with Google. I admire their tenacity in combating spam and abuse. As a blogger, I sincerely appreciate the effort, but please for the love of God, get rid of the reCAPTCHA. You know, the little rectangle box that asks you to prove you’re not a robot by asking you to fill in distorted words, or pictures. Seriously?

Photo courtesy of simonkewin.co.uk & Google

Photo courtesy of Google

Do any of the geniuses at Google understand America is turning gray?

According to Forbes, “The gray wave has arrived. Since 2000, the senior population has increased 29% compared to overall population growth of 12%. The percentage of Americans in the senior set has risen from 12.4% to 14.1%, and their share of the population is projected to climb to 19.3% by 2030.”

And, what happens as we age? We can’t see!

“Beginning in the early to mid-forties, most adults may start to experience problems with their ability to see clearly at close distances.” American Optometric Association.

Google

You’ve got to be kidding me!!! What in those genius minds made them think requiring a visually challenged and aging population to place distorted words and pictures into boxes to prove they were not robots!

If you believe CAPTCHAS protect you from spammers, perhaps. But it’s also frustrating the bejesus out of your visitors to your site. Don’t believe me? Tim Allen of Moz wrote a great post in 2013, Having a CAPTCHA is killing Your Conversion Rate.

Although, CAPTCHA was designed as a user friendly system, a study conducted by Standford University showed otherwise.

The study found, on average:

71% can’t agree! That’s huge. Think of that in terms of visitors to your site. In fact, according to Moz, CAPTCHA’s became such a problem for Ticketmaster, in 2013 they stopped using it and went to another system.

I don’t want spammers screwing up the Cow Pasture Chronicles, anymore than the fortune 500 corporations or Amazon. But, I don’t want my readers and visitors frustrated and, therefore, discouraged from returning either. I want my site to be many things; welcoming, warm, thought-provoking, humorous, a resource for other writers, and a place people want to return time and again. For me, Cow Pasture Chronicles shall remain CAPTCHA free.

Google, I am NOT a robot! And, by the way has any of this nonsense worked with China? Hmmm?

What do you think about reCAPTCHA’s? Do you hate them as much as I do? Have you ever given up and left a site because you couldn’t fill the damn thing out correctly?I’d love to hear from you. Talk to me. Tell me your story. You can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

Book of Betrayal

June 23, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

Photo courtesy of http://www.silverquill.net & Google

Sorry for the late start today. Here is my500 Word Challenge contribution for Day 6

His aftershave lingered with Jackie as she pulled on her robe and followed the smell of coffee down the stairs. She noticed the frayed corners of the leather-bound journal lying beside the coffee maker. She’d given it to him for his fortieth birthday and forgotten about it until she came upon it in a place he knew she wouldn’t miss. Knowing he used it pleased her, but that was before the letter, addressed to her, fell to the floor. A frown creased her brow as she stared at the envelope. He hadn’t written her a letter since high school and her instincts screamed the one laying on the floor with her name penned in his careful, deliberate handwriting did not hold good news. Her heart did a somersault. Trembling, she opened the letter, removed the sliver of paper with its strange string of numbers, and read as her world crumbled.

The pages were showing wear from the hours and days she’d spent searching between the lines for answers. But, for the journal, she would have never known. His words and deeds a perfect mask of deceit to all who knew him, especially her. Wrap it up in a bow of explanations and rationalizations, but the result was the same, betrayal, and devastation. She tried to explain the things she read, combing through his words for a motive, or justification of his actions, but any plausible explanation escaped her. He’d lost his way, his mind, or both. Reading his journal entries, she couldn’t tell the difference. He’d given no insight as to why, simply categorizing his sins, listing them by date, time, event, and name of the betrayed.

He expressed shame, sorrow, his love for her and the kids. The last transaction, conveniently left out of the journal’s documentation, he explained in the letter. “This one, I did to protect you and the kids.” How ironic. How stupid. How self-centered. Four hours later, the doorbell rang; he’d taken the coward’s way out.

Who did he think would pick up the pieces of their shattered lives? Look their friends in the face? He wasn’t here to pay restitution, ask forgiveness, or witness the untold damage left in his wake. Did he honestly believe she’d burn the journal to protect his reputation or pretend his words were fiction? He hadn’t known her at all. How much more did she need to know? Jackie ran her hand over the soft leather, placed it on the side table, and reached for the doorknob. Enough, already. Time to face the music.

With her attorney at her side, Jackie walked through the door to greet the family, friends, and neighbors gathered in her living room at her request. Each one a name listed in the worn pages of the journal lying on the table in her bedroom. She began with the truth of her late husband’s betrayal; they deserved that much. The money they’d entrusted to him was gone.

The fallout would be hard for everyone. The ramifications of her husband’s actions would move through the community like a ripple in the ocean, large and wide, before engulfing all of them. Losing the house, her place in society meant nothing to her. Relocating would be the best thing for all of them, especially the children.

Finally, she closed the door on the last guest, laying her head against the aging wood grain. Returning to her bedroom, she stared at the damnable book lying on the table and picked up the phone.

“Detective, I think you’ll be interested in the information my husband left behind.”

“What sort of information?”

“A journal. An attorney friend of the family said you’d want it. I’m on my way out-of-town, but I wanted you to know I’m sending it by courier.”

“What’s in it?”

Playing the ignorant suburban housewife came easy. She hadn’t worked a day since they married and as long as he paid the bills and kept money in her account for the kids and the household, she didn’t ask questions. “I have no idea. I know many of the names listed, but I’m afraid all the rest is gibberish to me.”

“Does your husband know you’re calling? Can I talk to him?”

“My husband isn’t available.”

The squeak of the detective’s chair traveled through the line as he sat upright.

“Where is he?”

Jackie tucked the airline tickets along with the sheet of paper holding their future into her purse, “My husband left unimaginable destruction in his wake, detective, making instant paupers of the people who loved and trusted him. He’s where he belongs, in an unmarked paupers grave at Westminster. It’s the least I could do.”

She hung up the phone, took one last look around her old life, and walked out the door. Well, almost everyone.

Day 6

Thanks for reading. Talk to me. Tell me your story. I love hearing from you. And as always, you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

Cow Pasture Chronicles, My Oasis

June 22, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 4 Comments

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All About Me.”

The name of my blog as you may know, if you’re a follower, is Cow Pasture Chronicles. The name has a special meaning to me.

I was a precocious child, or so they said. I prefer a smart, independent, and inquisitive girl ahead of her time. One of six kids, I was quiet, but sneaky. I didn’t mouth off or sulk as some of my siblings. I stayed quiet, said the requisite yes ma’am and no ma’am. I listened, paid attention, and when the timing was right, snuck off and did what I damn well pleased. I rarely got caught, but when I did, there was usually hell to pay.

We lived on a dirt road just outside of town, not many neighbors in sight, and right behind our house was a big cow pasture, filled with cattle. Located just over a hill, the road and pasture remained out of view from our house and provided the perfect opportunity for a curious girl to explore. All I had to do was get past mama. As it turns out, getting past mama was the easy part.

It took a few times of trial and error before the cows (I thought they were all cows, NOT) and I learned to ignore each other. I had no idea what a dangerous situation, it was climbing the fence. To me, running past a 2000 lb bull in giggles, after invading his territory seemed a game of catch me if you can, and I was the champ. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

The cow pasture became my favorite hide-a-way. Every day I climbed the fence running down the hill until I came to rest under the canopy of trees by the stream. I loved to hear the flow of the water and watch the cattle wander in to drink. The pasture became my escape, my paradise, my oasis.

It was there I began my writing adventure. As often as I could escape the house, I did. In the quiet of the pasture, beside a trickling stream, I filled my journals, writing about my grievances with my mother, poems, and stories. I even waxed poetic about algebra, the bane of my high school existence and signed my work with a pen name, Zeke

When I decided to start my blog, the name was a no brainer. The cow pasture I used for escape has long disappeared. Instead of cows meandering the fields, houses fill the expanse. My blog, Cow Pasture Chronicles, is now my escape. Here is where I explore the stories within me, voice the occasional opinion, and share the knowledge I’ve gained on the craft of writing.

If you haven’t stopped by, please do. I love to interact with other bloggers, readers, and writers. And I love feedback and dialog. And, as always you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

For your reading amusement, my poem on theorems, enjoy. (Be kind, I wrote this in 1972, when I was just a babe and I am not a poet)

Theorem 31

Oh, that teacher in 1^st period

his Theorems and his Proofs!

the more I try, the harder it gets

and, the Lord knows that’s the truth

The corollaries and postulates,

know them one by one

now, get to work and state the Proof

Of Theorem 31

I proudly state the given

then comes L1=L2

man, on my way am I

and AB=BY.

I look again at what

I am proud to prove and

suddenly see despair

I know that Mr. Morgan’s near

I sense him in the air.

He’s standing there right over me

With ruler in his hand

Sheila that’s wrong,

dear heart

Erase it and try again

Oh, that teacher in 1^st period

his Theorems and his Proofs

they’re driving me up the wall

and, God knows that’s the truth.

With a long, deep

and sad, sad sigh

I begin to erase it

I begin to cry

The shreds of hair lay

All around

My tear-stained face

Is streaked

So here, go again

compose yourself

don’t look so stunned

Sheila it’s really very easy

now, take this sheet

Quit pulling your hair

Now, prove theorem 31

Zeke (aka. Sheila)

January 11, 1972

Day 5

A Tribute to Daddy

June 21, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

“Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.” Exodus 20:12

Today is Father’s Day and all over the country, families will celebrate with cards, gifts, phone calls and gatherings. For many, however, there is no father. Some have never known theirs; others see him infrequently, through bars, or lost him too soon.

I was five years old when I lost my father to a brain aneurysm; he was 32 years old. Although, I don’t have many memories of my childhood, I do have memories of my daddy. I remember laughter, a tight-knit family, and a sense of security. My daddy had a fun, mischievous side to him and he loved us.

A memory I will always cherish is the Sunday me and my two sisters misbehaved in church, or so mom said. We were warned, “You just wait until your father gets home.” Daddy closed the door to our bedroom, removed his belt and told us, “Girls, when I hit the bed I want you to cry real loud.” He gave that bed the spanking of a lifetime and satisfied mom’s demand we be punished. Our suppressed giggles and the smile on my daddy’s face will stay with me always.

I also remember the day he got sick and the last time I saw him in his hospital bed, just before surgery. Alert and smiling, he hugged and kissed each one of us. He told us he loved us and to be good to mama. Daddy died on the operating room table before the surgery began. I remember my cousin lifting me over the casket, sitting in our family living room, to kiss him goodbye. Losing him was a tremendous loss, but it would be years before I realized the magnitude.

Recently, I reconnected with some of my cousins on daddy’s side and we visited my 93-year-old Aunt, daddy’s only remaining sibling. With a crystal clear mind, she shared stories with me. She validated those early memories and gave me a few new ones to cherish. My aunt told me, he was a good man and “crazy about your mama and all of you kids.” It is something I knew deep in my heart even as a child.

Daddy, I honor you today for the father you were to me, my sisters, and brother. I did not have you long, but you left a lasting impression on the woman I have become. Thank you for the image of making mom laugh. Thank you for the Sunday’s at Grandma’s and always stopping by the State line store to spend the silver dollar Papa gave to each of us. I remember what you always said as you pulled to a stop in front of the store, “I bet that money’s burning a hole in your pocket.” Thanks Daddy for letting me help you wash your car, play in the snow and not spanking me for getting in the hen-house. Thank you for the memories of love, Daddy and showing me, once upon a time the true meaning of family. .

Happy Father’s Day,

I love you

You can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

Day 4