NO CHILD LEFT

Suze Orman was interviewing a recent college graduate who is struggling with debt from a student loan. She is now a teacher and her monthly student loan payments are eating up much of her teacher's salary, and with no end in sight. All her life, she aspired to attend NYU. So she followed her dream, and enrolled there. Sadly, when she took out the $88,000 loan, no one told her that she would be responsible for paying back about $265,000, counting interest. Suze asked her, if knowing what she knows now, she would have made a different decision. "Yes, " she answered, "I would have went to a public college."

A Passing Fad

Little Boy Who

The little toy doll was covered with dust
Tucked fast away in her night stand.
Who, during that year, was considered a must
To make Christmas a true toyland.

Time was when that Cabbage Patch lad was new
A fad she was eager to share,
In case that a child who she knew and loved
Would want it and lavish their care.

That day never came, as is often so true
With the fickle requests of the young,
So she put it away without giving a clue
And the price of her purchase unsung.

Now three decades later, the doll still awaits
For whatever that fate may decree
Vapid grin of a toy which was meant to bring joy
From a gift that was never to be.

Lovelorn #2

This one postmarked either Mar or May 20, 1956, at 8a.m. from Valley Falls, with typed address and letter also typed, this time on regular typing paper, neatly centered too.

Dear Miss Madigan,
For some time now, I have been admiring your beautiful red hair from a distance. I have noticed recently that you have it trimmed somewhat shorter. Hair like yours should be let grow until it sweeps the streets. Would that I could run my fingers through your lovely locks. It would be worth much to me and it would profit you some also. If you are at all interested meet me in front of the Valley Inn, this Wednesday night between 10:00-10:15 P.M. In any event, please do not have your hair cut again.

Really, except for our father's concluding that the writer was an adult, no one paid much attention. Pretty creepy since she was only 16 at the time. I remember she and Sandy went down to the assignation, but nothing transpired. I'm sure they were laughing and giggling like crazy. Remember those days when everybody we cared about was alive, and we could laugh at just about everything.

So they say...

Politicians, doctors, lawyers, and others say they aren't able to quickly and simply solve a problem or resolve an issue because they "don't have a silver bullet." And I just heard one say he doesn't have " a magic bullet" (whatever that may be); sometimes they phrase it as they don't have a crystal ball. Excuses such as these seem a little lame and counter-intuitive, don't they, because when is the last time you heard someone claim to have an answer because they possess a silver (or magic) bullet or a crystal ball? They may as well say they don't have an easy answer because they don't own a vintage Mercedes or they were never in the kitchen with Martha Stewart.

For real?

Today on the news, some financial analyst was trying to put a positive spin on the economic picture. She offered this advice: "Look ahead, not in your rear-view mirror. You use your rear view mirror to look back and see where you've been. You need to look forward." Now, I don't know about you, but I drive almost every day and use my rearview mirror multiple times every drive, and I have NEVER used it to see where I've been. I use it to see what is coming at me from behind.

Cleo of Chaucer Place

The cat next door's name is Cleo, short for Cleopatra and she is Himalayan. She lives with Betty, who says both of them are senior citizens. Betty says Cleo is not a cat, but a lawn ornament. Cleo either sits on the lawn or the deck and stares through the sliding glass door. She keeps her eyes looking downward, even when we speak to her. I believe she is still looking for Chelsea: Betty says she used to visit them every day. Cleo is still a good looking cat, and must have been a beauty in her day. I'm not sure about Betty; she looks a lot like Mary Reilly.

Myth Busted

I felt like a criminal, tooling along on the NYS Throughway, as if all eyes were on me and recognizing me for the lawbreaker I was. I'd been to a staff meeting at Herkimer BOCES and was driving home late in the day by myself. Usually a friend and co-worker rode shotgun, and since she is OCD, she is very conscientious about directions, and I came to depend on her. I always drove, and she gave directions. Sometimes the directions she gave were very obvious , but I didn't care. I like somebody to tell me where to turn, and which lane to be in, etc. (kind of like an early GPS, but they can go crazy at times,) But now I was alone and determined to be in the proper lane in order for me to be sure I was heading home. I knew I needed to stay to the right, and the entry ramp in Herkimer is or was or was about 10 years ago, toward the left and in a rather rural, remote, and even deserted-looking area. Or so it seemed at the time. Anyway, I stayed right, the toll booth was toward the left, and I missed it. I didn't see anyone in it either, but I suppose I could have overlooked someone slumped in the booth, not much business at the time.
So I'm on the Throughway, with no ticket, and feeling as if my car has a flashing sign on it, identifying me as an illegal trespasser. I envied all the cars whose drivers were smart enough to have taken a ticket. A few troopers passed me and I felt like they must know I was ticketless. After the first half hour or so, I started thinking how I was going to get off the Throughway. (This was beforre EZ Pass,or at least well before we had it.) If I said I hadn't seen anyone in the toll booth, and thought there might be another booth a little farther down the ramp (which was true), and hadn't wanted to go to the left instead of right (which was also true), the attendant would probably think I was nuts and unfit to be driving. I thought about saying that my ticket had blown out the window (which was not true, but seemed more believable). Unless, I worried, they could check and know it was a lie. I remembered people saying that if you did not have your ticket, you would be charged for the entire length of the Throughway, and I hoped they would take a credit card.
I decided to get off the Amsterdam exit instead of at Albany because I figured it would be less busy, and I didn't want to tie up traffic on top of everything else. Still not sure of what my story was going to be, I pulled up to the window of the booth. I said "I don't have a ticket." He, a young man, asked "Where did you get on?" I said Exit 34. He said $2.40, and I paid him. The end.

P.D.I.

I've never engaged in a Public Display of Insanity, but I can feel one coming on.

The Passport

I Wonder:

What do you do, or what will become,
of a passport after the holder is gone?
The passport doesn't expire
for another year.
What about a framed birth certificate
that Ma put under glass
over seventy years ago now?
And the age-yellowed report card
naming her an honor student?
And that classmate picture
where she is told she will
always be remembered and loved?
The writer, out of touch for decades,
recently wrote another card,
A sympathy card, this time.
Shouldn't the years in between
have lasted as long as the paper
the cards were written on?

Wish

Why?
I wish I knew-----Why
The last word I heard her speak
Was "Why?"
Not a prayer, or a sigh,
Or the calling out of the name
Of a loved one,
But an anguished cry,
And with tears flooding ,
From eyes that could
Not bear to see,
She still sought to find
The answer to the question
That has no answer.

Quarantine

I'm feeling sympatico with Typhoid Mary. She had her bugs and I have mine. We both suffer isolation because of our affliction. I can't remember, and don't feel like googling, how M.T. came to be afflicted, or who she could have blamed for her contact. I don't know how we came to be afflicted: the parasites had to come from someplace that had animals, I figure. Wasn't there a time in the not so distant past when all dogs and cats had fleas, and they never seemed to pose too much of a problem to humans then. Maybe because so many of today's cosseted pets are treated with anti-flea medications, that the fleas don't want to stay on or near the treated animals and so hop on and are transported to non-medicated and formerly flealess homes. Or else, the fleas have become resistant to the meds and now have the status of super fleas. I think our problem may be nearing a resolution, though, and not just because we are washing the floors every day and vacuuming three or four times a day. The anti-flea medications the vet sold us for our poor cat seems to have poisoned it and Maybe probably won't be a host for fleas much longer, if the history of our other cats holds true.

Stick this!

I hate tape, not just red tape, though I don't like that much either. I mean all tape, every kind of tape---duct tape, strapping tape, sealing tape, even Scotch tape. Oh, I like its uses just fine. What would we do without it, but I hate using tape. If I try to seal a carton with tape, I think the tape has adhered to the box, but when I turn the box to apply the tape to the other side, it pulls away and rolls itself into a tangle. If I try to cut a piece of tape to the correct size, it invariably rolls around and sticks to itself. And the dispensers are a worse nuisance. Dave bought me a fancy one, the kind you see on TV when people are sealing moving cartons and such. They just tape as much as they need and poof! The boxes are neatly sealed. For some reason, when I try to do the same, the sticky part of the tape always seems to be on the wrong side, and then I can't sever the tape anyway. I actually cut myself several times before I discarded it. I've even had to take scotch tape out of the dispenser, and use scissors to cut it. I've ruined so many pairs of scissors that way, I now buy them as disposable at the dollar store. Tape is a torment, and I'm not even going to mention trying to find the end of it--after it's removed from the dispenser of course.

A Letter

I found one of the letters---typed address to Miss Dorothy Madigan, Valley Falls, N.Y. Postmarked from Schaghticoke on August 21, 1956 at 8 AM and sent with a 3c stamp. Dorothy would have been a new high school graduate, and 16 years old.
"Dear Dorothy, Once again I must tell you what a pleasure it is to look upon your beautiful hair. If I may suggest it, it would be nice to see it worn in another style. Only please don't cut it; don't ever cut it. Now that you are probably going to college, someone may suggest that you wear shorter hair, but don't be persuaded. It is just too beautiful for shearing.
I suppose you take good care of your hair. It always looks bright and shining. I think that you owe it to others to keep it that way. Hair is a woman's crowning glory and none matches yours. Keep it that way, Dot, by letting it grow down to your heels.
You're a good looking girl, Dorothy, mainly because of your beautiful red hair. Stay that way by keeping your hair nice and long. When you start courting, find a boy, like me, that loves beautiful hair. You'll be his inspiration for the rest of his life.
God forbid, but if you ever do decide to cut your hair, save a good big lock of it for me."

Not signed, typed on half a page of lined notebook paper. Now it seems even creepier than it did back then when everything seemed funny to us. Too bad our sleuth wasn't in the family then; she may have solved the mystery, though I remembered my father's trying to. He loved detective stories.

Periphery Defined

OK, that does it. I will no longer drive (by myself) more than about 35 miles in any direction. I'll go to Salem, well, maybe even Granville, 55 miles but straight on Rte. 22. and Rolando still lives in West Rupert, VT, so that's OK. I'll drive the Northway to the end, Western Avenue. I'll still go to Troy of course, including Cohoes and Waterford, even Menands. And I'll drive to Clifton Park and Saratoga. I don't think I will ever need to go anywhere further, and if I do, I'm not going. Rotaries, roundabouts, and circular exit ramps give me panic attacks. As soon as I make a turn, I lose my sense of direction and think I am probably driving the wrong way. It's kind of like when I played Pin the Tail on the Donkey as a child. Blindfolded, spun around, in an attempt to deliberately confuse and disorient. Well, okay, I'm not blindfolded, but otherwise the effect is the same.

Observations at Social Services

There may be services available, but they are far from "social" at least in the common definition of the word. I have no idea what kind of training or incentives LL Bean employees are offered, but couldn't social services pick up on that at least a little. If you think that social service recipients are leeching off the system, and getting something for nothing, try accompanying someone on a visit to the social services office. The saying that there is no such thing as a free lunch proves true here : the price is exacted in terms of human dignity, a commodity which, once spent, is difficult to regain, and self-perpetuating in terms of lack of self-respect.

Available benefits have so many different levels, each with their own set of protocols, I may be overlapping some with others, but essentially this is what happens: applicants are told to arrive within the framework of two time periods, say either 9:00 am or 1:00 pm. If you arrive later than the prescribed cut-off time , you must come back another day or at the later time. The applicants' promptness, however, does not affect the usually long wait for services. You line up outside the building---men, women, and children of all ages. (We went to Florida one time and found that kids were not allowed on the premises of the dog-racing venue, an inappropriate environment for children; too bad the same isn't true for social services. Keep the kids away; you don't want them to become inured to that! But of course, what else to do with the kids but to bring them along with you.) A security officer patrols the queue outside the building, weather permitting, and sternly advises that belts must be removed and metal objects taken out of pockets. A large metal belt buckle attached to a leather belt, removed and now carried in the hands, would seem to pose a much greater threat off than on, but no one seems to consider this. No one seems surprised or affronted by the shouting out o the rules --except maybe the newbies.
They don't want to do anything to rock the boat or rile the man. They're here to get stuff, not to screw things up.
I'm going to save the tale of passing through the security checkpoint for another time: I'm not ready yet for my family to ostracize me, so will forward to what happens upstairs.
Once you determine what floor to go to and which counter you need to be near, you sit and wait for an employee to slide out a sign-up sheet. Eventually your name is called and you go to the appointed area to wait your turn for what happens next. Often, there is not enough seating---times are tough, you know. At this particular area, you wait until---and this was hard to witness----a window is lifted, an anonymous hand extends itself and drops or strews a bunch of numbered cards along the window shelf counter. And this is where experience pays off----those who are savvy have arranged themselves in starting position, (as much as possible because you are required to stay seated, though if there are not enough seats, you have to stand NEAR the seats), and make a mad dash to pick a card off the counter. This does not make complete sense because the cards are in random order, unless you dare to surreptitiously sneak more than one card and opt for the lower number. Amidst the cloak of gloom and endless waiting, though, I suppose this little game of chance serves as a high point. When I first witnessed this sight, it reminded me of scattering grain to a flock of chickens. One more way to lower one's dignity, and reinforce dependence on the master.
I'm about blogged out now, and am going back to bed, but I'll close with one dictum:: Social Service employees do not like to hear that they must find their jobs boring. Nor do they seem to realize that if it were not for the deprived and the depraved or however you want to refer to the "clients", that they would not have jobs. Jobs I'd say they are lucky to have because they don't seem to be suited for anything else.
Yesterday we walked into a new state of the art medical facility just blocks away from social services and did not have to pass through any security checkpoints at all. People die in hospitals, survivors often blame doctors and staff, and someday something bad may happen to change present policy. For now, though, the doors are freely open, and we gladly take advantage of that freedom, though I do carry my Poland Springs water bottle in case I have the urge to assault somebody.

The Food Critic

Today I went to lunch with two friends at The Whistling Kettle in Ballston Spa. I kind of wasn't looking forward to it for a variety of reasons. First, I haven't much felt like going anywhere. Second, one of my friends looks really great in that she's slender, in shape, has an attractive hairstyle, and she and her boyfriend live in two homes, Cambridge in summer and Florida in winter. Third, the route to the restaurant involves three traffic rotaries. "Take the first right at the first rotary, the third exit of the second rotary and then right at first exit of the third rotary." I hate most rotaries, especially unfamiliar ones, when I don't know which lane to be in. The GPS would be helpful, but have you ever have it impulsively steer you wrong? It can be helpful but occasionally fickle. But I truly enjoy seeing my old friends, we're all more or less in the same boat. and I wore black pants that didn't make me feel too bulgy. Best of all, we found a simple route that avoided all rotaries and didn't even get lost enroute.
The restaurant is centrally located, has options of dining inside or outside. We chose to be seated inside----we wanted to be able to see each other and the glare of the sun and elder eyes are not such a happy pairing. Inside was crowded, as was the outside area. They take reservations there even for lunch, but we were seated and served right away. Because the decor is mostly wood and bricks, and because the room was full, it was very noisy, so we had to repeat some of our conversation, not that there's anything wrong with our hearing, of course. So many different teas: I chose the daily special, some kind of iced fruity blend. I'm not much of a tea drinker, but it was okay. The others had the special tea and a coffee in its own little pot. The friend who had been there before and had recommended the place had the quiche, as did my other friend. Neither particularly enjoyed their meal, commenting it was rather dry. Both ate it all though, I noticed. Their philosophy is if they pay for it, they're going to eat it. I went out on a limb and had the special of the day 's panini sandwich. It contained cheese, and both ham and bacon and what made it really yummy, apricots. To my surprise I really liked it, and ate it all. The only bad thing about that was they had dessert and I had to skip that part of the meal. But when I got home I ate all the Mr. Goodbar's out of the bag of Hershey's Miniatures stashed in the kitchen cabinet.

Columnists

Our humble little newspaper "The Record" has two columnists named John----one is a talented writer and the other is an idiot.