A Matter of Death and Life

    I remember the last days of Winston Churchill.  He'd taken sick and the newspapers, radio and television were keeping a daily death watch.  I remember thinking he was old, fated to die, probably ready for the end at ninety plus years, and why not just let it happen.  It was 1965 and I was in my twenties. 
   George H.W. Bush is now pretty much in the same position as Churchill, good days and bad, rallying and declining, in any event near life's end at 88 years of age.  Now I root for him to fight for every day---"Do not go gentle."    Hang on, Poppy.  You can do it.  Maybe you won't be jumping out of any more airplanes, or dining on steak and lobster, but milkshakes are worth living for, and you have someone to kiss you goodnight.  It's strange how one's  outlook can change over the course of a mere 47 year span. 

The Davids

I saw David S. in church tonight, at Dorothy's Memorial Mass.  This is what I remember about him:   we lived for a while as tenants in his parents' house, near the reservoir. He was the youngest of three brothers as I recall, the elder two grown up, and though he must have been several years older, he used to play with my brother after his farm chores were done.  There was another boy who lived in an old brown house across the road a short distance away, David Owens I think was his name, and he would sometimes join the games played, which were always either Cops and Robbers or Cowboys and Indians.  Dorothy was too young to play outside, but I was old enough to at least observe the games.  One time I walked into the woodshed and saw one of the Davids holding my brother at gunpoint (or by a stick shaped like a gun), so I had to  help him.  I picked up a piece of wood and hit the David with it, trying for his head.  The David never turned around when I entered the shed, and when struck immediately fell to the ground.  I was little enough to have thought I knocked him out and saved my brother, too young to realize it was all part of the game. 
     Another day one of the boys brought his BB gun when he came to play, or hang out, as they say now. They seemed to me to be big boys, and I was not much interested in their doings until one boy, most likely on a bet, put the gun against another boy's leg and pulled the trigger.  BB's were not supposed to hurt; they were not considered real guns.  The shot victim David immediately let out a yell, and burst into tears, loud enough that my mother came outside to see what was wrong.  She ended up prying the BB out of the leg with a large sewing needle.  Most likely she doused it with Mercurochrome or Iodine, depending on his tolerance for pain.  Most likely of all is that no one ever told any of the parents; in those days that would have meant a major hurt for everybody involved. 

"The year is dying in the night..."

IN MEMORIAM        12-29-39            6-1-2011
                Roses, races, angels, loyalty and love

Moonstruck

   I just saw a list on the internet of the 20 most handsome movie stars of all time.  I would agree that some were handsome, others sultry, and some just famous.  The list  reminded me of the best looking man I'd ever met face to face.  Baby David was in the hospital again, this time for a hernia operation.  He was 22 months old, and his roommate was an older boy, a 10 year old twin who was having minor plastic surgery on his lip to correct the scars from an earlier automobile accident.  His name was Don and his twin brother either Dave or Dan, I think.  He was a very cute child, with dark hair, and very polite and helpful.  I remember one night he sprinkled talcum powder in everybody's shoes, including David's.  And although the nurses had told me David would be fine through the night once he'd fallen asleep, and that it would be safe for me to leave him then to go home, young Don told me that David had woken up after I left, and cried throughout much of the night.  That may have been why he, sleepless and concerned,  was dousing shoes with powder.   But it was that young boy's father who I would place on my most handsome list.  His name was Don: he and his wife were taking turns spending time at the hospital with their son, and he was oustandingly good-looking.  Very well built and well dressed and as nice and friendly as anyone could have been--both parents were, actually, but the father was the more remarkable.  One morning when we were sitting watch together, he was leaving to get coffee and asked me if I'd like him to bring me back one, and I had to say no. I occasionally drank coffee back  then, and could  have used a cup,  but I would have been too overwhelmed to drink it.  I remember I must have felt a little guilty being so enraptured by another man so early in our marriage, so I told my husband how impressed I was by this man.    I needn't have worried; it turned out that my husband had felt much the same way.

The Nth Child

"The essence of each:
Charm, grace, lightness,
Next, thoughtfulness, courage, and loyalty,
Then, compassion, humility, and love.
Now in memory only, past elixirs
Bound together by a fragile chain,
Its  separate links of hard-forged steel
The sole testament to the past."

Petty Grievance

   I've never watched Jeff Probst's new show.  I like him all right, I guess, but I can't get beyond his opening spiel, a Miss America-like  introduction where he tells you who he is.  He loses me at "I'm newly married."  Yecch! 

Lesson Learned--Ben Ten

    I asked him if at age 10, he knew what a palindrome was.  He answered no, so the teacher in me took over.  "It's a word that is spelled the same forward and backward. Can you give me an example?"    He thought for a few seconds, and said,  "Poop." 

Dress codified

   The woman sat across from me in church, an elderly woman.  That means she was older than me, or at least I think so.  She had well-coiffed hair, manicured nails, trendy polish at that, and wore what looked like gold jewelry.  She had on a short fur jacket, probably mink, and she was wearing  black stirrup pants, with black flats.   Stirrup pants-----I remember wearing them; I had many pairs of them over the years when they were the style.  They were great to wear with boots, flattering to the leg as long as you kept your boots on.  Even I, who tends to hold on to all items from the past, no longer have my stirrup pants.   How did this otherwise fashionably dressed woman happen to still have the stirrups, I wonder.  I don't think they're making a fashion comeback;  are they?   

Note to Prosecutor

Dear Mr. Smith, It was the singer, not the song.

Awesome Birthday Palindrome

Next birthday will be 3-1-13.   And the birthday child's age will be right in the middle of the set of numbers---11 years of age.  Seems like it should be a special and wonderful year!   (And it's not on the Mayan  calendar.) 

Alas, Eddie McD

How fine is the line between reasonable doubt and unreasonable doubt.  The latter is kind of like a double negative, isn't it?
          AND JUSTICE PREVAILED!!!

Sad endings

  I just read that Bob Dole, now confined to a wheelchair, attended his old friend Senator Daniel Inouye's funeral, and insisted on walking in to pay his final respects.  He said he  "didn't want Danny to see him in a wheelchair."

"Or " else....

There are over 400 words in the English language ending with the letters "or."  All that I can think of commonly  have that last syllable pronounced with the schwa sound, no long "o"--------   administrator, doctor, educator, janitor, mayor, impostor, litigator, legislator, coordinator, aggressor, counselor, instructor, inferior, creditor, juror, junior----and these are just some of the words referring to persons.  Others are factor, manor, glamor--the list goes on and on.  Why then are we constantly subjected to hearing the word "mentor" pronounced to rhyme with gore?  Kind of  a faux-sophistication, do you think?

Redemption--Well, sorta

    I sense I'm losing my hearing:   LeAnn Rimes enters singing on "The Voice."  I remember her pure, clear voice way back when she sang "Blue."  I see her moving her lips and sound is coming out, but I can't understand what she is singing, can only  recognize a  word here and there. I can't even blame it on distractions, as I'm alone in the room.   I resign myself to a measure of hearing loss, inevitable it seems.  Today I am granted a reprieve, from an unlikely source.  Turns out the obnoxious host of  "Primetime in No Time"  also had no clue as to what she sang.  OMG, I'm not alone.

Where art thou, Peter Pan?

  "I don't really want to grow up," he said.  "I used to be three, then I was four, and now," stifling a sob, "I'm five."   

Who? Why?

Just wondering------Who is that weird little George Doppelganger guy who sits in Ali Wentworth's kitchen?  (Everybody should have one around the house.)     Why do they keep showing the VW Passat ad featuring the guy with the perplexed expression and the skinny legs? 

Oh. Rats!

I missed the educational conference in Syracuse this year, and it's probably a good thing I wasn't there.  I believe I would have staged a revolution in one of the workshops that was presented. 
    One who had attended the workshop  favorably commented  on how interesting, and, naturally, educational she found a certain  presentation to be. This  workshop presentation centered on the following body  of research, purportedly measuring motivation in humans, particularly adolescents:
     Rats were placed in a bucket of water (most likely individually), from which there was no possibility of escape.  They  were  timed as to how long they would continue to swim, futile as it was, before they gave up and were at the drowning point.  The researcher then rescued the drowned rat, and let it recover.  Then he/she put the rat back in the bucket, and again timed how long it took before the rat gave up and drowned, no lifesaving this time.  The ostensible reason for the study was to assay stress levels in humans;   the conclusion drawn was that people who have already been placed under stress will give up sooner when additional stressful situations arise. 
     Killing rats is all right with me, though  lab rats are not quite the same as sewer or alley rats.  Poisoning them, bashing them, all right, even drowning them may be acceptable ways to prevent infestations and outbreaks of the bubonic plague, but drowning, reviving, and redrowning to me says more about the mindset of the researchers than it does of legitimate scientific research.  They could have drawn the same conclusions if they had tested the rats on involuntary  treadmills.  The rats would stop when they were exhausted, but they wouldn't be dead. 
    I would say PETA should have been informed, but I don't know the details of the "respected' presenter,  where the drowning rats project was carried out, or for that matter how much of it was true.  I tried to google the experiment, couldn't find that one, but there was another rat drowning experiment measuring aggression in rats, whose level of such reportedly rose after they had "drowned" and been revived.  In that case, oddly enough, the researcher also drowned the rat for real after his initial conclusion. Perhaps the workshop  presentation  has been merely plagiarized, with observations made and then applied in a simulated exercise.  In any case, it does lend credence to the term mad scientist.  Sadists!
     Moreover, those attending the workshop totally bought into the premise, blithely accepting what would be considered torture if not done in a scientific setting.  People in general are sheep; waterboarding has been outlawed, has it not?

The "Operation Game" Updated

  If  the minds of senior citizens, AKA old people, could be wired to respond to select stimuli, what a godsend that would be.  I'm referring to the verbal section of the brain, the memory if you will.  The called-upon brain section could be activated through an impulse delivered via an earplug type device.  Then if someone for whatever reason wanted to know what it was like for Grandma to have had her hair set, or for Grandpa to have worn a military uniform in some forgotten war, a simple dial and probe could select that information without any off-subject rambling.  No longer would any fresh-faced child with a pad and pencil have to complete a class assignment by asking a random elder what life was like back when they were "alive."  Who knows, maybe the dial-a-memory technique could even be effective against Alzheimer's;  all the stored bits and pieces of a lifetime of activity sloshing around in the elderly brain could be retrieved only if and when the stimulus was applied.  Down with unconstructed patter connected only to the past.  On to......

Science class

  Our ninth grade science teacher, later to be our chemistry teacher, was born in the late 1800's.  I no longer have any conscious recall of anything scientific that he related to us, though he was a good teacher so I suppose a lot of his teachings were assimilated over the years.  But I do recall his recounting an anecdote from his youthful days, as he would sometimes do.   The means of travel in his courting days, he told us, was by horse and buggy.  The advantage was great, he explained, because when he would be returning to his home late at night, and was very tired, the horse would know the way back to the barn.  He didn't have to worry about the drive home, and could even fall asleep.  Not something you could do nowadays, he told us.    Ever the optimist, he also told us that since he came from a family that had a lot of longevity, he believed he had the chance to have been alive through three different centuries.  He retired just slightly over half-way through his second century, in 1955 I think, and he didn't make it into the third century.  He'd said it would have been a long shot. 

Christmas Eves Recalled

    It's odd, but we think of childhood as an extended period, as an important and lengthy portion of our lives, but in adult-years, far removed from the burst of childhood, those years when we were children are like the blink of an eye.  The memories then formed  delude us into thinking that those times were the way things should have been, and in our minds they take on a permanence that never really existed.  Thus, my memories of  the real Christmas Eve:
       Those of us who were old enough, at least seven years of age,would all go to Confession in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, at Our Lady of Good Counsel Church.  I think the time was from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m.  Then confessions were heard in the Confessional boxes, at the back of the church.  The kind where it was dark inside, and you knelt on a little bench and waited for the priest to slide the door open  in the little window on your side.  There were two confessional booths in the church, and, on occasions like this, both the pastor and the assistant pastor would be hearing confessions.  Back then, confessions were not a routine happening, much more rigorously scheduled, and not highly frequented except at Christmas and Easter, when every Catholic felt the need to be cleansed of sin.  Sinners would be lined up all the way down (or up) both outside aisles.  If the lines were too long, some of the older communicants would wait in the pews, along with those whose confessions had already been heard, and were saying their Penances in the pews.  Sometimes that was a lengthy process, especially for those who only went to Confession once or twice a year.  It was nothing to have received 25 Our Fathers and 25 Hail Marys if you'd been remiss. 
     Sometimes one line would be considerably longer than the other, depending on which priest was the more mellow, or the least terrifying, as we kids would have seen it.  Once inside the box, or booth, we knelt and waited in the darkness for that door to slide open, and even then the priest would be behind a curtain; I think it was dark green.  The booth was double, with the priest's compartment in the center, and a section on each side for the sinners.  Privacy was paramount, and you were never supposed to divulge what you, the priest, or anyone else said inside that booth, under penalty of Mortal Sin.  Sometimes you could overhear part of what the other person was saying, and sometimes the priest would in no uncertain terms tell that person how wrong he was.  You'd try not to listen, but couldn't help hearing, and so would try to forget what you'd overheard as soon as possible, hoping it was not another sin on your part that needed confessing.  When your door slid open, and you could finally see the outline of the  priest's face, you hoped your mind wouldn't go blank as to the procedure.  Your first words to the shadowed figure had better be "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."  After that, total secrecy, even unto today.
      When the priest had heard your sins and absolved you of them, pending of course, your recitation of your Penance, you would retreat to an empty pew to say your penance.  I always guiltily hoped I had truly confessed all my transgressions, fearing maybe I had missed some.
      Back home, we would wait for Midnight Mass, and of course were forbidden to partake of food or even water.  (Sunday Masses  had the same restrictions and it was not uncommon to see young girls and older women fall in a faint kneeling at the Communion Rail, having had to refrain from all sustenance from the night before until after Communion.)  At our house the wait  until midnight was both exhilarating and exhausting when we were little.  For midnight in those days meant exactly that; it would have been heretic to call a service a Midnight Mass if it were held at 10:00 or any other time.  We had no television in those days and my father  would have already read the newspaper and  my mother would have been finished with her daily chores, so to keep us kids awake, way past our bedtime, the whole family would play cards, pretty much the only game available.  There was  checkers, but that could occupy only two people at a time.  I can remember a card game called Pit;  it seemed the face cards were grains, and one of the grains was called rape.  I had no idea of any other connotation, but I remember definitely feeling some uneasy vibes when we would shout out the name of that card. 
     Midnight Mass itself was invariably mysteriously beautiful, with the church crowded with people, and decorated, and there was a large Manger scene we kids would strain to view.  I can remember being there, all my family present, with the music and the lights, struggling to stay awake.  The mystique of all the holiness merged into a  picture of what I imagined  Heaven would be like.
    
    

Are you smart?

   There are many different and complex ways to assess intelligence, but to my mind, the  level of intellectual competence could all boil down to the  correct use of the words its and it's.    AND, I must add, there is never, never, never  an apostrophe after the s in its.

Grown Up

    Andrew came into our house and saw the manger which we'd just set up on a table in the living room.  He sat in front of it for quite a while, looking at the detailed figures, and naming them.  After a while, he stood up and said,  "We have a toy one of those at home."  

Paradise-Lost, Regained, who knows?

     I read about the jailhouse suicide of a serial murderer who traveled across the country, chose his victims at random,  and  in the case in Vermont viciously assaulted a couple  in their own home and slaughtered them.  This reminded me that, stowed away in the bottom of my bookshelf, is an "Atlantic Monthly"  magazine which has within it a story that I read back in 1997.  The story has troubled me ever since, in a vague way, which only means I couldn't fully recall the horror of it.  Yesterday, after 15 years, a measure of years which is astounding to me, and horrible in its own way, I overcame my  reluctance to reread such a loathsome tale, blew the dust off the magazine, and took a look.
    "Puttermesser in Paradise"  a short story by Cynthia Ozick opens like this:   "It happens that in the several seconds before we die, the well of the ribs opens, and a crystal pebble is thrown in; then there is a tiny splash, no more than the chirp of a droplet.  This seeming pebble is the earthly equal of what scientists call a black hole---a dead sun that has collapsed into itself, shrinking from density to deeper density, until it is smaller than the period at the end of this sentence.  Until it is less than infinitesimal."
  The end is like this:   "Puttermesser.......walks through the white ash of Paradise, herself a shadow though casting none, and longs for the plain green earth.----She has seen into (paradise) so this is what she sings:  At the point of a knife I lost my life....If I were alive I wouldn't fault anything under the heavenly vault.   Better never to have loved at all.  Better never to have risen than had a fall.  Oh, bitter, bitter, bitter, butter knife."
     I found the story just as I remembered it, though at the time, I was not elderly, like Mrs. Puttermesser.  Now I relate to it more deeply, hoping to avoid or bypass in some way the conclusion she drew about her life, examined during her murder: the secret meaning  of Paradise  is that it, too, is Hell.
    I am replacing the magazine on the bookshelf.  I might read it again someday.

Take Five

Rest in Peace, Dave Brubeck.  He believed rhythm was integral to life.   "The first sound we hear, " he said, "is the sound of our mother's heartbeat, and  the last sound we hear is the sound of our own heartbeat."

Dave Garroway

I loved Dave Garroway.  I discovered him for myself during my religious period, when I was in my early teenaged years.  During those years, I would not only attend every Holy Day of Obligation  without fail, but I also felt drawn to attend Mass every day during Lent.  The service was held at the Valley Falls Church at 6:30 a.m.  That's the way it was then, so people could make the service before work, or in my case school.
     It would be fairly dark those mornings and I could see the lights in the Sacristy  from the kitchen window of my house.  My mother would be awake: I never saw her asleep until well into my adulthood.  She would have just finished making breakfast for my father who left for work at just about 6:30.  I would put off breakfast until later, and would take a more or less straight-line path to the church:   out the back door, climb over the harmless (neither electrified nor barbed-wired) fence at the top of "our" hill, through the first pasture, then around the wide farm gate that Patsy, Dr. Sproat's hired hand, would obligingly leave loosely chained, so all the River Road kids who took that shortcut to upstreet would not put undue wear on that large wooden gate.  On past the area next to the main barn, where there had been some chicken coops, through the other yard next to the pond, which could be soggy if it had rained.  Out the last gate, also chained slightly ajar, and straight up to the church.
     Mass would not be very long; we had a pastor who could speak Latin faster than I'd ever heard anyone talk.  I would be home by seven a.m., and  while waiting for school to  start, would do what my mother would not do:  turn our recently acquired television set on during the daytime hours.   That is when I discovered Dave Garroway.  I was his sole audience in the house, father had left for work, mother busy getting things ready for the day, brother and sister still upstairs in bed.  Morning TV was fairly new then, and completely new to me, and for the 30 days after morning Mass, I would be drawn in to Dave Garroway, and his personal style of reaching out to his audience, and his friendly conversational demeanor.  I was still probably infused with some of the holy atmosphere I'd been bathing in, so when he would close with his usual, "The world stands out on either side...." I felt a sense of comfort and peace, different from anything presented on television before, or since, for that matter.
    I don't remember the last time I watched the show, or recall when Dave Garroway left the air.  When very young, you tend to think things will always remain the same, yet you hardly notice when they change, barring any direct impact on you. The status quo seems everlasting.
    I do recall viewing Dave Garroway's  guest appearance at the 30th anniversary  of the Today Show.  I hadn't thought of him in a long time, and  though older-appearing, he seemed the same.  He seemed glad to be back on the show, was eager and animated, his usual cheerful persona.  I believe he even signed off with his trademark recitation.  But, I noticed one thing that disturbed me a little, a slight embarrassment that I did not want to admit even to myself because I had admired him so much.  As he spoke, a slight bit of spittle lodged on his lower lip, and maybe no one on set noticed, or maybe they lacked the technology (though it wasn't that long ago), but the camera did not pan away so someone could remedy the situation.  I wondered at the time what he, who had always seemed so in control, would think if he watched himself on the show.  I never heard a word about it, and didn't think of it for a while.
    Only about 6 or 7 months later, Dave Garroway committed suicide by gunshot. Sources said he'd had surgery,and  was depressed for family reasons.  That may well have been true, but I thought I knew the real reason, or at least the final impetus.  He had been a pioneer in the media and an innovator of completely new programming, and his creation, in the end, turned on him and devoured him.  He had aged out.
   
   

    

1950

    When my mother was 45 years old, her mother died.  It changed her life, and therefore  our lives also.  My mother was what I would call a conservative optimist, bowed down by inevitable life discouragements, but always hopeful of the future.   After the death of her mother, my mother would get the blues.  I suppose now it would be called depression.  I was 12 years old  and don't recall how long her sadness  went on; I only remember its effect on me, self-centered as a child that age would be.  Ma would sit in the middle room some nights, after supper, in the dark,  in her  rocking chair near the closet door.  The silence of her grief would permeate the whole house, and my insides would  feel as if they were being gnawed away.  No one made any attempt to comfort her as I recall.  I know I felt I would be intruding if I tried to; she and her mother went back way more than my 12 years, and I was a stranger to most of their time together. I don't remember which triggered the other, but we had a record player at the time, and my brother would play his records.  They seemed mostly about lonesome train whistles and  dead shepherd dogs, but one in particular was pure anguish; it was called "I Dreamed about Mama Last Night," and I wanted it to disappear.  As I said, I don't know which came first:  the playing of the records, or the onset of my mother's blues. Maybe my mother asked for the records to be played.  Possibly it was good therapy in a time when people were not supposed to show their emotions.  I hope so.

Into the Woods

   She told me, in all seriousness, that they had discussed how they would end their days together and had agreed that, when the time came, when they were old and tired, they would walk off into the woods together and just keep going until the end came.  It was not surprising  that they, still in their early twenties, would contemplate the end; after all they had just recently taken vows where they had solemnly promised to become one, and to endure  sickness together  and to be separated only by  death.   I, also still  young, was impressed by and in support of  the decision made by two people newly united together.   From our vantage point in 1964,  projecting  far, far into the future, I could picture the two of them, still in love but bent with age, holding hands on their trek into a woods somewhere. 
      Of course, it didn't happen that way, but still, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep."

"And miles to go before I sleep..."

  Was Robert Frost really contemplating suicide, or do you think he might just have been suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder?  

Apology or Apologia

     I am weary of the apology.   It seems every governing unit and a great many individuals are delivering apologies to whomever they may have insulted, dishonored, wronged, or killed.  The idea is that doing so makes the victims feel better somehow, or offers the key to whatever is meant by closure.  But wait, before you accept, is what is offered an apology or an apologia?  The first is an expression of true regret for one's actions or behavior; the latter, the apologia, is a defense of one's actions or behavior.  (That definition is, by the way, also one of the meanings of the word apology, though usually an apology is thought of as an expression of sorrow for one's actons.)
     In current times, an  apology is an integral part of what happens in court, and woe to the defendant who does not look sorry, or to the convicted who does not offer up an apology, ideally amidst a plethora of tears.  I've never quite understood how such a performance could bring any measure of satisfaction or closure to those grievously wronged.  But then, that may be because  I can't personally recall ever having received an apology in my entire lifetime.   A number of apologias, though. 
    

Lavage Taboo

    If there's one thing no one needs to view on TV, it's the sight of Dr. Oz using a Neti-Pot. 

Soccer and Spice

   I spent a lot of time near a soccer field back in the day, so when Jeopardy ran a category on said sport, I knew all the answers, make that questions, except one:   the  spice that names a play where the soccer ball is kicked through a player's legs.  The spice is nutmeg. 

Time Warner

     Ever since Time Warner moved the Cable Sports channels from Basic Service to Standard Service, and Cable Sports moved to Channel 50, and channels can be delivered in digital format only, therefore viewable only with a digital set-top box, or Digital Adapter or Cable Card, that meant the Golf Channel was no longer available on our bedroom TV, unless we requested a Digital Adapter which was free of charge until December 1. 
    Well, the call was made; I was not home at the time.  The adapter was picked up; I didn't go.  But the instructions as to how to connect it did not work. Believe me, there were calls made; I left the house.  Brother Don, who'd been through the same thing (or so it was thought) tried to help, but after several house calls on his part, had to admit failure.  More calls were made, in vain as it turned out.  The problem was such that a repairman had to come to our house.  He is here as we speak.  He has been in the bedroom, into the deepest recesses of the closet where the wire emerges, easy enough since the closet is only about six inches deep.  He has gone into the cellar twice so far, and is at present climbing the pole outside.  He is a HVC graduate and very polite and apparently cheerful.  He even put on those cloth booties when he came into the house, the kind that the police investigators did not wear during the O.J. Simpson slaughter investigation. After he left the house the first time, I told him he didn't need to put them on again.  He asked if I were sure.  "Definitely," I said.  I 'm willing to make any sacrifice to get that golf channel. 

On the trail with Quayle

   In many years of substituting, and working in classrooms of other teachers, you acquire some weird insights into the educational process.  One teacher was using mnemonics to help her third grade students with the spelling of geographic names.  "Just remember," she pointed out, "there's a "trail" in Aus-trail-ia."   There isn't really anything a substitute teacher can do about that type of mistake; there's no good way to handle it, and after all, it's not a matter of life and death.  But that teacher's learning device stuck;  their high school history teacher years later would comment that almost all her classes would consistently misspell that continent. 

Justly, Because

   The topic at the Educational Conference was how to improve student writing.  One teacher stated she taught all her students never to begin a sentence with the word because.  She remembers her teacher saying it was wrong to do so, and that's what she tells her classes.  I really wish sometimes that I had a class to teach, because I feel some responsibility to the English language.  I long to straighten out her misunderstanding, but it's hard to do that outside a classroom.  I would explain this way:
         "Because you are ignorant of language usage"    That's not a sentence.
         "Because you are ignorant of language usage, you should not be teaching English."   That's a perfectly good sentence. 
    

Eye Talk

The technologist at the opthalmologist's office asked about vision, if I had any trouble with reading signs, etc.  I said no, but that I thought it would be a good idea if there was more distinction beteween the words Stop and Slow at construction sites, (as I've mentioned before.)  "Yes," she agreed.  "They do look alike, each having the five letters."   And on with the eye test.....

Cliche----Touche

   I dream of taking a luxury vacation somewhere, but it's just not in my wheelhouse to do so.
   I realize it would be  good thing if I were to start my Christmas shopping, but I'll probably just continue to kick the can down the road.
     I so want to use a hashtag, but I don't twitter.   
   Call me cra-cra.  No, please don't.

      Off the topic:    I read that a woman named her baby Hashtag.  The  Times Union's list of births last week had a baby named Rocket. 

Time to Fly the Coop

     I've watched Anderson Cooper's talk show several times during its brief run, and understand it's soon to be dropped from the schedule.  Several shows were  interesting, depending on who his guests were, and he has been a more intriguing personality than most other daytime TV hosts.  But any regrets I had about his show's cancellation came to a resounding halt today.  He reprised the incident where he was totally grossed out when  a fellow airline passenger placed his bare feet in proximity to him, a nice little anecdote of personal fastidiousness if you will, kind of an endearing trait.  But then----he went on to relate, in way too much detail, the tale  of his own wretched sickness in an airplane bathroom.  Why a man who has  been through as much as he has would want the world to know that his bodily functions, and malfunctions, can be as disgusting as anyone on the planet is beyond understanding.  One can not help but think it's his way of exacting revenge on the show's producers. 
      Moreover, his interview of the "Coffee Cup Murderer" was as lame as it could get.  Granted, the once-accused murderess was lawyered up by not one, but two, lawyers, for the interview, and since there is speculation other charges could be forthcoming, it's a given she's not going to divulge much.  But in light of her psycopathic demeanor, Cooper could have at least asked her why the investigators  thought she murdered her husband, and who she thought might have killed him.  He asked her twice if the police prevented her from having time to grieve, and she, as well as her daughter, dwelt on this aspect, with seemingly prepared responses.  She expressed no remorse for the death of her husband, only for her own inconvenience.  She did say she was his caretaker, but then said she had left him for more than six or eight hours while she went to work and for a manicure, etc.  And since she was not arrested until 4 months  after the death, she would have had at least some time to grieve; she was already back to work at the time of her arrest.  She did say she loved her job, though I don't think she expressed much love for her husband.
          I think it would have been a fitting, albeit ironic, close to the show to have today's co-host Christie Brinkley do one of her favorite things and sing a song from her role in "Chicago."    She could have performed, "He Had It Coming." 

Tense Tension

To:  Editor of "The Record"   (should one exist):     
       The present tense of the verb is plead; the past tense is pled, or pleaded.  The past participle is pled or pleaded. 
        Please refer to last  week's lesson, which was  lead, led, led.  The other  word spelled "lead" but pronounced "led" is a noun meaning a metallic substance, or ammunition.    Please go over your notes; someone may read what you wrote someday.
   P.S.  Stylistically, as to the alternate usages of the past tense of plead, either pled or pleaded is grammatically correct, though you may want to use "pled"  as in , "He pled his case before the judge,"  but he "pleaded with the judge for leniency."   ( Yeah, I knew you wouldn't care.)

"TRUE INNOVATIONS"

 TRUE INNOVATIONS  is the name of the company who made our computer chair.  They were nice enough to send a replacement part when our chair malfunctioned, even though the warranty period had passed.  The seat of the chair would gradually sink so at the end of a session at the computer, your chin would be at the level of the keyboard. 
    Evidently the faulty part was a gas lift.  The instructions explain how to install the new part.  
         1) "To remove the gas lift, keep the chair upside down.
         2) Use a hammer to hit around the area where the gas lift fits inside the seat plate while pulling out the gas lift.  These two items are locked together by pressure; the more you hit the seat plate and pull on the gas lift simultaneously, the more pressure will be released.   Eventually the two items will separate."

Stamped on the part, which, incidentally, weighs almost three pounds, is the caution, "Do not open or heat up."
I had never before  considered the possibility that I  would be afraid of a chair.

Christmas Blues

    My mother was not a particularly fastidious person, but she was very particular about what kind of food she and her kids put in their mouths.  We were taught not to eat food that another child may have offered, and, stressed most of all, we were not to share food with anyone, no licking another person's ice cream cone, for example, or drinking anyone's else's soda.  That being said...
    Christmas was a welcome and cherished holiday, but not for the wealth of toys being received.  When we were little, I think we received one toy-type present, and a few clothes and little treats.  We never felt left out, because no children we knew received anywhere near the plethora of toys that  today's kids get.  One year,when I was probably six or seven years old, my main Christmas present was a toy doctor's kit.  It was a fairly sturdy heavy cardboard kit, brown, with a clasp closure, silver colored.  Inside the doctor's kit was a miniature stethoscope, a reflex hammer, one of those eye-thingies which we used to imagine doctors employed, some tongue depressors, a simulated hypodermic needle, some prescription pads, and most amazing of all, two little packs of candy  pills, formulated of blue tic-tac like dosages.  Back in the day, we kids, or at least I, liked to make our things last, whether we were eating dessert, or holding on to our toys.  So I didn't want to ruin the perfection of my doctor's kit by disturbing any of its elements.  I wanted to maintain its pristine condition.  Unable to completely resist though, I finally put one of the little blue pills in my mouth, sucked its sweetness for a short time, thought better of it, and put the pill back in its little cardboard packet.  Later that day, my mother was looking at our toys, including of course, my doctor's kit.  "Oh, let me try a candy pill," she said, and then, "I"ll try this little light blue one."   I felt my stomach drop; I wanted to yell----"No, not that one! Don't eat the light blue one!"   But I was too stunned, and too ashamed of what I had done to say anything at all.  I knew it was not a good thing to half-eat something and then put it back.  So I stayed quiet, and waited in fear and dread for my mother to get sick from eating leftover, second-hand food.  I knew I was being a coward, but I couldn't help it.  I was mute.  My mother didn't get sick that night or the next day, or the next, so gradually I came to accept that my bad manners, fear and cowardice hadn't killed my mother.  The shame remained though and not until this moment have I confessed a single word.  I don't know why the mind retains bits like this: even now I feel a little embarrassed by the memory.  (And I don't think I ever ate any more of those pills.)

Blinded by the Light

     We moved into the Village of Valley Falls when I was five years old, and from my front porch, in the late afternoons, I could see where the sidewalk ended.  The sidewalk curved down, in a westerly direction, until it was consumed by the giant red ball that was the setting sun.  The sidewalk then was concrete, smooth more or less except for two blocks of it at about the middle of the deserted gas station next door to us.  One of those sidewalk blocks had cracked and there was some sign of repair to it, while the adjacent block was completely blacktop.  That was about as far as I could trace the path of the sidewalk before the blinding glare of the sun obliterated my line of vision.  I never thought about it, but I would have thought it was the same for everybody, and there is no way of knowing whether that was true or not.  About three years ago, I was told I have a congenital condition, a corneal dystrophy, named after a Dr.  Fuchs, of which the symptoms are glare intolerance, halos and streamers around lights, blurriness and auras.  I also remember that when I was little and someone broke out a box camera to take snapshots of us kids, I was always singled out to stop squinting.  How could the sun have always been in my eyes only.  I guess we  tend to believe that we all have the same perspective on life, until the passage of time tells us differently.

Balls!

    I realize I have a better chance of dying in a plunge off the fiscal cliff than I do of winning the Powerball, but I'll buy a ticket anyway.

Reality TV sucks scissors.

     I enjoy watching "Dancing with the Stars."  I think the dancing is phenomenol.  But I don't for one minute believe the results of the judging.  I can understand the popularity of an average dancer getting more viewer votes simply on the basis of popularity, but for judges experienced in dance to give perfect scores to an average dancer over much better contenders is a travesty.  Letting the viewers decide is one thing, but manipulating the judges' scores in order to maintain a balance of minority contestants is patronizing to viewers and contestants alike.  And in the final show, the fix was apparently in again.  The winner was deserving, but you could see the machinations.  Shawn and Derek inexplicably re-danced what they knew would bring in a low judge's score, thereby affirming that Malissa would win, while still maintaining their own artistic integrity.  So there were no losers, really.   (And besides, the rules state that the winner is chosen by a combination of viewers and judges' votes, but they never break the combination down.) I don't mind, except for the falsity, because I don't care who wins: I like watching the dances and listening to the music, kind of like American Bandstand or the Ed Sullivan Show.

Why can't a doctor be more like a car salesman?

     They  are exceedingly customer friendly.  They advertise their product, they seek your business, their staff is trained to be receptive to each customer's needs,  their facilities are welcoming:   in short they do everything possible to attract clients and sell their products.  Profit is, of course, the bottom line, and the concept is to have their customers feel comfortable enough to trust that they have come to the right place to find what they've been searching for. 
    Just park your car and step outside into their parking lot.  A representative is sure to greet you, assess your possible needs, and invite you into a showroom, where you're offered coffee, tea, water.  No overt pressure, no probing questions, just a general  survey of what you might be looking for and and assurance that they are available to show you some vehicles when you're ready to look.  The sales reps  agree with whatever selection or feature you specify or even comment on.  If one person is called away, another is available to step in to help you. You are invited to ask any and all questions, and to call at any time They are invariably friendly, never critical, and never rushed, and never, never rude.
They are well versed in how to please even potential customers; they realize many who walk away one day may return another day.  You can spend an hour or more at a car dealership, possibly just to comparison shop, and leave never to return, and it costs you nothing.  They even keep smiling.
      Re-read the first paragraph and apply it to doctors or health care providers.   By no stretch of the imagination could you say they are customer friendly.  They do advertise their product. They do seek your business.  Profit is their bottom line.  But comparisons pretty much stop there.  Staff in  medical offices are not trained to make the customers, patients,  feel comfortable.  Their first interaction, from their positions behind bulletproof glass,  is to ask how  payment will be made.  The client is branded by birth-date: that is the standard way for them to identify you.  Refreshments are not offered, though a tired coffee pot might be in an alcove somewhere.  Wait times can be extended, though if patients are more than a certain number of minutes late, they will be re-scheduled, or assessed a fee.  Customer opinions are not welcomed, whether about your own treatment, or heaven forbid, something you may have read online, or in a newspaper or magazine. A few questions may be tolerated, but beware of asking for anything to be repeated, or elaborated on.  The "showroom" is posted with signs:    "Stand behind the privacy line. Wait to be called.   Have your insurance card  ready. If your check bounces, you will be charged $15.  Do not change the channel on the TV.  If you don't request  a prescription refill at the time of your appointment, you will be billed $10. (This in a cardiologist's office.)  Turn off your cell phones. If you don't pay your deductible at today's visit, you will incur an additional $10 fee."   If you want information from your visit, you may leave a message on a machine, which frequently goes unanswered.
    Doctors and car salesmen both want you as a customer.  Both businesses are competitive, needing clients to survive.  Your experience at the car dealer leaves you with the feeling they are working for you; even though you realize psychological manipulation is in play, you have the sense of having been treated with respect.  You don't even have to talk finances until you've decided to buy.  If you can leave a medical office with the sense that you are in charge and the doctor works for you, that would be an extreme exception.  Doctors could certainly train their staffs to be more considerate of their patients, they could have live people answer the phones for other than emergencies, they could, should, take the time to review  a patient's records before they meet with him or her, and they should not overschedule:  patients should not be given the same appointment time, and then stacked up in the examination rooms.
      Arrogant car salesmen probably exist, but you've probably never seen one exhibit this trait.   Can you say the same about doctors you have known?
    
    
   
     
  

Power to the Ball

I understand I have a better chance of being devoured by flesh-eating bacteria or being possessed by the devil, but I probably will buy a Powerball ticket anyway.  Statistically, with the margin of error, my chance of winning is the same whether I buy a ticket or not. But, see you in the ticket line.....

That Sinking Feeling

Our old computer chair was replaced about two years ago because the one we had tended to rear back, posing a tilt-over danger.  The new one has a single lever which allows height adjustment, which I like to keep at about elbow level when I am at the computer.  All was well until a few weeks ago when the seat began to  automatically lower when no one was sitting in it.  That was easy enough to remedy: just depress the lever and the seat would rise to the desired position.  Again, all was well until I found that after being at the computer for several hours, I would be peering at the keyboard from chin height.  In stealth fashion, the seat, slowly and without warning or noticing, would sink to the lowest level possible.  I upended the chair, hoping to find a way to fix it, but saw only the website of the manufacturer.  I knew the warranty had expired, after one year, but I emailed Customer Service for advice on how to adjust the seat.  They immediately responded and offered to send me a new gas cartridge.  Gas!  They also sent me instructions as to how to install it;  one of the tools needed is a hammer.  I haven't gotten around to that yet.  And I'm sinking right now.

Road Worrier

I guess I broke the law again today, or at least some D.O.T. regulation.  I blatantly disregarded, and followed for about ten miles, a large orange sign on the back of a Highway truck which clearly stated in large lettering:  CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE.  DO NOT FOLLOW.  I mean, what else are you supposed to do?

Somebody I used to know..

After posting my latest blog, I started to wonder about the family I wrote about, the owners of the Valley Inn.  The beautiful daughter, Rosemary, died this past March in Phoenix, Arizona.  She had indeed studied at the Sorbonne, and had become a fifth-grade teacher. Her obituary said she had cared for her mother and brother.  She was 81.  ( At one time, her mother gave my family some of her clothes for us girls to wear.  That was a common practice at the time, to hand down clothes to younger children; that's if there were no siblings in line.  One day I was outside playing and wearing a skirt that  had been hers and she passed by to go into Sara's store. The skirt was a multi-striped silky material, probably real silk.  I was afraid that she saw me wearing the elegant skirt to play in, with me looking kind of scruffy, and definitely not elegant.   I remember feeling embarrassed  about wearing her undoubtedly expensive skirt as playclothes, and tried to stay out of her line of vision.  I'm pretty sure that she probably would not have recognized her skirt, or knew who I was, but even now, with her dead and gone, I still remember her cool sophisticated appearance.  She had lived in France!

Where to begin...to fail, that is

Growing up in Valley Falls back then meant that you knew everyone in the village, or at least  you knew who everyone was, though you may not have had a direct relationship with them.  The Valley Inn was a dominant feature of the village back then;   the family who ran it seemed wealthy and established to my child's mind, though I think it was the truth.  They owned a big new car, traded in regularly, which was done then only by  the few who could afford it.  Their daughter received her education in France, perhaps the Sorbonne, though I was too young to know for certain.  Their bar and restaurant was a respectable place, where my parents would attend the New Year's Eve celebration dinner with Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary.  My aunt was on much more familiar terms with the Inn's owner and his wife, certainly more comfortable with her than my mother was.  Mary had a beautiful singing voice, and liked to sing on occasions such as parties, and the owners always welcomed her to do so.  Years went by, and eventually the family sold the Valley Inn and retired to Arizona.  That was where retirees went then, not to Florida, but to Arizona where the dry air was supposed to be good for  the breathing problems of aging adults.  I suspect that since in those days everyone smoked every place, that breathing problems were considered an inevitable part of aging. The woman, whose name may have been Leona, stayed in touch with my aunt via letter writing, the standard form of communication of the time.  One day, I heard my aunt tell my mother that she had received a letter, in which her friend wrote that she was  "beginning to fail."   For some reason, those words struck fear in my heart.  I didn't really know the woman well enough to feel concern for her, but I was dismayed that she would acknowledge that she was failing.  That term was not new to me; I used to listen to adult conversation when I was a child and those words were always associated with death being not far away.  I couldn't understand why anyone who had moved to Arizona and was able to write letters to her friends would say she was failing.  I suppose I connected her health with that of my mother, though she was somewhat older.  I only know those words were very unsettling;  the woman of course did eventually pass away, though I don't recall the timing or the details.  Her words have stuck in my mind for all these years.  If I were to analyze why, I would probably conclude that she might have been the first person I knew who confronted her own mortality. 

Now Hear This!

Just when it seems there can't possibly be another innovative personal care product, a new ad appears on the TV screen:    the WAX-VAC.   The pitchman says instead of defying the orders of every doctor ever consulted about not cleaning your ears by inserting those dangerous cotton swabs, use the WAX-VAC instead.  Simply place the appliance gently into the ear canal, as you would the modern ear thermometer, turn it on and vacuum out the wax, water, and whatever other debris has accumulated in your ear.  Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?  But what if it also vacuums out your eardrum and whatever else lies behind that membrane?  I'm going to have to consult with Dr. Oz before making that purchase......

Sound-Off !

Back in the day, sound reception was a high priority.  Prime importance was given to bringing the finest of sound systems into the home.  High-fidelity, stereo, fine tuned audio replication was sought after and there were the speaker systems to prove it.  But you would never know it now;  despite phenomenol  advances in technology, all the i-pods and i-pads and Face-times and Skypes and laptops  punish our sense of  hearing with tinny,  screechy sound reproductions that are reminiscent of the early Edison recordings.  Maybe we can't have it all, but could we at least alleviate the torturous assault on our ears.   (It can't just be me, can it?)

Thanksgiving Marathon

Not running, just cooking.  Tomorrow I will  cook my 45th Thanksgiving turkey, one for each year, starting in 1968.  All but the first I cooked in my present house.  The first one was in our Main Street apartment, way back when everyone was still alive.  The early years were the most fun, because of that.  One year, 1971 or 1972, a major snowstorm hit the area, and traffic came to a standstill; even the Northway was closed.  Dorothy and Gus were unable to get here, and they ended up staying at home  in Loudonville with spaghetti for Thanksgiving dinner. I had cooked a huge turkey, the kids were babies, we were disappointed to be alone, so we ate a total of one slice of turkey, and all took naps.  The next day though, Dorothy and Gus were able to drive out and we had the full meal. 
    In those days, Ma cooked dinner at her house with Helen and the two Bartholomew girls.  In a few years, that would change to where I would cook the turkey, and Ma would do  the vegetables, and we would all eat down there.  Ma liked it because her oven was low to the floor and it wasn't easy for her to bend down to do the basting and lifting.   I liked it because I could concentrate on just the turkey.  Maybe that's why I like, even today, the idea of cooking a big turkey.  That arrangement too was destined for  inevitable change.  The girls left home and then Ma was gone.  So for the twelve Thanksgivings while Helen was still with us, I cooked the full dinner and brought a portion of it down to her.  (She loved the parsnips.)  And wanted to eat in her own house.
   Since Helen's last Thanksgiving in 1994, some of the kids and sometimes family have been here or not, depending on other obligations.  I've always cooked a turkey, and as a few times since then, and also  this year, will carry  it down to the same house I grew up in.  This year, though, I'll bring the full dinner, which will include white and sweet potatoes, turnips, squash, parsnips, and whole berry and canned cranberry sauce.  Today I baked four pies:  pumpkin, mince, chocolate and lemon meringue.  That usually means I get to eat pie for several breakfasts, only pumpkin and mincemeat though, but that's okay with me, better than oatmeal.
    Some of the forty-five turkeys were fresh, back when you could order them locally, others were sold fresh or frozen in the supermarkets.  I couldn't say which were best; guests have  always been polite enough to compliment the meal.  Some were costly; I think one year a fresh organic bird cost almost $50.  That was a year when we were still assiduously health conscious.  Not so much anymore; the specter of fatalism is more prevalent. 
     This year's turkey was a bargain----a 22.59 lb. frozen Marval for $11.07. I hope it's good.  And if it's not, it isn't my fault.

So long...

Rest in peace, Mr. Food.  We're sorry to see you go.

Couches, Clogs and Cars

  I've had the same couch since 1968; it's been reupholstered twice over the years and sorely in need again.  Cost-wise, it's not a good deal, but I can't find another sofa I like as well as that one.  I have one pair of shoes I wear all the time; they are Clark's clogs, the kind of shoe worn by Minnie Mouse.  They are not a fashion statement by any stretch of the imagination, but they are the most comfortable footwear I can find.  I buy replacement pairs, but have to ease into them gradually until the older pair falls completely apart.  Our wedding-gift spatula finally split apart and was discarded.  We have about seven attempts at replacement, but none of them works as well.  I deeply treasure  the faithful and familiar: I realize that. So why, oh why, did I think I could adjust to any car other than my almost ten-year-old Taurus!

Coming of Age

How to tell when your children are all grown up:   when they give each other nostril-hair trimmers as Christmas gifts.  Ah, those good old hairless nose days.

In....or Out?

I'm all for having the language change as our  society evolves, but I don't understand why some changes occur with no apparent need or even a reason.  Case in point:    People, when, not feeling well, used to "call in sick" to work.  Lately, the term used is "call out sick."  I guess an argument could be made for either expression, but why the change?  Everybody knew and understood what it meant to call in sick.  Call out sick conjures up an image of someone feeling ill at home and shouting, "I'm sick!"

Job Lot

File this under "Things Our Guidance Counselors Never Told Us."  Careers exist as Socialites, Paramours and Operatives.  Those positions seem to be well compensated in terms of income, intrigue, and  public exposure.  For instance, who wouldn't relish the status of being known as an operative?   Though there IS always that piper skulking around looking to be paid. 

Parse This.

     I'm getting ready to cook our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.  It's the same as Ma used to cook, with the usual vegetables cooked in the same style as always:   what I call the Irish cuisine style, plain, with butter, salt and pepper.  The vegetables are  white potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash, turnips and parsnips.  All are boiled and mashed, with the exception of the parsnips, which I feel free to take  chef's liberties with---sometimes sauteed in orange juice, or fried  with maple syrup or brown sugar, anything to detract from the fact they are in actuality parsnips.  The point is that all the vegetables must be first quality since they are served very plain.
       I found the potatoes, squash and sweet potatoes at our Shop & Save, but the store inexplicably did not have any turnips or parsnips.  Dave offered to help, so I laid out the specifications:   The turnips should be roughly apple-sized, not large rutabagas or  tiny golfball sized, they should have the purple tops and feel firm to the touch, not soft and squishy.  The parsnips, most likely found near the carrot section, should be uniform medium sized, not too thick and heavy, nor too long and skinny, and should feel firm, not bendable. They are often sold in plastic bags, about 5 or 6 to a bag, so get two bags.
     When I got home tonight, there were about a dozen nice fresh-looking  turnips on the kitchen counter, and next to them two bags of parsley.  Go figure.

Babies--Part II

Preliminary baby-morality test results are in.  The TV segmet was just a teaser for a full study to be shown Sunday, I think.  I see flaws, although full workup is unknown.  Litle babes in arms were shown a puppet show with a peaceful puppet and an aggressive puppet.  Then babies were timed as  to  which puppet they looked at longer.  But bad puppet was on the babies' left and good puppet on right.  Each of the five babies looked first to their left for a few seconds, and then to their right for a longer period of time.  Each time the bad puppet was to their left.  So the babies each looked at the good puppet for a longer time than at the bad puppet.  Why they stopped looking is unclear, for now.  And, besides, what if some  babies prefer  to look at the dark side?  So many question. so hard to tell.  And what is the reason for the study?   Don't we have a hard enough time trying to determine if adults know right from wrong? 

Babies

I'm about to go into the living room and watch unfold the answer to an age-old question:   "Do babies know right from wrong, and good from evil?"  I'll let you know the answer after I watch the segment......

Blue, with dots.

Helen wore a housedress every single day of her life, except for funerals, so it was no surprise she would have been gifted with  one on her 80th birthday.  She loved presents and as always opened each one enthusiastically and gratefully. But when she opened the box containing the navy and white housedress, she looked a little crestfallen, and slid the box away a little too quickly.  Later she would confide, "I don't really like the dress.  It has polka dots, and polka dots are for old ladies." 

Now I get it.

I had driven my father's Aunt Ella to a wake for some relative, whose wake it was I no longer recall.  I do remember one of the other mourners recognizing Aunt Ella, and coming over to greet her.  "You look great," she said, " Nobody would ever think you're ninety-five years old!"  Aunt Ella drew herself up, indignant:   "Well, I'm only 92," she said in no uncertain terms.  "Ninety-five! I'm not that old!"

ELPHABA

SO IF YOU CARE TO FIND ME, LOOK TO THE WESTERN SKY. 

Occupational Training

If I had known there was such a position as socialite, I would have studied for it.  Maybe a major in Socialite with a minor in Finance or such.  It seems like a rewarding  occupation, and you get to meet such interesting people.  I'm sure the salary would be negotiable. 

String of Pearls

Does anyone believe that any high-profile, i.e. powerful, man ever has only one affair?   And that the poor man was victimized by an ambitious floozy?  And he bears no resemblance at all to Brad Pitt.  Such is life.  Plans disappear; dreams take over.

Republican Retrospect

All morning, and indeed since Election Day Eve, the pundits and Republican strategists have been agonizing over where Mitt Romney went wrong;  the theories are endless.  They are puzzling over how Obama could have secured a second term, in the face of the economy, etc.  I say the answer is simple for the next time around:   have Bill Clinton speak at their Convention in favor of their candidate.  I must admit I was not that impressed with Obama for a second term, but when I heard Clinton's speech at the Democratic Convention, I decided that if Obama was good enough for Clinton, he'd be good enough for my vote.

Bug in your ear

Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home.
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone. 

All In

I just saw a clip where Paula Broadwell spoke of being embedded with General Petraeus in Afghanistan.   She said it with a straight face too.  And what about the title of the biography:   she says it's because Petraeus went "all in" with every challenge he faced.  I thought the term would be going "all out,"  but I guess she should know. 

Capote memory

This is how it begins:
      "Imagine a morning in late November.  A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago.  Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town.  A great black stove is its main feature, but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it.  Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar." 
..,..Oh, my, she exclaims, it's fruitcake weather!"

This is how it ends:
....A morning arrives in November, a leafless, birdless coming of winter morning when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim: " Oh, my, it's fruitcake weather!"
      And when that happens, I know it.  A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on  a broken string.  That is why, on this particular... morning, I keep searching the sky.  As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven."

Princess hair

Why are so many  women TV celebrities channeling Rapunzel and Cinderella  and wearing  wear long, flowing tresses well  into their forties and fifties, and yes, beyond?    A little long in the tooth for the ingenue look, I'd think.

Tell me: Why?

Why have  the long long trains been stopping on the tracks behind my house for all this week?
How do the pundits suddenly seem to know exactly where Mitt went wrong, and each knowing that there was one specific error he made?
Has Mr. Food just grown old, or is he ailing? 
Is Michael intent on outperforming and outcharming Kelly?  (That's bound to tire them both out; don't they know there has to be the Yin and the Yang?

Election

I can't believe the vote is going to be as close as anticipated.  I hope not; remember the hanging chads, and Congressman Kickass.

Right on, Mr. Pinckney

That's my motto:   "Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute."

Taxonomy

 I don't want to tell the Coptic Church how to pick their new Pope, but can't help but think there should be a better way than by  "blindfolded altar boy."  Seems  so wrong on so many levels....

Quotation Recycled

 September 24

Vote Yourself to Death

     He registered to vote in his new district, and the clerk asked him if he wanted to cast his vote early.  So he did.  In addition to choice of President, there were 3 issues on the ballot, one about auto repair, another about marijuana, and the third about doctor-assisted suicide. Neither he, nor I, had considered that an issue to be decided by popular vote.  State by state, I gather.   Even if the option is defeated, as it well may be, the fact it is on the ballot predestines that it is a subject that will most likely continue to reappear.
    I'm sure there are sound arguments to be made for the passage of such a bill, but I'm terrified at the thought of any doctor I know making that decision.  It's not like the good old family doctor so invested in you that he would struggle gallantly to abide by your wishes in case of extreme circumstances.  The doctors I know kind of recognize you when you sit across from them in their offices, though some have your picture pasted to your  file so they can identify you.  The only time you cross their minds is during their appointment times.  And they are to be designated as your suicide assistant.  Word is that elderly and ailing women should always apply their makeup and have their hair done before they see the doctor.  A spray tan might help, and if the nurse asks if you feel depressed, deny it vehemently.  Of course, never go to the doctor when you're sick.
        Now if the ballot asks us to vote on assisting doctors in their suicide, that would be a different question.  Who would be  better qualified to vote on a doctor's expiration date than his patients? 

BOOK WEEK--A LITTLE LATE

"You promised Jonah extra security!" Mr Wizard raged at the hotel manager, who had gotten out of bed to apologize to this very important  guest.
     Book week activity  is to turn to page 52 of the book nearest to you, and copy the 5th sentence.  My excerpt above is from Book Two of "One False Note" in "The 39 Clues" series.  Maybe not the heaviest reading I've ever done, but definitely the most exciting.

Doctor Who the Hell

"If,"  says the dermatologist, glancing through my file, "your previous doctor thought the lesion was not malignant, why did he biopsy it? Was he looking for early retirement?"   My answer, if it could be called that, was that while my previous  doctor hadn't thought it malignant, he might have suspected it was.  But the comments persisted, "We usually don't biopsy unless we THINK  there is a reason."   I let him have the last word.  After all, I don't know (or really care) what  my previous doctor's agenda might have been, but he did retire, though how early it may have been I couldn't say.  On to the procedure---my second cryosurgery.  As before, some years ago, my head explodes with blinding pain.   The doctor tells me that the pain will be gone "by the time I walk to my car."  I think this is another way of saying, "Don't let the door hit you on the way out."  (I should have become a doctor; I hate people enough by now.)

A Trivial Pursuit or Swiffer This

I came home just in time to rescue the Swiffer WETJET from the trash.  He who now mops the kitchen floor said that refills in the original size are no longer available, and therefore our Swiffer was obsolete.  I couldn't believe that P&G would allow such planned obsolesence to occur in just a few years, so I called Customer Service.  The rep was Carmelita, probably in the Philippines.  I told her the problem, that the new-sized  refill container would not fit in the original Swiffer.  She said it would; he said it definitely would not, as he'd tried it and it was too large.  He brought the Swiffer in from near the trash can, and tried again.  Lo and behold----it fit.  Carmelita, still online, asked me if it fit.  I said yes it did, and she said, "See, I told you so."  I said thank you very much.  I have no pride left, if I ever did have any.

Alone

Too late the Trapper Keeper.  Everyone has fled my binder.

A whole new world

Miracle invention----the 3D Printer.  Who can take  credit for developing that technology: let us give credit where credit is due.

Bound to be of help

I have only a single binder full of people;  if I ever need them, I'll let them know.

Not even debatable!

Candy Crowley and hair extensions!   We're going to have to call a halt somewhere.

New Standard of Practice

The pragmatic approach is not only alive and well, but growing.  In consumer affairs, at least some, forget all the record keeping, warranties, agreements, and misconceptions: concentrate on moving ahead, starting from NOW.  We received an incorrect billing  statement from our communications company.  I had the paperwork to back up the correct amount according to the contract, the company knew it was in error, but instead of attempting to unsnarl the ball of twine, the customer service rep politely suggested we simply start over from today.  He offered an even better rate.  I accepted.  We forgot about the interdepartmental screw-up, and we're all satisfied.  Now on to our tax return........

1-800-Say What

If you dial 1-800-GOT-JUNK,  you expect to reach your party by dialing the standard number of digits, right?  10 + the 1.   But if you call Time Warner, the number for Customer Service is
 "Call us anytime at 1-866-321-CABLE"    It seems that you can get through that way, most of the time, but might we not expect something a little more logical and efficient from a communications company?  An extra digit is not all that insurmountable, just seems rather foolish.  After all, it's not dial 1-800-JUNKY. 

Mad Cold World

Went to church and I was kind of nervous.
No one knew me.  No one knew me.
Hello, Preacher, I just heard your sermon.
Look right through me.
 Look right through me-ee-ee-ee-ee.

Nah, I don't think so.

About that doctor who claims that while he appeared comatose, he was actually spending time in the afterlife, I wonder how much experience he's had with drugs.  As a medical professional, he must have benefitted from a number of sensory-altering painkilling drugs in his lifetime; wouldn't you think he would at least suspect that while he was being treated for such a devastating affliction, he would be loaded up with a variety of drugs that would cause him to hallucinate, especially combined with his own body's attempts to respond to the trauma he was enduring.  I myself have had very limited exposure to drugs of any kind, but I do know that they affect your sense of reality, because in actuality you are not in the same dimension as before.   You wouldn't know that if you were truly unconscious, or comatose, but at that stage in between, you're not living life as you knew it pre-drug, but you're certainly not dead either, and therefore not entitled to join the afterlife.  In the last few months, I've been under some degree of anesthesia on three separate occasions.  Each of them brought a sense of altered reality, a kind of afterlife, if you will.   One drug  administered allowed me to ascend above  the norm, and restructure the universe, using all my talent and wits, with the world being my own, and I the great benefactor and beneficiary of all that I managed to bring about.  I would  prefer to think of that feeling as the afterlife I'm destined for, but I think that would just be a self-indulgent ego trip on my part. 

Ingenious and diabolical

   I don't watch crime shows anymore, nor follow real life trials, but If given the chance, I think I'd have to tune in to the coffee-mug murder.  I remember the Hitchcock story of the woman who murdered her husband with a frozen leg of lamb, then thawed it and served it to the investigators who, during the meal, were stymied as to what type of bludgeon could have clobbered the deceased so effectively, and yet was nowhere to be found.  The coffee mug was not quite so neatly disposed of, though I understand the recently widowed woman cleaned up all the pieces and shards, bagged them, and offered it to the police, who declined it at the time as not necessary for an accident investigation.  Not until the medical examiners removed the pieces of mug embedded in the old man's skull did they suspect he couldn't have fallen 10 separate times on the lethal mug.  I can't help but wonder what the couple's last breakfast conversation was about.  I do understand  that tennis referees tend to have the last word.....and it probably was not "love."

When is the last time...

........that you heard someone died of "natural causes?"  You don't just die of old age anymore, do you?  Old age is not considered a scientific cause of death, albeit age-associated illnesses and conditions do contribute to death in older persons.  If the "unnatural causes,"   homicide, suicide, accident, or yes, legal execution, did not cause Gary's death, why is the media, enmasse, quoting he died from natural causes, not from complications of surgery, heart attack, kidney failure, Alzheimer's, MRSA, chronic alcoholism,  or contaminated steroid injections.  At the age of 74,  the heart stops beating, and you exit this life, as simple, and natural, as that?    Well, maybe that's how he, or his family, wanted the obit to read.   At least it didn't say he died "surrounded by his family."  That term  never fails to conjure up an image of suffocation. 

"Life Was Good" memories

I remember those good old days when suffering was a part of daily life, and hardly worth a mention.  Kids with whooping cough did not make the news; all of us kids had  it, and measles, mumps and chicken pox as well.  We lived near a bridge and it was a common sight to see a child, always a boy, carrying a sack of kittens weighted down with a rock to drop off the bridge, on the orders of the parents.  A box of abandoned kittens would not have made the papers at all.  We at one time lived near an abandoned country schoolhouse which was the site of regular dropoffs of kittens and cats.  If a dog bit someone, or otherwise misbehaved, the owner would shoot it himself or have a gun-owning friend do it.  No one would have thought of reporting it, even if they knew where to do so.  One local farmer, conceding to modern times, bought a tractor, and so dug a very large pit, lined his docile old  team of horses up at the edge and shot them.  The scene was witnessed by my aunt, and she said the first horse was easy, but the second one went berserk when he saw what happened to his longtime partner.  No story there either. Child battering was pretty common then too, and nobody thought too much about it.  Schoolchildren, again always boys, were sent to the principal's office and would return to the classroom crying so hard they couldn't do their classwork, having been disciplined by a 6-foot principal who had a stick and a military background.  Nobody reported it, not even the kids to their parents. There was a boy, who was probably gay, though nobody, probably not even he himself, knew what that meant.  He was regularly  de-pantsed (meaning exactly that) in the school bathroom.  I think everybody must have known, but again, not newsworthy.  Too bad today's local TV reporters don't have such a wide variety of atrocities to choose from.  Then we wouldn't have to be bombarded by the images of a puppy missing its toes. 

Word-Out Grammar

...I just don't like the word "famously."   If it's used as a synonym for excellently, that 's OK, as in "We ate the famously prepared salmon at Pierre's restaurant."   But the word's use as something widely known at present as the result of a previous action seems wrong to me.   When used as  in "Patrick Henry famously said give me liberty or give me death,"  or "Marilyn Monroe famously sang Happy Birthday to JFK,"  we know the adverb famously is meant to modify the verbs said and sang.  But the definition could not have applied then, as the action had just recently been performed.  The quote and the song are famous now, but certainly not then.  If I should say something today, and it becomes widely known in years to come,  have I said it famously?   Maybe there's still hope........

News Break

A la Jimy Fallon:    Thank you, Bennington Banner, for reporting the best story in this bleakest of weeks:  a 63-year-old woman was arrested for indecent exposure for harassing a family while wearing no clothes.  A nine-year-old boy was present, and though he evidently did not view the full monte, he was traumatized into  tears.  The family called the police, who, after an ongoing struggle, succeeded in handcuffing her and placing her under arrest.  As she was being hauled away, she turned to the victims, and said, "You've  got it coming now."

Field of Dream

3 pitches, 2 swings, 1 out.    Better than last time.

Exploit October

Her we go again.  It's October and every organization  wants to get in on the action.  The medical research foundations release the usual stories of "promising new findings  in the battle against breast cancer."  The stories are always announced in October, and relate possible findings that after the studies  may possibly, and  eventually, be approved for clinical trials, but even  IF they are approved, it would be years and years after that before they would be available to the public.  But life relies on hope, so those little self-promoting tidbits can be excused.
      More heinous is the blatant drivel put out by companies who, if they had even elementary knowledge of the disease, would know better. Of course, the truth is always negotiable when income depends on it.   Ebay posts a link on Facebook advising of their efforts to help fight the dread disease, a noble endeavor to be sure:  "Learn tips on prevention and early detection of breast cancer in the Hope Chest..."  TIPS?   TIPS?      Tips are what one gets at the racetrack, or in women's magazines on how to clean your refrigerator.  It is insulting to the legions  of breast cancer patients, including those who will lose their lives to it this year, to be informed of "tips" that could have helped them avoid their fate.  Oh, by the way, I have a hot tip for you readers;   Don't forget to get your mammogram, and Uh, don't buy bananas by the bunch anymore.

The Guessing Game

    When he left the house yesterday, at dawn, he was warmly dressed against the morning chill, sweater, fleece, hat, the works.  He returned as usual a few hours later, after the school bus had picked up  the kiddies. A little later, he was off to Stewart's. When he returned, after eating breakfast, he left for the post office, came back, waited for a time and then went up to see his brother for another while.   I, on the computer, heard his car in the driveway, but he didn't come in right away---maybe going to mow the lawn, I thought, or move the deck chairs inside.  He makes his entrance through the kitchen door, barefoot, wearing only his underwear, no other clothes anywhere in sight.  "Guess what happened," he says with a smile on his face.  ???

Ugly Coyote

  So the neighbors find the remains of a ten year old cat in an alley or someplace, and the proposed  theory  is that the cat  might possibly have been killed by a coyote.  A person interviewed, a longtime resident, of course, says she "has never seen anything like that."   So the comunity is on alert, watching out for invisible coyotes that could prey on their pets or small livestock.  Personally, I have never seen anything like an old cat being found dead either,  and I am a longtime resident.  I think I hear something howling in the distance: I need to go find my cat.

"Statistic" of Disgust

    I'm sick and tired of the  repetitious so called facts delivered as public health announcements, or pronouncements.  Every year as flu season approaches, the media subjects us to information that is supposed to help us keep healthy.  For example, how many times have we been alerted to the presence of fecal matter on grocery shopping carts?  Are we to believe that there is an ongoing survey and capture of poop on shopping carts, or are all these reports citing the findings of a single study?  And will those reporting please  share with us how the fecal matter likely got there?  Do these same fecal studies extend to restaurants, post offices, water fountains, medical offices, or libraries?  I suspect that the fecal matter study might be like the myth of lemmings throwing themselves off a cliff.  The  film clip, from a Disney movie no less, of a group of  the hapless creatures fulfilling their death wish, has been cited so many times that the public  assumption has been that all  lemmings are drawn  to  a suicidal plunge off a cliff.  Later, biologists disputed lemming suicide, but the myth is firmly entrenched in the public eye, never mind the facts.    Bah, Humbug---crazy lemmings,  crappy shopping carts---let's just throw them all off a cliff.

Shedding

  I've scheduled  next week as the time to clean out my closet.  I plan to start by counting the number of garments that are there in the closet's narrow recesses.  My guess is that there are about 100.  The man who built our house probably owned 2 pairs of pants, and 3 or 4 shirts, so closet space was not much of a consideration for him.  The closet is not only small, but also narrow, so anything hung on a wider hanger, like one of wood or heavy plastic, or with padding,  hangs at an angle, and since the doors are the awful double  wooden sliding type, the hangers are constantly obstructing the opening and closing of the door. The clothes don't like it either: that's why I don't put anything in there that  I plan to wear and don't want to be a wrinkled mess. The closet is totally unsuitable for coats or winterwear, so they have never been an issue there.   Moreover, both ends of the little closet are blind deadends;  you can't see what's stuffed in them.  Advice column organizers say to get rid of anything you haven't worn in a year.  I have a suspicion I may find maternity clothes in the far reaches of that  closet, as well as a few peasant dresses and mini dresses from days gone by.  In the last year,  I've worn probably only  half a dozen things from inside the closet.
  Now that I'm not doing much of anything else, my strategy is to take every item out of the closet, and make those 3 designated piles: one to keep, one to throw away, one to donate (or maybe eBay's vintage listing!)    But as I take the clothes from the closet, the only place to put them is on the bed.  (I live in a miniature house.)  If I do that, I'm afraid I'll never see the bed again.  I feel stymied.    (But hopeful)

Trilogy of Terror

It can't be true.  First Justin Bieber, then Kelly Ripa and now Sherry Shepherd --all succumbing to illness.  I think it's likely they'll all pull through.  I don't exactly take pleasure in the misfortunes of others, but particularly  in the case of Kelly Ripa, I sense a certain degree of poetic justice.  She is extremely protective of her health, and rightly so, as her body is her instrument, as has been said.  But her herculean  efforts to wipe out any potential contamination from the throbbing masses, the great unwashed, the germy commoners is well documented.  Even  today, gallantly rallying from what might seem a minor indisposition to some of us, she is baffled by how she could get sick and is ascribing it to germs her kids brought home from the new school year.  It does not occur to her that she could be manufacturing her own germs; they have to start someplace.  (And by her own account, her fastidiousness seems to be impacting her youngest child. Seems obsessive at such a young age.  Lesson learned; even life in a parallel universe can't protect you from everything. 

Carpet Bag-it

    He has already closed the pool for the season, so today he went out to take up the carpeting that is on the deck.  He came back into the house, on this damp and chilly day, clad only in his underwear.  Seems that when he got to the end of rolling up the carpet, it retaliated and flung him into the pool.  He's okay though because he landed on the big pillow that keeps the cover in place, the only casualty being bent eyeglass frames. And, oh, now that we look closer, quite a scrape  on his forehead  where he hit his head on the deck post as the pushbroom sucked him into the pool. Details are still forthcoming.   I'm telling you, dangers lie in wait. 

In Jeopardy

It's the same dream, or more like a nightmare.  I'm on a quiz panel of some sort, probably akin to my Charm City days, and I have to answer a question.  A lot depends on my answer, for reasons that are not clear.  I feel really inadequate and unprepared, because much like the late Spaulding Gray, I only know twenty things, and what are the odds that, out of millions of potential questions, one will be in the category of the twenty things I know?

Sock it.

You can't fool your feet.  When my feet get cold at night, and I'm already in bed, I try to warm my feet by wrapping them in the sheet, then the blanket, and finally all the bedding at once, even the comforter.   It never works; I still need to get up and put on a pair of socks, which never fails to bring instant comfort.  You'd think I'd have learned, after all this time, but I still live in hope that if I can pile multiple layers of cloth around my feet, and  wrap them snugly enough, that my feet will get warm.  I don't really understand why not.

Demented

Dementia means, literally, without a mind.  The condition of dementia used to be associated with aging, a more or less natural outgrowth of years on the planet.  That is, until Dr. Alzheimer came along with his notion that an actual disease was responsible for at least some percentage of the cases of lunacy.  But could it be that the vast majority of those who "lose their minds" do so because everything which once tethered memory to reality no longer exists.  When all links to an event in your life have been eradicated, what is the point in holding on to the memory of that event.  With the realization that you're in an abyss of recall that no one else could possibly be aware of, that recall may as well be a figment or fabrication of your imagination.  Try bouncing a ball off a wall that is no longer there.   Those of us whose memories extend far back, way before the digital age where all potentially important memories can be preserved, may be deprived of such confirmation of what the world was like, and thus who they were.  I doubt though that, in years to come, aging individuals will use digitalized media aids as a way to verify their soundness of mind.  Solitude and isolation seem destined to  do their work, same as now. 
     A Memory (or not)..........A vivid memory occurred to me:  I am in our back yard, near the garden gate.  The gate swings open, in  quite a wide arc, and it is painted a sort of orangy color. ( My father built the gate wide enough to allow entry of a plow so the soil could be tilled at the proper time.  The paint is a shade of orange because he painted it with a mixture of paints left over from other projects.  The gate, including the entire fence surrounding the garden is no longer there, nor is the garden itself.  My father is gone also.)   My mother is working in the garden, a joy and passion of hers, as well as a duty.  I would say we kids were playing baseball, but it was not our usual game.  That would have been in the driveway, with all the activity directed toward the lot next door and away from the garden. This day, Billy, a boy who lived down the street stopped by: he was not one of the regular player of games in our backyard, and so it was not our usual game, in our usual spot.  I suppose he was idly looking for something to do, so there was a bat and a ball, and my brother pitched to him.  I was catcher, and when I leaned down to pick up the ball, my head exploded.  Billy, in his pre-adolescent vigor, had kept swinging the bat, and caught me right in the  forehead, lifting me right off my feet and onto the ground. I remember my mother coming out of the garden and yelling for someone to go get ice from Sara's store. I remember Billy returning with something cold, maybe ice or maybe a cold bottle; I just remember the sensation of cold.  The ice would have been in one of the 2 soda coolers in the store.  It would have been delivered by A.Z. Zappone in his weekly or twice weekly visits, dependent on the weather, and deposited in the red cooler, which was for the individual seven-ounce soft drink bottles, or the green cooler next to it, which was where the larger, quart bottles of soda and Vichy were kept cool.  (Ths store building is no longer standing; the coolers are long since gone; Mr. Zappone and his ice truck have long been gone, as are Billy, Sara, and my mother.) I remember my mother,before I went to school the next day, arranging my hair  over my forehead to try to conceal the large black and blue goose egg which had sprung out.  So why hold on to a memory, which, though significant at the  time, means absolutely  nothing to anybody at the present time; all the landmarks have disappeared, almost all the people are gone.  Maybe the definition, or diagnosis, of dementia should encompass what is retained in our mind as well as what is missing from it.