smh

I thought Bradley Cooper's boss in "American Hustle" looked vaguely familiar, thought it might be because he kind of looked like my father.  Then I read the actor was none other than Louis C.K.  I'd venture to say his was the most believable work in the movie, disregarding the flaws in the plot.  But why?  I have the thought that the movie might be pure, out and out farce, and that I somehow missed the point.....

American-----Hustled

I went, I saw, and now I must write:   "American Hustle,"  the movie, is a gigantic hoax perpetrated on a willing public.  Almost all the critics gave it glowing reviews, so it follows that it must be a great movie.  Except it is not.  Jennifer Lawrence's performance is being touted as being Oscar worthy.  She is placed in a scenery-chewing part *which has little tie-in with the character she plays, so I think her performance could be equaled by any actress asked to emote, or overact.  Part of the film's appeal is an admittedly complicated plot, and I'm not a film critic, so I will go no further there other than to say you'd have to see the movie to realize how poorly made it is.  I thought help was on the way when one of the actors pulled out a gun, but, alas, no one got shot.
     * At one point, for no obvious reason, Lawrence confronts, and argues with,  her husband's "whore" and inexplicably lands a big kiss on her lips.   No one  could see that coming, so I guess it's great acting.

Hot Dog

Didn't that soldier from Valatie who brought the white dog home from Afghanistan actually steal it? 

The River and the Barrel

     When we were little kids, our family didn't have much, as was true for most of the people we knew, but I still felt connected to the world in certain ways.  There was a song, probably uttered by Uncle Joe, who didn't actually sing, but would sing-song as we followed him around as he diverted water rivulets with his hoe and cultivated his rhubarb patch.  One song had the words, "You can't holler down my rain barrel, or slide down my cellar door," and we had both a rain barrel and a cellar door.  I have vague memories of hollering down our rain barrel, and it seems likely we did slide down the cellar door, or try to at least.  A few years later, we sang, in school, "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go."  My grandmother did indeed live over the river, and for years we actually got there via "Wood Road."  I felt a little disappointed that we didn't go there by horse and sleigh, but I'd realized times had changed.  And we were always warmly welcomed, and there was often pie, so we were part of the world, as far as I could see. 
    It's odd that a connection to the world at large could have been forged from such a slender basis, but that now, with so many outreach options available, isolation prevails.
   
    

Bringing it Home

Last night I dreamt that I'd won a prize, part of which was a large amount, packets and packets, of bacon.  I was trying to convince prospective takers that microwaving it would reduce the badness of it considerably.  No one seemed to believe me.

Kennedy Center Honors----smh

     I watched most of the Kennedy Center Honors show.  I know it's a serious honor, but the ribbons the honorees wear around their necks remind me so much of Mork from Ork's  suspenders.  I wonder if any of them feel the same.  Supreme Court Judge Sotomayor introduced someone I thought I'd never heard of but then recognized the name Martina Arroyo when someone else pronounced it, without so many syllables and trills.
     I thought the Billy Joel segment was the best, but I may be biased because I have seen his live performance twice, once at the Carrier Dome when David was attending Syracuse, and then at The Pepsi, from a seat so high in the rafters that Billy was just a black speck.  I can't believe I'm writing this, but I thought Garth Brooks stole the show, performance wise.  He looked really great, in the best black tailored suit and cowboy hat I've ever seen.  He sang "Allentown" maybe a little bit better than Billy Joel, so could be that's why Billy looked so sad.  Though he does seem to have some degree of inflammation in his right eye. 
     When I heard the introduction for Rufus Wainwright, my first thought was that he was dead, but then I realized that no, that was Jeff Buckley who'd died after recording Hallelujah.  I was momentarily confused because that's the only song I ever heard Rufus sing.  But he sang "Piano Man" instead.  That was the closing number, and Billy Joel did smile, but maybe just because that meant the end of his seat in the balcony.  (I just heard that Sotomayor is going to drop the ball on New Year's Eve in Times Square.  Shouldn't she be studying about precedents or something?

Appetite Enhancer

Just musing-------there must be something about the sound of a dishwasher running that stimulates the appetite.  As soon as I turn on the dishwasher, he decides it's time to eat something.  Must be that rumbling sound.....

Fuel for Thought

  In the fall, our fuel oil supplier advised, during the annual cleaning, that they had determined that our fuel oil tank was in such poor condition that it needed to be replaced.  A device that measures the thickness of the metal had registered that the tank was too thin for safety purposes, that it had rusted from the inside and the rust had undoubtedly accumulated at the bottom of the tank. It was not safe to fill, so a "Do not fill" order was imposed on our poor and hazardous oil tank.  The price quoted for replacement with a new tank and removal of the old, after pumping out the remaining oil, was $2595 minus a $200 good customer credit.  We had already prepaid our estimated oil usage of $2350, so we had to act.  We learned it was better to use up most of the contents; the tank was about half full, so we had some time, but we did not want to take a chance that the tank would spring a leak, as we were told was quite probable, given its condition.  If the oil leaked out onto the floor of the basement, the entire concrete floor would have to be removed and disposed of, at great expense.
   We got a quote from a local company of $1350, or "No more than $1400," so we hired him to do the job, and paid $1550, including tax.  In order to get our fuel delivery accomplished in view of the "Do not fill"  order, we were told the driver/ delivery person would first have to inspect the tank before he could fill it, to make sure it was safe.
  On the day of delivery, the driver knocked on the door and asked to inspect the tank.  I showed him to the cellar, and told him there was a light near the tank so he could see to inspect it.  He said "No, it's okay, I can see that the gauge reads full, so you're all set."  We had let the oil run low before we replaced the tank, so I was surprised to hear the tank was full.  When I asked him how that could be, he said he'd already filled it.  Since the gauge read full, he knew that it wasn't leaking.  Duh??
   

Dream on.

   I blame it on all those TV versions of "A Christmas Carol."  My belief is that authors have an obligation to uphold the literary integrity of their creations.  If a character is dreaming and not living the prescribed plot line, there should be enough clues or evidence provided so that the reader can deduce the distinction between the two.  That's why I had some difficulty with the message in "Life of Pi."  Allegory is legitimate, but the author should not just spring an alternate story ending with the dictum to let the reader decide.  I find that a cop-out.  I myself strive to make sure I discriminate between reality and the dream world.  This is a dream:
     I am entering Madigans' house through the familiar front door.  Only this time there are two full-grown pet rabbits compressed in the space between the door jamb and the foundation.  One rabbit is black and white, the other a tawny brown.  No one besides myself is surprised the rabbits are inhabiting that space.  Maureen is inside, surrounded by supporters; she has had her hair cut and is very unhappy with the results.  She is on the phone, trying to find a solution.  I look: her hair looks great, shorter but still fairly long, and layered back from her face.  I ask why she doesn't like it.  She says the texture is all wrong, and it needs to be corrected.  They say all dreams have a relationship to some real event in your life, but I have no idea why this would come to mind.  I think I'll go back to sleep and see if I can find a connection.

Shades of Scrooge

A dream---or was it? 
       For some reason, I was in a beauty or hair salon, home based.  The proprietor was evidently caring for my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. MacCartee, now of advanced age.  He had been one of my favorite teachers, in old age then, or so it seemed.  He was short in stature, probably not much more than five feet tall.  He was of Scottish descent, and had never married, as far as I can recall.  I'm not sure if he even drove a car, and it seems he lived in an apartment, maybe in Schaghticoke, or possibly in Mrs. McClure's attic apartment.  I remember sending him a Christmas card that year, at least, because I admired him so much.  His was the  class  which served as my introduction to intellectual discussion, not of the  textbook variety, though what I remember may have been in private conversation.  I sat in the front row in his class, and he sat not behind the desk, but in a chair at the front of the room.  He was not a strict disciplinarian, and English was not a subject which captivated much of  the large class, so many who sat toward the back of the room spent the time passing notes, I suppose about their real or imagined social lives. 
    He raised the issue one day that all people are driven by self interest or personal gain.  I think it was a spinoff of the meaning of the vocabulary word altruism. He proposed the concept that to act in an altruistic manner makes those persons feel good about themselves, and so is self-serving behavior.  I felt a little shocked because I was still in my "religious period," and said I didn't think that was true, that I believed some people acted out of true concern for others.  To my surprise, he said he agreed  with me, that he had just been postulating a theory that some upheld. I believe this was the first  time that I'd been exposed to the idea that people could present a controversial idea without bias or prejudice.  He was a learned, kind, and educated man, and looking back, I think I must have loved him for that.
   In my dream, at the home of the woman who ran the hair salon, he was half-sitting, half-reclining, on what we used to call a daybed, with a coverlet drawn up around him.  I looked at him and met his gaze; his eyes were clouded over, with no signs of recognition.  I continued whatever business I had with the proprietor, someone I knew but since I wasn't getting my hair done, I don't know why I was there.  He started to get up from his reclining position, and I felt appalled: I hoped against hope he wouldn't be clad in pajamas or, worse yet, underwear.  I needn't have worried.  He was wearing khaki pants and a bright blue polo shirt.  As he walked in my direction, he said my name, with a question mark.  I said yes, that's me, and as we hugged, he asked if I'd recognized him, which, in truth, at first I had not.  I  said it took me a while because I'd never seen him before without a suit jacket, which was true.  He laughed a little, and reflected on how times had changed.  I'd thought at first that the sadness I felt was because he'd grown so old, but during the course of the dream I realized the sorrow was for myself as well.  No wonder he had difficulty recognizing me---the last time he'd seen me I had dark heavy hair falling to my shoulders and smooth, unwrinkled skin. 
   I woke myself up by uttering out loud, "Time is funny."

Got the heebie-jeebies?

Attribute the name of it to William DeBeck, cartoonist of "Barney Google."   To learn more, just google.

Old-timey Saying

  He was regretting the loss of what he used to have somewhere back in the expanse of his six years of memory.  I told him there was an old-time expression to deal with that:  "There's no use crying over spilled milk."  Back in the old days, I told him, farmers used to milk their cows by hand, into  a bucket, which the cow would occasionally kick over with her foot.  The precious milk would be lost, and the milker (or milkmaid), would be distressed.  But once the milk was lost, there was no sense in feeling bad about it.  What had happened happened, and nothing could change it, so it was time to move on.  So did he understand the expression?  "Oh, I get it," he said, "Every time milk gets spilled, you've just got to clean it up." 

Travis Scobey

The poor soul.  He e-mailed that he has traveled to Italy so his sister can receive chemo when she suffered a relapse and she needs treatment that will cost 6.000 euros.  He is asking for a loan of any amount, and will pay it back as soon as he returns. He says, "There is nothing called a small help when the heart giving it is big."  He included an address, but oops, it somehow got deleted.....

Two Old Fools

Totes McGotes Sprint commercial-----Who wants to research nonsense---a waste of time.  Not all of the elderly are willing to make fools of themselves for money, but these two are.   (Submitted by that old grouch, E. Day)

Sante!

   On the news today, I heard:
      (1) Some study results say it may be okay for people over the age of 60 to have blood pressure of 150/90.  (Some doctors disagree of course, further studies needed.)
      (2) People should eat foods that make them happy, even doughnuts with sprinkles.   (Not a recommendation of course, just sayin'.)

Feed the Birds: Revolting

    The two bird feeders still have some food in them, and the suet block does not yet need replenishing.  Mourning  doves do not land on the bird feeders; they move more like chickens than birds, with their slow deliberate steps.  They mustn't be able to hop onto the feeder.  So the practice here is to spread some seeds on the ground below the feeding stations so they can eat from the ground. 
     After the  snowfall the other day, the usual flock of about 20 mourning doves came but since the ground was covered with the first real snowfall of the season,  there was no way for them to eat any of the leftover seeds.  I went downstairs to the supply of birdseed and opened the door, intending to toss a few scoops of seed onto the shoveled-off pathway.  A flurry of wings and the distinctive sounds only a few dozen mourning  doves can make greeted me as I opened the door.  They were evidently waiting right at the door, or else plotting how to get inside.  I tossed a few scoops outside; the doves soon re-appeared, ate, and left.  I noticed that one of the doves stayed behind, seeming a little more huddled over, probably cold, maybe an older bird. Who knows what their lifespan is anyway.
     This morning, early, I looked out the kitchen window and saw the flock of mourning doves beneath the feeders as the other birds fed.  They were scrambling, if such is the word, to get any of the food dropped off the feeders.  So I repeated the feeding process.  As they fed, I observed from my window what does not seem like the behavior expected from any type of dove.  I saw one bird peck another in the head, as apparently it came too close to where that alpha bird was feeding.  I thought the victim might have been the huddled-over bird from the day before, but then I noted that the aggressor bird did the same for any nearby bird; he delivered swift, intense strikes to the head; I saw him with a beakful of feathers plucked from at least three different birds.  It looked as though he might have been aiming for their eyes.  I remember reading that people of certain cultures would blind canaries so that they would sing more often, not being able to discern the  difference between night and day.  People can be so cruel, but then animals  can be equally vicious, as anyone reading "Life of Pi" can attest. 
     I watched the hierarchy of bird behavior for a while, until the flock left.  Again, one of the mourning doves stayed behind.  I imagined it was the same huddled-over bird from the day before.  It seemed docile, picking at the remaining seeds.  I watched, glad it was finding food, and left with that image in my mind.  I returned a short while later to see if the bird was still there:   it was, or half of it was. In a circle of feathers, sitting atop and devouring the innards of the unfortunate bird was a large hawk of some type. It had a long dark tail.  I think it might be a kestrel.
    Post mortem:    Several hours later, kind of sickened, I look out the window again.  About half the flock of doves has returned.  This time, they stay under the feeders, scavenging for the fallen seeds.  One mourning dove has even alighted on the perch of the larger feeder, a feat I didn't think possible. None of them has approached the circle of death outlined by feathers.

The News Today

Woke up to the two major news stories of the day:  (1) Court ruling on national surveillance may undermine decades of intelligence building.  (2) Beyoncé has released a music album bypassing traditional  publicity route.

Death of Cake

"This (story) was born as I was hungry."   It has nothing to do with Portugal in 1939, and it may or may not make you believe in God.
    She was not named after a swimming pool.  But she had been a very good student indeed, and one day she found herself leaving her comfortable surroundings in further search of sustenance.  She had refined her religious associations over the span of her lifetime, and had settled, to the degree that anyone ever really does, on the path to salvation that suited her present needs, and resolved her quest for now, to the degree that such issues are ever resolved.  So she was, overall, content, but that did not preclude her  venturing out from time to time, in search of what she perceived she needed.
    The vessel that contained her mortal coil this day was constructed in Japan, and had been under her control for several years.  Though the weather was serene and calm, a sudden and unexplainable calamity arose somewhere in the mechanics of the formerly reliable transport, and she was flung out of its protective casing onto the vast sea of the tarmac.  That which had formerly obeyed her orders and was a means of shelter for her had rebelled, ceasing  to be as it was before.  Moreover, it had trapped her, its vast bulk descending on her vulnerable leg, rendering her a prisoner, unable to move.  She could hear life going on around her, but none of it was a source of aid to her.  Somehow throughout what seemed like eons  of struggle and suffering, the elements allowed her to survive. Chalk it up to her strong will to live.
   Help finally arrived, inexplicably, in the form of two strong young men, who were able to extricate her from what could have been certain death.  What they were doing in that location, at the precise time of her need, only God knows.  They brought her to a place of comfort, where after her basic needs were attended to, she was interviewed as to the source of the devastating accident. She explained, as best she could, but the chief interviewer refused to believe that she was not the one responsible for her being cast out of her vessel, in this case an automobile.  After consult with her family, the decision was made, with her implicit compliance, that she should further divest herself of any acquisitions or appurtenances that may interfere with her eternal relationship with the godhead.  Stripping the nonessentials from life bares an inner strength that brings with it inner peace, explainable only by the metaphysical. 
    If you cannot accept that explanation, you may prefer to know that she was growing old, had a traffic accident, and was advised to surrender her driver's license, and pare down her lifestyle, so as not to cause any more trouble for anyone. 
     Choose the allegorical: choose the mundane reality.  The Lady or the Tiger?  It really doesn't matter; it's fiction.
  

Life of Pi---Censored

I read the book: the kids went to the movie.  The youngest said he saw part of the movie.  When I asked him about that, he said he saw the movie except for the parts where his mother clapped her hands over his eyes. 

"A crock and a travesty"

Newsflash:   The American Psychiatric Association has ruled that affluenza is not a real mental illness.****  That's just crazy talk.

Home-Boy Improvement

  As with many television shows, I don't pay strict attention.  I'm in and out of the room, reading, or doing something else while the TV is on.  But the person being interviewed appeared to be one of  those formerly famous ex-football players, out of the intense media spotlight now.  He proclaimed that his present goal is "to become a better person."  Achieving that goal, he went on, means he will stop smoking, exercise more, and eat a better diet, in hopes of becoming as fit as Michael Strahan.  I didn't think that's what is meant by the term "better person"  but I guess there's nothing wrong with being literal. 

Mega-musings

Mega Millions Winning numbers:    19, 24, 26, 27, 70 and 12.
    Let's see.  If I had chosen the wedding anniversary dates of myself, sister and brother, I'd have had the 24, 26, and 27.  Then my birthday and that of my youngest child, and I would have had the 19 and the 12.  But the 70--that would have had to have been a sheer guess, unless I added the age of my youngest child to the age Christ lived to.  So darn close, and I didn't even buy a ticket.  Wait 'til next time.

Mrs. Buttermaker

    I'm lying in bed, water bottle nearby, TV remote beside me, cozy blanket pulled up, and a book.  I'm reading "Life of Pi."   The television is on, but I'm not really watching it, am more interested in the book.  I hear a sound, as if someone is moving around in another room.  Not the cat, I've already put it out.  And locked the door.  Though I know that locked door has been kicked in twice.  I can still see the footprints on the paint of the second ill-fated door, 2 sneaker prints and the outline of a workboot.  (And I know who owned that boot too.)  I mute the sound on the TV and listen carefully. I hear nothing.  Sometimes the refrigerator knocks; that could have been it.  Or the furnace; it's getting old.  Maybe it's because we're letting the fuel tank run low: it's being replaced on Thursday.  I'm not really afraid, but there's this niggling memory of a story I read in "Atlantic" magazine, years ago, even before I was officially old.  That magazine is on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, and it is such a creepy, terrifying story that I'm reluctant to even stir up the magazine.  I leave it alone, and hope the story repays me in kind.  But it doesn't; though I've mostly blocked from my consciousness the sad conclusion of the life of Mrs. Buttermaker, the threat of memory  is ever present.  The ugliness intrudes on me.  I get up and go to the computer, in the kitchen.  I believe that more meet their demise in the confines of the bedroom than at the keyboard.  Fare thee well, Mrs. Buttermaker. You live forever in my memory.

Installment #2 "The Crazy"

   I might have some of the happenings out of sequence because it was a long time ago, but though out of order,  the episodes are accurate as they are  burnt into my mind.  I'd lived a very conflict-free life up until then, and was not in the habit of provoking any threatening behavior.  Maybe it was the pregnancy which triggered the outbursts, because that's definitely what they were; it seems folklore has recorded such instances.  Or maybe it was the visits from Birdie's sister Dot, who was even more erratic, crazier as it were. 
   One day as I was walking up the cellar steps with  laundry basket in arms, the kitchen door opened at the top of the first floor steps, and there stood  Birdie and Dot.  The only interaction I'd had so far had been the potholder purchase, and I'd had no suspicion anything was amiss, until one of them shrieked, "The next time you're coming up those stairs, I'm going to take a hatchet and smash your head open!"  


Another episode
    Dot had taken to frequent visits; no good ever came from any of them, and that summer was so chaotic that my mother had real fears that my unborn baby would be affected.  Our next-door neighbor was Norma, a young (though several years older than I) mother of little twin boys, Kevin and Kelvin, about three years old. Her husband was stationed in the military, so she was home alone a lot. Somehow Birdie, with dominant sister Dot, had a gripe against the family, maybe because the little boys were too loud while playing in their sand box, who knows. Norma used to come to my apartment for coffee and to commiserate about the trouble Birdie was causing us.  Norma had also been the subject of complaints to the State Troopers, obviously for no valid reason.  Sister Dot used to call the Troopers frequently, for various complaints and reasons. When the trooper would come to our shared front door, I, from upstairs, could hear the conversations.  Dot was well-to-do, had come from a financially sound Saratoga family, as I understood it, and was married to the owner of the Valley Inn, (who, rumor had it, she may have murdered), but that came later.  She was always well-dressed and coiffed, black hair in a fashionable do, jewelry and colorful clothes.  I was still in my 20's so she seemed oldish, but she may have been near the age of 50, attractive for her age or so  she thought or hoped.  She would greet the trooper in a girlish seductive voice, and try every ploy to get him into the apartment, but he never did, always stood at the door. He knew the drill.  

The Tauntings
    I can't remember all that happened, but Dot was visiting her sister frequently.  Now that I look back, maybe because there were  men there, it's  possible  she may have been drawn to them.  Don and Barbara, newly engaged, were frequent visitors, and Dot would put on displays, often calling out in a singsong voice, prancing in full view in the driveway, and even lifting her skirt.  I couldn't have fathomed why. One morning she backed her car out of the garage, which they had the use of, having been the first tenants.  She parked directly behind Dave's car, so there was no possible way for him to move his car to get to work.  He asked her to move it, but she refused.  "Nyah, Nyah, you're not going anywhere."  He reported her to the police;  her story was that she'd had diarrhea, and had been unable to drive her car, so she avoided any culpability. 
 
But then...
   The State Police did enter the downstairs apartment one day!  Norma and her husband couldn't take it any longer.  Not when Birdie told them she was going to take a rifle and shoot the twins as they played in the sandbox. She was going to shoot down on them, she said, from the upstairs window.  That would mean our apartment.  So, once again, the troopers were at our door, to warn us, I suppose.  They said they were not taking the threat lightly, because they had checked Birdie's past and had found she'd been arrested in N.C. for shooting a Revenue Agent.  Really, no kidding.  Birdie refused to go peacefully into custody, so she was forcibly removed, kicking and screaming, strapped to a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.  My mother would light candles for my unborn child. 

 

"The Crazy Ones" Installment #1

   I lived in Schaghticoke for a year, in a second floor  apartment  above that of a crazy woman and her alienated  teenaged daughter.  I don't use the word crazy lightly, as that is what we called such people in those days.  I was "expecting" for most of that year, as we didn't use the word pregnant in those days, expect for clinical references.  Socially speaking, you could be crazy, but not pregnant. 
    We didn't spend much time in the apartment because Dave worked in Albany and I in Cambridge, right up to a few weeks before the baby was born, so our interaction with our downstairs neighbor was initially on a very limited basis.  When we moved in, Birdie came upstairs to introduce herself, and also to ask if I wanted to buy some potholders she'd made. I think they were a quarter each, and they've been at the bottom of my kitchen drawer for a long time now, having been too skimpy to be of any real use.  I found  both her name and her sales effort to be a little strange, but I probably attributed both to her being from the South.  (What did I know, I'd never met anyone from North Carolina before.)
     Dave's job at the time took him to Rochester, so I lived alone for much of that first winter, except for weekends when he would drive home.  One day, there was a knock at the door.  I answered it to find a State Trooper standing there.  "I hate to ask you this question, Ma'am," he said, "but I have to.  Do you have a relative of your downstairs neighbor locked in your attic? She claims you do."  I said no, he apologized again, and left.  That was the beginning of a nightmarish year. 

Unsettled

    That's what I'd call it---a feeling, not anxiety exactly, but rather a feeling that I'm waiting for something, or someone, and I'm forgetting some important step.  As I've said, too many times, this is the first time since I was eleven years old that I haven't had a job, of some sort, with appointment times and deadlines, and therefore projects accomplished.  The feeling borders on the waking edge of those dreams where you can't find the room you're supposed to be in, or can't make yourself move.  The feeling gnaws away: can a person become so irrelevant that nothing at all is required, expected or remarkable.  Time will tell:  it always does.

Diminishing Returns

     Of course, of course, it's all for the best, it's the right thing to do, blah, blah, blah, but it still sucks scissors.  An old friend of mine recently decided not to drive any more after suffering an accident in her car.  She is rational and courageous about it, but the hurt is there.  She passed her car on to a young couple who are financially limited, thinking that was a positive in the decision she made.  Since she no longer drives, she is moving from her comfortable apartment to a facility that has more amenities, including a pool of cars and drivers reserved for the residents' use.  The smaller living quarters means she also must part with a portion of her household furniture and other accessories.  She is attempting to find good homes for her stuff; she already downsized ten years ago when she moved from her family home into an apartment so still more treasures must go; possessions acquired over a lifetime have become liabilities.   
     She already has been at the mercy of others regarding transportation.  A cab driver she called for an appointment contacted her half an hour after the time of her appointment to ask if she "still" wanted a cab.  She rebuked him, and he hung up on her.  A portent of things to come, no doubt.  The more isolated one becomes, the less valued by society, at any level.  Humans are capable of accommodating to almost any situation, but that doesn't make certain changes, inevitable as they may be, any easier to accept. 
    When you have been driving your own car for most of your life, when you have traveled the world, even served in the Peace Corp in Africa, losing the path to mobility has to break your heart, at least a little.
 

A Mystery of Life

      I  own a nightgown, bought last summer at the fashion emporium known as Boscov's, that will not dry.  It comes out of the dryer cycle soaking wet, even though all  the other clothes are dry.  The first time, I thought it must have gotten tangled, but the same level of wetness has persisted through three or four launderings.  The nightgown is ordinary, looks like flannel, below the knee length and with long sleeves, but the label says the material is rayon with a little Spandex, and it's made in China.  It strikes me as a little creepy: maybe I'll donate it.

The 5 W's of Journalism

Who, What, When, Where, Why?
    Let me add-----WTH?
I know it's a holiday edition, but reading The Record's Opinion Page  this morning sent me into a state of befuddlement.  What the heck are the writers trying to say? What message are they attempting to get across? 
  John Ostwald tips us off with his column heading, "Then & Now" (or "Then + Now"). Take your pick.    He further elaborates with a sub-heading "Share those experiences."   He says he is interested in having viewers share their unforgettable experiences of attending different wakes, and goes on to describe his own recollections, influenced, he points out, by the style and experience of the undertaker.  He narrates details, from the best to the worst.  His best memory is being passionately kissed by a young girl whom he, as an older man, bent to give a platonic hug.   Forget submitting your wake experiences.  Who can top that?  Rest in peace to the corpse.
    Remember the old projection that if you locked an infinite number of monkeys in a room with an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite period of time that they would write the entire Bible?  I think those monkeys must be typing away in a room somewhere and periodically submitting their efforts to The Record under the name of Edmund Day.  What else can explain his circuitous attempts at making some point or other while his logic is irretrievably tangled up with a mishmash of fact and fiction and dogmatic opinion. 
     The rather creepily written "Guest Editorial" from Contra Costa Times (whatever that is) doesn't come across very clearly either, but does have the guts to admit  "taking an opinion holiday," and leaving the reader to decide.  I did.
  Skip over to Siobhan, whoever, renowned mother of two, and try to decipher whatever issue she's going for.  Her kids are geniuses and she needs to shield them from the ignorance and brutality of the world around them.
      I'm abandoning the newspaper for now; I'm reading Life of Pi----don't quite get that either.  Oh, well.....

Inventory

In the kitchen----one Idaho potato, two parsnips, uncooked because they didn't fit in the pots; one slice of pumpkin pie, speckled with spices from teabag; and a box of Rice Krispies.  Shop 'n Save, here we come......

Revelations

    When we moved to the house in Valley Falls, my mother, homeowner now, furnished and decorated as best she could.  On the wall above my parents' bed was hung a holy picture, rather elaborate, gilt frame and all, a large picture, surely not purchased but most likely handed down from the acquisitions of my mother's brother Timothy.  He, as a young teenaged boy, worked to support the family after his father died at the age of 31.  Timmy worked cleaning up the various buildings in Troy that were destroyed by fire, and there were many;  as part of his pay, or in lieu of, he would be given what was left over, whether food from a grocery store fire, or religious artifacts if a church went up in flames.
     We had recently moved and I had just started first grade.  Dorothy was 18 months younger, so she was probably only 4 years old when one day I saw her standing on the bed, looking at the picture, and saying the words: "Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's  love entrusts me here, ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide."  I was surprised; she evidently had some store of information that I didn't.    I didn't know how she had learned that prayer because that was not one of the many that my mother had taught us.  I remember after she got down from the bed, climbing up and looking at the picture and seeing the verse written beneath the picture of the angel, a Guardian Angel most likely, because it was equipped with spread wings.  I must have been able to make out the words because I recall being astounded that Dorothy could read, and recite with meaning as well.  I never told anyone nor did Dorothy I'm sure.  Parents were too busy surviving in those days to track their children's intellectual development, or measure their academic prowess. 
     Dorothy had an affinity for angels throughout much of her life.  When the love of her life contracted what was to be a fatal illness, and his health was fading fast, she swore she saw his angel as a sign that death was approaching.  She even wrote a poem about it, which is in my house----someplace.
     When Thanksgiving Grace was said this very evening, her young nephew, enumerating things to be thankful for,  expressed gratitude for  having a Guardian Angel.   Memories live on.
   
   

Hurling Day

   Back in the early 1990's, the TV show "Dinosaurs" celebrated Hurling Day when they shoved those who had reached the ripe old age of 72 off a cliff into a tar pit in recognition that their useful days were over.   Ipso facto, even 20 years ago, I detested that show. 

Tea-bagger

I made 4 pies for T-Day: 2 lemon meringue, 1 mince, and 1 pumpkin.  No one partook of the mince but Barbara and me, and no one ate the pumpkin but me, which is probably just as well because instead of adding the usual combination of spices called for, I used a packet of Trader Joe's "Pumpkin Pie Spice" that was included in our wedding gift bag.  Turns out it was a teabag--tasted good though.  (And, sad to say, the Valley Falls vintage wine was not that well received.)

Recipe

   Whenever I'm reading a recipe and it says to add an ingredient gradually, I pour it in all at once.  It doesn't seem like  a bowlful of ingredients can tell whether something is added gradually or suddenly.  I suppose that could be the reason I lack a master chef reputation.  (And why the emphasis on unsalted butter when the recipe calls for salt anyway?  There is so much I don't understand.)

The Beautiful and the Drab.

 It's a revelation that the women stars on DWTS's look pretty darn ordinary sans makeup.   They owe so much to their hair and makeup artists who transform them into what our concept of a star should look like.  So sad to have to go through life bereft of that expertise.  (And it's a relief that this year's  show has come to an end:  Derek needs to rest his back.)

Turkey Stats

   In 1975, two Butterball turkeys, one for our house, 21.41 lbs.  and a 14.71 lb'er for Ma's; in 1980, a fresh Jaindl turkey, weighing in at 20.89 lbs.; in 1986 a frozen 21.4 lb. Land O'Lakes; in 1984, a Louis Rich 20.5 lb. fresh Tom, in 2001 a fresh 21.13 lb. Perdue; and in 2008, the year of the 3 turkeys: our fresh Shadybrook 20.95 pounder, another which we passed on to relatives, and the "eagle,"  23.5 lbs. from Stonewood Farms Natural Fresh Young Vermont Turkey, a straight-legged variety. 
     Except for the first year or so, when my cookbook was new and I would not violate its pristine condition, I wrote in its pages, scattered in random array, the statistics of each turkey:  Indian Maid, Marval, Grand Union, Jaindl, Shady Brook, Louis Rich, Wamper Longacre, Heartland, Armor's, Perdue, Plainview, Land o' Lakes, and Butterball-----fresh and frozen forms, all in excess of 20 pounds.  A plethora of turkeys.  (And yes, I do know the implication of the word.)
    

Turnip Trauma!

Oh, no!  A Thanksgiving without turnips? At Shop'NSave,  I searched and couldn't find, and the produce manager told me the bad news:  their turnip order, which they did place, had not been filled.  The good news:  a truck is due in at midnight, and if the stars align, there will be turnips.

Turkey to Turkey

  The Thanksgiving turkey is resting in my refrigerator, via Shadybrook Farms. He is a Fresh Natural Young Turkey, weighing in at 22.42 lbs.  He is the 46th  in line, following 45 previous roastees, consecutively since 1968.  I cooked my first Thanksgiving turkey in 1968, as a newlywed in our Schaghticoke apartment.  My in-laws were the official guests and I remember agonizing over the details; I chopped and measured all the ingredients for the stuffing, adjusting upward for the increased size of the bird. The 3/4 cup of chopped celery became 3 1/4 cup and the 3 tbsp. of parsley was 15 tbsp.  I know this because it's recorded in my "Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook," the one with the red and white checked tablecloth design. 
     My in-laws were the featured guests that day, but as it happened a lot of people  we knew stopped by, including Shirley and Bob, Ruth and Mike, and Dorothy and Gus.  It was fun, being among people who were young and healthy, and who thought nothing of traveling. 
    Those were early married years for many, and we talked of babies, but I hadn't yet revealed my secret, since I'd yet to break the news to Ma, and baby number one was still six or so months away. 
    Other relatives had family commitments: my own mother had her sister and foster children to join in the meal, and we'd connect later.  My father was gone, suddenly and shockingly, but everyone else was hale and hearty, as far as we knew.  People all around us.  The good old days.
   The following Thanksgiving found us living in Valley Falls, with a house and baby, and a new tradition began.  I would cook the turkey and bring it to my mother's house, where she happily would have prepared all the vegetables; the oven was at the bottom in her stove, and she didn't enjoy bending over to cook a turkey.  So it all worked out.  Sometimes Dorothy and Gus would be at dinner, when they weren't at his parents' house.  Good times continued.
    We transported the Thanksgiving turkey down the road every year after that, until 1983, when things changed again.  We invited Helen, alone now, to our house for at least one year, but she was so much more comfortable eating dinner in her own place that we would send down the complete dinner.  She much preferred that practice, which we continued through her last Thanksgiving, in 1994. 
   In 1995, and every year up to 2012, I have cooked and kept the turkey in our house.  Last year, in 2012,the turkey again traveled the familiar  road to the house; with the grandkids getting bigger, as well as us adults getting larger, we were pressed for table space. ( The previous year we had brought the kitchen table into the living room, which was roomier, but kind of a pain in the neck.)   It took about six or seven trips to get everything transported but it worked out. This year, Young Tom from Shady Brook is scheduled to be packed up, with all the vegetables and pies, to travel to Schaghticoke.  It will be the first time I've eaten Thanksgiving Dinner in  Schaghticoke since 1968, 45 years ago, when everything was new.  You should see my cookbook now, ravaged by time. Sic transit Gloria.

What will people think?......

In the early days:
       If you went to school with a hole in your sock; if you raised your hand and gave a wrong answer; if you were caught arguing with a sibling; if you EVER got a failing grade; if you forgot to go to Confession and didn't receive Communion that Sunday; if your library book was late.  There were horrors that awaited you, all in the public eye.  Not because you had an ego, but because judgment awaited, from all the people in your life.
   (When I was in third grade,  Miss Dorr, our teacher, had us address an envelope to ourselves so we could receive discounted passes to the Schaghticoke Fair.  We wrote the envelopes early in the school year, and received them near the end of the year, must have been before the geography   spelling lesson.  I went to the post office to get the mail the day the envelope arrived, and read the address:  my name in my loopy handwriting with  the address Valley Falls, New Yourk.  I was embarrassed, mortified, humiliated.  I was certain everybody in the post office and along whatever route the letter had taken would know how stupid I was, and would report my ignorance to my present and probably next year's teacher as well.  Everybody would know.)
       Later in life:
          If you didn't have anyone to eat lunch with; if you had a run in your stocking; if your hair was too long; if your skirt was too short (and I did wear mini-skirts); if you arrived home too late; if you forgot to get your car inspected; if  your house wasn't properly cleaned; if you were late sending thank-you cards for wedding gifts.  The world was waiting to comment on your  shortcomings.
       (There was a brief period in my life when I was between jobs, and didn't go to work.  I felt like the world was judging and keeping tabs on my shortcomings-no job, living at home, unmarried.  The eye of the public was focused on me.  Shameful, I felt like a pariah.)
     Present status:
        No more judgment, observations, concerns, or cares.  It doesn't matter what I do or fail to do, say or don't say, nobody left to impress, disappoint, or embarrass.  A life, at last, without expectations.
      (Unless there is a threat  to assassinate some high-profile individual, age carries with it the right to be left alone.)
       
  

Those youts' today

   Despite all the potential cultural behavior guides that young people are presently exposed to, it seems many are sorely lacking not only in the area of social graces, but also show little awareness of basic civility.  The presence, or omnipresence, of parental involvement in their children's lives seems to have had little payoff in terms of positivity.  The opposite may even be true:
     Imagine, those who are a generation or so removed, sitting for a TV interview, accompanied by a lawyer, and threatening a lawsuit because the prosecuting official revealed the identity of your daughter.  You as  parents are outraged because your child has been publicly denounced, even though she, with accomplices, has admittedly taunted another child into committing suicide, and then wrote that she didn't care, using obscenities about the dead girl  to make her point.
     Currently, a set of parents are upset about the posting of their daughter's picture, which was a while ago, and to a limited audience.  But they now appear with their daughter, gleaning as much publicity as they can; her face is prominently displayed.  If they and their lawyer are trying to  drum up sympathy for their little murderer, and are testing the waters for support, I think they'll be disappointed.  After all, she's not Tosh.O.

Breakfast is Served

   The visit is to his old golf partner/ friend/acquaintance who has landed in a rehabilitation center after gall bladder surgery gone wrong.  He was initially sent to another rehab center, but when he needed further treatment, there were no beds available there, so he was sent to a different center, not his first choice, so he may have been a little disgruntled to begin with. 
   The patient is a man of once considerable reputation and status, having traveled extensively, and having lived in various parts of the world while engaging in his various professional pursuits.  He is learned and erudite, with a vast array of knowledge, and accustomed to being treated with the deference and respect accorded to a person of his stature.
   The patient relates to his visitor the account of what had happened that morning:  the attendant brings his breakfast into his room, where he is confined to bed because his body is weak.  She slides the food tray onto his table, right under his nose, with only the words, "Here's your breakfast."   Too brusque, and too rude for the patient.  He puts both hands beneath the offered trayful of food, and propels it forward with all his strength, splattering it all over the server and the room.   "And here's YOUR breakfast," he tells her.  She says she is going to report him to the facility's administrator, and he tells her to bring that administrator here to the room.  The visitor left so the outcome is unclear. 
     "Do not go gentle into that good night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Horse in front of the cart

  I know that language is constantly changing and evolving and words and expressions today don't mean exactly what they did a generation or two ago, but, darn it, in this case, I'm sticking with the original---meaning of course how I first assimilated it:  I refer to the carrot and stick analogy.  Modern interpretation takes it to mean that either a reward--the carrot---is offered or a punishment---the stick.  Not to my mind.  I still see the illustration of a donkey-drawn cart with a carrot dangling from a curved stick just out of reach of the animal's mouth.  So the animal is induced to move ahead with the tempting carrot luring him on, which keeps the donkey moving along in the desired direction.  There is no implied threat that he is going to be hit with the stick:  if perceived as a potential weapon against him, the donkey might balk and try to avoid the stick.  The stick is not being offered; it's merely an appendage to the carrot.  And that's the way it is.
    
    Moreover, I can still see the illustration of the difference between the words garnishee and garnish. A paycheck is lying on a dinner plate with a sprig of parsley next to it, and a big red X is drawn through the picture.  You don't GARNISH wages.  But so many people got it wrong that eventually it became correct that wages can indeed be garnished.  That's what we do-----we build on our mistakes until we obliterate them.
   And....at one time there was a distinction between the words healthy and healthful.  You did not eat a healthy diet, but a healthful one.  Again that text book line illustration of a bunch of celery joined with a carrot and maybe a few beets with its projected "arms" lifting weights.  The word  "Healthy" appears over the picture, but the big X is drawn through the illustration.  A person can be healthy: a diet is healthful.  No longer true, though.  You hardly ever hear the word healthful any more even.  Can Big Brother be closing in?

Sequins

     The jacket is black and covered with sequins, very striking and quite expensive, bought on the shopping channel early in the year, when she had high hopes of attending David's wedding, scheduled at first for the fall.  Her health began to fail in early spring, and she was glad at first that the wedding was re-scheduled for May.  "I should be able to make that date," she said, and so we went shopping for her to get a top to wear under the sequined jacket.  Oblivion, combined no doubt with denial, set in as far as I was concerned, because I really had no thought that day would be our final shopping trip,  not after the hundreds and hundreds of shopping days that had gone before, not even though I'd had to drive her to the mall, and not even when at what was to be our final lunch, she told me she had lost her appetite.  I drove her home that day, after the uneaten lunch, with the three tops that she planned to try on later with the sequined jacket to see which one was the best match.  (I later found those 3 tops still in the bag at the top of the stairs outside her bedroom door, never to have been tried on.)
     Not long after that, on a beautiful and horrible spring day, she told me she would not be going to the wedding in May; she feared she would get sick there, and spoil the occasion.  We decided to video her reading the passage she would have read at the wedding, and send it out to Boston for the wedding day. She agreed and wore the sequined jacket, but with a favorite top she already owned, finding it the most suitable after all, she said.  We have the video, with her standing on her beloved sunlit deck, laughing and joking with Dave, and rendering a flawless reading of the Psalm. 
     Dave gave her a copy of the video.  After the wedding, I asked her if she'd viewed it and she said no, she couldn't.  "Maybe later," she added. 
I have the video in my house, somewhere.  Maybe later I'll look at it again, but I probably won't.  The jacket is in my house, somewhere. I thought of wearing it to Daniel's wedding, in her honor, but I couldn't. Either.

Past Presence

"Don't withhold your approbation
'Til the pastor makes oration,
 And I lie with snowy lilies on my brow.
 If you like me or you love me, tell me now...
 For no matter how you shout it,
 I wouldn't give a damn about it..
 If you like me or you love me...
    Tell me now!"

Toothsome similarities.

  The cat and I now have something in common.  We each have dental procedure plans set up by our dental health care provider.  Mine comes with the option of  a Care Credit healthcare credit card, to help ease the financial pain.  Maybe is on her own.

A Plate Full

  Why is it so  annoying to watch a person who, on  a regular basis, eats a meal using a dessert plate instead of a dinner plate?  There is an equal number of each type of plate,  and they are equally accessible.  Why the person does it is one question, and why watching it is so aggravating is another question.   

Call from Beyond

"Is everybody in for the night?"

Stay offf my bike!

   My sister and I never owned bicycles; this was true throughout our childhood.  My parents bought my brother a bike, a red Rollfast as I recall, I think for his tenth birthday or so.  When he was in eighth grade, he won enough award money to buy a larger-sized and better model.  He didn't like my sister or me to ride his bicycles. Having no bikes of our own, we would borrow his, with his consent at the times we agreed to ride to the store for groceries, and without his consent when he was away from home.  I don't remember how my sister and I learned to ride a bicycle, but we did, at a fairly young age.  The only bikes we had to ride were boys' models with the bars.  We were too small to sit on the raised seat when we rode, so always peddled from a standing position.  This worked out well for us, except for one problem, which may have contributed to the brother's not being crazy about our riding his bike. The problem was stopping:  we were too short to have our feet touch the ground when we braked the bike, so we devised another way to disembark.  It was at a time before my father replaced the barn door with the more modern roll-up door, and the two old barn doors were rather worn, with a lot of  give to them.  Perfect for stopping bicycles.  We would brake as we rode toward the door, and in a perfectly coordinated move, pull our legs up and jump off just before the bike hit the door, a smooth enough landing, even, sometimes, while holding  a bag of groceries.  I don't think our landing style ever harmed the bicycle, but even if it  did, what choice did we have?  We learned from harsh experience that you don't want to be straddling those iron bars of a boy's bicycle. 

A Sunset

    When you look back on your childhood, you tend to think of it as having lasted a long time, like half your life--the half that was your childhood and the half that is your adulthood. That is true for a little while, when you're in your twenties and just beginning to get in touch with your adult self. But even as time goes on, we tend to regard our childhood as an extensive period of our lives, though eventually it becomes a tiny fraction of our days spent on earth. 
     We played marbles every spring we remember, but in reality for how many years?  Probably only three or four, at most.  Hide and seek was a game we played "forever" but at what age did we stop playing-----eleven or twelve?  For how long did we ride our bikes aimlessly around the town, as children do, with no destination in mind, just for the sake of riding around?
     I never owned a bicycle, but when my brother got a new bike, his old one was lying around, as was another old bicycle left in our yard by a boy on our street, who had either outgrown it and abandoned it, or perhaps was kind enough to offer its use for my sister and me, who were both bikeless.
   So I have memories of riding a bike as a child, though how many times is not verifiable, and in actuality most likely much less than it would have seemed.  But among the memories we capture as reflective of our childhood, almost like looking at a snapshot of the time, I see myself riding a bike in the evening, just before sunset. 
     My father is sitting on the front porch, as he did after supper when the weather was nice.  I am alone, circling my bike  in the lot of the vacant garage next door, around the concrete remnants of the island where gas pumps once stood.  The sun is setting, colorful and beautiful, visible between the Valley Inn and the smokestacks of the James Thompson Mill, which are spewing the last smoke of the day.  Jack's (only later to become Sara's) store is open, and as customers pass by, they greet my father, calling him Charlie.  I used to wonder how so many people knew him, since to my mind, my father was at work every day, and went only to church on Sundays.  I ride as far as the parking lot of the Valley Inn before turning back to ride around the pumps again.  I see my father sitting on the porch and as I ride toward home, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, I suddenly experience a feeling of unrest, kind of a vague ache. I think I want to go somewhere else, though I'm free to ride anywhere in the village that I wish.  I don't know what I want to happen, and nothing does.  Only that the sun finally sets, my father goes inside, and I put the bike away.

So Help Me Pete

  The TV spot for Saint Peter's Health Care Partners shows pictures of  their medical staff providing  the various services they perform for their patients with a voiceover describing the benefits of seeking healthcare at their facilities.  You see the doctors, staff, medical visits, childbirth and surgical centers all illustrating the mission of Saint Peter's, but just as the words "protecting the dignity of our patients" are spoken,  the image is shown of some poor soul suspended in a body harness flailing across the screen, his face distorted in manic determination as he struggles to gain control of his limbs.  A courageous man for sure, but it doesn't seem his dignity is being preserved.   Even with his consent, it seems exploitative and a little grotesque.

Beware the Pronoun!

   A noun is the name of a person, place or thing.  A pronoun takes the place of a noun.  The case forms of pronouns are nominative, objective and possessive:( I, you, he/she/it) and (me, you, him/her/it) and (my/mine, your/yours/, his/her/hers/its) respectively.  The plural forms are (we, you, they) and (us, you, them) and (our/ours, your/yours, their/theirs.)
    Don't worry about the distinctions for the sake of grammatical integrity alone.  What is relevant here is the application of the pronouns to your very self, in real life, real time. The delineating factor is when you fade out of the category of we, us and ours and into the bracket of they, them and theirs.  The shift from 1st person to 3rd person, while gradual, is  also inexorable.  Take note. 

Cranium

   Does the term "pig-headed" apply to a person whose forehead is  narrower across the top of the head than at the bottom of the face?   If you know such a person, do you think he's merely stubborn, or could it be that his brain power is lessened due to lack of space?

Proposition This!

Egad!   Results show gambling wins.   Oops, not gambling, GAMING. 

Channeling A. Godfrey

    With all the singing and talent shows on TV, could we please put a damper on the back stories.  Have the contestants just come out and perform; why are the problems of their lives relevant to their performances?  Maybe after there is a winner, a biographical sketch could be supplied, but why invest time and compassion in those many destined to lose?   All that boring drivel makes me want to scream.  (Or change the channel.)

Poetic Justice

     Perusing my assortment of poetry books, of which there are quite a few, I feel qualified to lay down two rules for poetry: (1) the poem should be hard to understand, and (2) it should make you want to kill yourself.

Better Left Unseen

Breakfast at 5:15 A.M. means turning the whistling tea kettle on, but stifling its alert with an inserted spoon.  No one needs to be warned that early in the morning. Take the milk carton out of the fridge and unscrew the little top, and leave it beside the carton on the counter until breakfast is over, only a matter of 15 minutes or so.  Open the cabinet and take out a bowl for the Rice Krispies, and leave the cabinet door open, again until the end of the meal.  Put 2 slices of bread into the toaster, and then slice exactly one-half of a banana onto the cereal.  When the toast pops up, hold it in your hand while buttering it, leaving a crop circle of small light brown crumbs on the counter, invisible at that hour in the morning, only later to be revealed.  Eat, put away the milk, close the cupboard door.  The time is 5:30. 

So it goes

     November is the bleakest month.  November 1st honors dead and overlooked saints.  November 2nd is dedicated to the souls in Purgatory.  I could never keep those two holydays straight when I was a kid, which was troubling because it seems one day was a Holy Day of Obligation, while the other was optional.  My grandmother died in early November after suffering a fall on October 8; that date I'm sure of for some reason.  The time change just seems to make the days seem shorter and grayer; I don't know why we still undergo that change.  Most farm workers work by artificial light these days; they don't need daylight.  Besides, I don't think the sun even shines in November.
      On the last day of October this year, I planted the tulip bulbs in the giftbag from Danny and Krystal's wedding.  I planted five bulbs by the foundation in the front of my house, in the sunniest and warmest spot I could find.  I'm hoping that when the snow melts in March I will see some bright remembrance of a happy day.  (I saved one bulb to plant in a pot inside to try to force it to bloom early.  Anything to lessen the grayness.)

Bad, Recipe,Bad

    If the biggest concern you have is what to do with leftover Halloween candy, your life is okay as it is.  You should NOT follow the advice of TV "cooks" who concoct recipes for leftover candy, the most pointless advice ever.  If you have leftover candy, consider it dessert as long as it's edible, which can be quite a long time.  Do NOT crumble it into a cream cheese mixture, pour it into a graham cracker piecrust, bake, then chill it, and serve with whipped cream.  Why? There's no rule that says you must eat candy; if you don't want to eat it, give it to somebody else, or for heaven's sake, throw it away.  Why would you even consider disguising it as a pie; it's not as if you're forcing yourself to eat vegetables, which have some nutrient value.  Candy or pie: pick one---do not consolidate!

Seductive

"I did my best to bring her back
  To what she was before,
But my baby walks
  The Streets of Baltimore." 

Once upon a time......

In Memory

March 9, 1905      October 30, 1983
                  On a cold Sunday morning thirty years ago, my world changed.

How It Happens

   The Public Service Announcement is shown repeatedly, advising viewers to get their shingles shot.  The speaker is recounting his experience with shingles, saying he was so miserable that he felt like he just wanted  "to crawl up into a ball."   Since  this ad is run over and over, the assumption will be that this is the way to go, no more will we curl up into a ball, we'll crawl up there somehow. 
    It reminds me of the massive undertaking in the book, "The Professor and the Madman."  The compilers of the OED solicited word input from anyone who could document three  in-print usages of a word, which they would then include in the Oxford English Dictionary, kind of the grand-daddy of them all.   So if today's TV ads control the future of the language, so be it. 
    I don't care (but it sounds stupid).

Read,read,read.

Did you ever, while preparing a box of chocolate pudding, wonder why it seemed to be curdling and not reaching that nice rolling boil state, and then find out it was the instant kind?   Not the best, but I must confess I ate it anyway. 

TV Redux

     I'm still trying to get a grasp on the new season.  I watched "Ironside" tonight, or that portion that wasn't usurped  by the news that the country is back in business.  The show was okay I guess, for those who like that kind of show.  But at first when I saw Ironside  tooling along in his "mobility chair" I thought it was the icon for one of those screen crawlers. He wheeled along so smoothly, and at breakneck speed too.  What a man!

Finally

Tethered by a lifeline,
She sits,
Fading hope billowing
Through the waning hour:
Waiting---for the healing poison---
Like a balloon being filled with helium
Struggling to rise in freedom
If only briefly, before it falls,
Crashing down through earth's darkness.

More, or less.

The rooms were empty
My  heart cried out.
"Empty nest," they said.
Yearning, unanswered  emptiness.
Then Death moved in,
And took up all the space.
Far worse than loneliness
The menacing, unwanted presence.
"So soon?" the question. 
Silence the answer.

ANONYMOUS

  Nay child, Do not go gently.
  Linger upon fields of apathy:
  Abandoned soldiers, broken from their ranks,
  Cords of driftwood strewn along river banks.

The ways of nature bestowed the bane
So generously, upon us, the gift of pain.
    Liberty!
           Pursuit!
               and Life
Yet we remain stunted children, unworthy, resigned
To the lock and key of His grand eternal  design.

What Is, Is, Is
Must, Must, Must
And what Is, Is, Is can
never, never, never....CEASE.

The winter of our discontent
Will smother the tree and flower.
But amidst ice and biting frost
May reveal our finest hour.
Only in darkness does light exist;
Only in love will our lives be missed.

          Anyone familiar with the above poem is welcome to comment, either as to author, or as to poetic veracity.

Book Report

Divesting:  66 down, 637 more to go.    At least.

Not me---Boo hoo.

So when the cops are called to an underage drinking party, and arrest those in attendance, they should first listen to the excuses.  "Not me, Officer, I was just picking up a drunk friend."   If the young woman happens to be captain of a volleyball team, then of course she has to be telling the truth.  If the police asked the other attendees if they were drinking, or were there to support a friend, how many would so claim.  If the school enforces their discipline code, with by the way what seems to be a rather mild punishment, the school is wrong, because the mother believes her child. Said child could have called someone else to pick up the drunk girl, or the driver could have waited outside: teens do beep horns. As a team captain, she should have possessed a measure of leadership and responsibility to avoid placing herself in jeopardy.  Aren't  captains skilled at strategy?  It's so easy (and a cheap shot) to denigrate the bad bureaucrats while protecting a young innocent girl, who's good at sports, and has loving, hovering parents. 

TV or not TV: That is the question

  I feel so out of it.  I glanced at the ratings of this season's new television shows, and realized that not only have I not watched them, I also have never watched a single episode of most of the older shows.  I used to have a viewing  familiarity  with every show, but that was before there were so many offerings, and also before I developed what is  apparently a series-induced attention deficit disorder.  Even when I attempt to watch a show, either my mind wanders and blocks out the storyline, or else, when it comes to the crime/murder/gore/ genre, I change the channel because  I don't want to endure the suspense of watching a cheerful female character become a corpse. 
   During the years that Dorothy spent weekends at my house, the TV would be turned to all the CSI-type detective shows, but I would work on the Sunday NYT crossword while she was engrossed in the whodunit aspect.  Some of them were accompanied by eerie soundtracks which really didn't invite me as a viewer. 
  I figured  it was too late for me to get in on any of the existing series:  I'd watched a single episode of the top-rated "Breaking Bad," or most of the episode, but  when the main character was suffering so badly----racing across the desert trying to stop the bad guys from destroying the cash for which he'd sold his soul, avoiding sniper fire while simultaneously suffering the effects of terminal lung cancer------I abruptly changed the channel so I wouldn't have to feel his pain.  It was the next-to-last episode anyway.
   I resolved to stay more current this season, doing my viewing before the series got so far along that I couldn't catch up.  I resolutely watched a full episode of "The Crazy Ones,"  and found it boring and mundane.  I tried, I really did, to watch "The Michael Fox Show,"  but all I could think of was how hard it must be for him to articulate his lines, so courageous, but not so entertaining.  I have consistently watched the singing and dancing shows, mainly I suppose because they don't require full attention: there's no plot and it's  easy to drop in and out.  I lost my focus on "American Idol" after Adam Lambert's season because nobody measured up to him.  I will watch DWTS's as long as Derek Hough is on, though I must confess I was relieved after V.H left, because watching her left me sad, not entertained.  When the judges no longer feel required to overrate the dancing prowess  of  the remaining dancers who are physically challenged, socially handicapped, or just plain old, I may be able to watch angst-free. I'm waiting for that.
    One night last week, sleepless, I inadvertently viewed back-to-back episodes of the hitherto unseen "Burn Notice,"  and found it strangely compelling.  The show made me feel the same as when I read comic books when I was a child----interested but unworried as to the characters' outcomes.  The next day, I read that the show had run its course. 
    I'm pretty saturated with all the singing shows.  Many of the vocalists on "The Voice" are outstanding, but how badly do we need more good singers?  The so-called reality shows are obviously scripted but if they weren't who would want to view real life; we have enough of that.  If anyone can let me in on a fresh new show, please let me know.  Anything besides "Duck Dynasty," that is.

How now, Tom Hanks

  Does it really come as a surprise for a man in his late 50's to be diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, especially when  his glucose levels have been high since he was 36 years old.  Millions have  been so diagnosed, minus the  benefit of a formal announcement.  Could be he's looking to be the spokesperson; every disease has one, and most are fronted by celebrities.  (Most likely prostrate enlargement is present too, but publicizing  that doesn't carry the same cachet.)

Where's the magic, Peter?

    I read your column every Sunday in the TU's "Handyman On Call" column.  Most of your recommendations  and suggestions seem well-advised, though I have not had occasion to put most of your advice to use. You have often highly recommended "Magic Eraser"  as a means of removing many different kinds of soil and stains from a variety of materials.   Based on your glowing endorsement, which seems contrary to your usual curmudgeonly nature, I bought some of the product, and I just don't see the magic. So far, I've tried it on everything from walls to furniture to vinyl with no more success than a damp cloth.  The stains remain; what's up with that?

Oenophilia, Anyone?

  Direct from, and produced and bottled by the Amorici Vineyard at Spirit Earth, Valley Falls, A New York State Farm Winery, I now possess a bottle of  Riesling Finger Lakes Dry White Wine, 12% ALC./VOL.  Now I must get in touch with my inner sommelier.  Skoal!

Uncle Joe

   Joe lived with us for as long as I can remember, the last 20 years or so in our  final family house.  His room was the small one, at the top of the stairs  in the back of the house.  The room boasted a closet and a single window, and of course the private entrance that the second stairway allowed.  In the room were a single bed and a small kerosene stove, all he needed he said. He must have been lonely, but was doubtless accustomed to it because his wife had died young of cancer, his son drowned in the Hoosic River at the age of 11 years, and Joe had lost his arm in an accident while working at the Powder Mills.  When we  were little kids, we spent a lot of time outside with Joe.  He didn't play with us exactly, but talked to us and listened to us as we followed him around while he did chores in the yard. He often carried a hoe which he used to tend a small vegetable garden, and more fascinating to us, he would divert streams of water through areas where mud had formed. When he would put his hoe away in the shed, us following him, he would sing words to the song, "Hang up the shovel and the hoe, for there's no more work for Poor Old Joe," thus adapting the words way before the time of racial consciousness.   Our father was always at work, and my mother's life consumed with household and farming chores, so Joe was a constant presence in our lives, and as memory serves, he treated us quite as adults.
     We kids grew up, as children are destined (or doomed) to do, and we came to abandon his presence in our lives, ungratefully, as children also do.
One cold winter night in January, Joe died in that small room. Once the bed and the small stove were taken out of the room, there was little evidence that he had ever lived there.  I was in college then and a year or so later, with the help of a friend, I made the room into a small study for myself, with a cot and a desk and a wardrobe for my winter clothes, as well as the room's closet.  A luxury of a sort, as I'd never had a room of my own or a closet either.  In cold months, I could spend  only limited time in the room, as the house had no central heat and no heat at all upstairs.  Those were the days when we would grab our clothes in the morning and run downstairs to dress near the living room stove. In the summer, I would lie on the cot and read--a simple but most desirable pleasure.  But there was a peculiar thing that would happen at times, always in that room and always when I was alone.  I would hear voices in my head.  No, that's not true; it was more like a refrain running through my head, wordless, but struggling to become words.  I was in my early twenties with no history of illness, though that was about the time I started to develop migraines. It was before the time of self analysis or pseudo-psychology, so I never strove to make any connection, and none was apparent.  I do remember that when I would feel the sensation of the unspoken coming on, I would run, not walk, down those stairs into the company of anybody who happened to be in the house.  I never mentioned it to anybody, though years later I discussed it with Dorothy, and she said she had similar experiences.  When we had these rare conversations, and after she had married and moved away, Dorothy would say she had felt the presence of ghosts, or spirits, in the house.  Not too surprising, I suppose, because in our lifetimes, my mother, father, and Joe would all die in the house, in different rooms, and I believe that my father's father also died there, in still another room.  Helen, in her later and lonesome years, claimed to have seen angels in the middle room, and could hear them singing.  She would describe the sight and the sound.  Years later, I would research the topic, and learn there is a recognized and identified phenomenon of choir voices in people who have suffered hearing loss.  Helen didn't dislike the voices or the vision, but rather was  in awe of them, and religious as she was, seemed to attach some feeling that the angels were preparing a way for her.  After a while, and a long life, dreams and reality appear to merge as one, which could be a stark reminder that the way is being prepared, ready or not.
     
    

Trend Fatigue---Hearts and Syntax

  How long is the Hand Heart destined to last?  Cute the first few thousand times, but now it makes me feel like breaking thumbs.
  And the Carter Family should be rolling over in their graves about the current  rephrasing of their poignant, "Will you miss me when I'm gone?"  Even Mother Maybelle, perhaps never  the most avid proponent of proper syntax, must shudder to hear, "You're gonna miss me by my hair, You're gonna miss  me everywhere."  Combined with "You're gonna miss me by my walk, You're gonna miss me by my talk,"the song makes a mockery of  the  English language.  That little ditty just sticks in your head though, doesn't it? And makes you want to form a reply -----"I'm gonna miss you by your weight, I'm gonna miss you by your pate,"  you fat, balding S.O.B."

OK, then--Whatever.....

......"OK, then. Whatever." These were Brad's words  to me after I said I didn't think his call was legitimate, and told him not to call me again.  Even though he was calling from Windows about a problem with my computer. 

The Ice Cream Oath

     We promised each other we would never do it.  We would never take our future child's melting ice cream cone out of its little hands, lick the dribbling area around the circumference of the cone, and hand it back, with the process to be repeated as necessary.  Back when we were teenagers, my friend and I used to sit on the porch of an ice cream store on a summer day and watch as young mothers leaving the store with their children would stop to talk to friends. On a warm day, the mothers would, almost as if it were an instinct, neaten up their children's ice cream cones in this manner without even pausing in their conversation.  We, as yet untainted by motherhood, would observe, appalled.  Yuck! How could they!
    "Promise me," said my friend one day, "that you will never do that, even if we do some day have kids."   I was more than in accord, so I took the oath. "No, I will never lick my child's dripping ice cream cone."  And I never did, although I did have three children.  Even as toddlers, they had to take care of their own ice cream dribbles.

SMALL BUSINESS (really small)

  Yesterday I attended the Small Business /Craft Fair Expo at the Schaghticoke Fairgrounds.  There were 3 buildings full of vendors.  I bought a pumpkin for $5.00 and I think that may have been the major sale of the day, except for cider doughnuts and curly fries.  Attendance was sparse, the weather not optimal, but the event is scheduled to run through Sunday.  I hope it will be worth the trouble of setting up all the display booths, but I would project the outlook as dismal.

P.P.D.

Can you suffer from post-partum depression 2 years after giving birth?  5 years?  35 years?   Didn't that used to be called by another name?

Where art thou?

    Sometimes I'll be typing along on my computer keyboard,  and look up to see that nothing has appeared on the screen.  I know I entered the words;  I wonder where they went, how they just disappeared into the ether.  I suppose they could suffer the same fate as all the ideas you've mentally translated into words over the years---questions, explanations, ---but never got around to verbalizing.  When you die, they all end up in Limbo.

The AARP website says "Millions of Americans over age 65 are suffering from undiagnosed depression."   How is it possible for anyone to make this statement?  What type of survey could possibly identify those whose depression has not been diagnosed?  That would mean the survey takers would be making the diagnosis of the millions undiagnosed.  Sounds like something out of Joseph Heller-land. 

Tres absurde, Candide. Oui, oui.

 For "If you had not been expelled from the noble castle, if you had not been clapped into the Inquisition, if you had not wandered about America on foot, if you had not stuck your sword into the Baron, if you had not lost all your sheep from the land of Eldorado, you would not be eating candied citrons and pistachios here." 
      "Tis well said," replied Candide, " but we must cultivate our gardens."

O Which Path

Francis Bacon:  "I have taken all knowledge to be my province."

Confucius say:

  "Those who bring confusion to our midst always begin by being fond of offending their elders."
 "Who does not know the value of words will never come to understand his fellow-men."

Sorry, Mr. Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my blog has gleaned my teeming brain,
Then on the shores of the wide world
I stand alone
With all unuttered words of angst and pain.
Forsooth.

Be like Trayvon

The woman driver of the Lexus  that crashed the Capitol gates, the motorcycle driver who got in the way of the SUV fleeing from danger------embodiments of the spirit of Trayvon.

Im-peached

   One of my favorite foods is a nice ripe juicy peach.  Finding one is as difficult as the hunt for the golden apple in Minecraft.  Peaches have a short growing season in this part of the country, and those are the only peaches worth eating.  My mother used to delight in planting things, including fruit trees.  She had planted 2 sour cherry trees that on maturity yielded large crops of their fruit each summer; the cherry-laden boughs  were widely admired by the customers who used to frequent Sara's store, and their compliments often resulted in their leaving with a generous  offering of cherries. 
    My mother also planted a peach tree on the side of the house, though winter conditions were not ideal for that type of tree, and eventually it fell victim to a severe freeze.  But not before it yielded, in what was to be its final year, a one-time crop of the finest peaches I've ever tasted.  The tree grew for several years before its eventual demise, but for most of its life, it bore no fruit.  I was teaching in Cambridge then, and kept my car parked on the side of the house next to the vacant building next door.  One day, as I was backing out of the driveway, I spotted something in the peach tree------three perfect golden peaches.  I stopped and gathered them up, and was privileged, over the next few days, to partake of the most delectable flavors I'd ever experienced.
    Each year, I try to replicate that experience, and a few times I've come close, but the ultimate "golden apple hunt" is ever elusive.  This year, I've bought peaches about half a dozen times,  usually only a few at a time because I'm  so accustomed to the disappointment.  If I have had in my house a dozen fresh peaches this summer, only about one-fourth of them have been worth eating.  The best were probably presented as a gift from my brother-in-law.  Most of the others were duds. 
    Today I went to a local orchard to buy apples, a once-upon-a-time tradition.  I was pleasantly surprised that they were also advertising peaches.  I saw them in the cooler, in baskets.  I asked the clerk how the peaches were, if they were juicy; she said they were good, she liked them.  I bought a small basket of them;  the clerk told me to refrigerate them as they were ready to eat.  As soon as I got home, I washed a peach, and brought it outside to eat in the waning sunlight.  I also brought a small paring knife (I don't like to bite into fuzzy skin) and a dish towel to soak up the juice. I sat on the deck, spread the towel on my lap, and sliced off a piece of the peach with my knife.  I bit into a piece of Styrofoam.  This can't be. I tried again: desiccated fiberboard.  I took my paring knife and stabbed the peach until it was mutilated--it bled not a drop of juice.  I threw its body down the bank behind the house.  More mayhem undoubtedly awaits. 

Right Aid

   It happened again, the second time in a week.  I was in the Rite-Aid store and another person spoke to me, using my "old name."  I don't hear my name that much any more, so it gets my attention.  But each time I failed at first to recognize the speaker.  I'm not one of those people who usually addresses people by their names in conversation, so I went with the flow, scrambling in my mind to garner a clue as to who the person was.  I never did confirm the identity of the first person, but yesterday, after a few minutes, I realized I was talking to a former classmate,  a man I hadn't even seen in too many years to count.  He seemed glad to see me, and we were in easy conversation for about 10 minutes or so, and not about old times either.  I learned that he's now retired and that he carries a load of birdshot throughout his body from a hunting accident in his youth.  He showed me the lump in his wrist; the bullets will prevent his ever having an MRI, though CT scans are possible.  He said that not all the containers outside the store are for the construction debris.  Some are storage containers holding merchandise that will be put back on the shelves when the renovation  is complete. 
     Since everything is now so much more open, and the customers more visible to each other, I should probably visit the store more often: it's nice to talk to people.  The store looks good, nice floors.  But I must say---I despise the Wellness Program.  The cashiers always point out my eligibility with enthusiasm, evidently as part of their job, but to this date I've never been able to access anything of value through it.  Maybe in the future......

Books and Worms

I've got to divest myself of all these books before I have a biblio-breakdown. 

Impact

Government shutdown----Let's see:  U.S. Postal Workers are safe, National Parks workers are not, 800,000 other federal employees will be furloughed.  A government worker I know claims to be so nonessential that he won't even be notified if he's essential or not.  I say Fie!

Learning Something New

  I never knew that Francis Bacon died of pneumonia after stuffing snow inside a chicken while trying to devise a system of refrigeration.  Poor Bacon, poor chicken.

Once said....

I remember translating this from Latin:  Cicero, "On Moral Duties" :  "There are two kinds of injustice; the positive injustice of the aggressor, and the negative injustice of neglecting to defend those who are wronged."  The foundations of justice, according to Cicero: do evil to no man; work for the common good.  *****I'm getting a headache poring over these old books. 

Stats

Explains a lot, if you think about it:   49% of people are dumber than average. 

STOP, or not

   I don't know if there is a regulation for the height of  the placement of a STOP sign, but I think there should be.  I think the STOP sign in the village of Valley Falls at the north end of State Street is too high for it to be readily visible, at least from a regular passenger car.  A height of 5 feet would seem a standard installation; while I haven't measured the one in question, it appears to be about twice as high as it should be.  I think drivers unfamiliar with the terrain could easily miss seeing the sign altogether; it's way up there.  I hope "somebody doesn't get killed."

Trains

To quote Edna St. Vincent Millay:
  "My heart is warm with the friends I make,
        And better friends I'll not be knowing:
   Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
        No matter where it's going."

And we get to ride inside--where there are bathrooms and everything.

Dresses

   News flash: I bought a dress.  That is a rare occurrence nowadays, though there was a time when I had a wardrobe of some pretty spiffy numbers.  I was single, living at home, and in quite  good shape both financially and physically,  so it was fun and interesting to shop at all the local upscale stores  that carried the latest styles and designs.  Almost every weekend, when I was teaching and still living at home, I would purchase a trendy outfit to wear to school that week.  At one time, there was a (secret)  pool conducted by the male teachers to chart which of us single female teachers went the longest without repeating the same outfit.  (Always a dress, because in the 60's, hard to believe, but pants, even pantsuits, were not accepted as items of professional wear.)  A sexist thing to do for sure, but kind of fun.  I was told I won the contest, can't remember how many consecutive days of different dresses, but I did have a lot of nice clothes back then. 
      The last dress of any kind I bought was a 2-piece number for my daughter's wedding, and before that a dress for each of my niece's weddings.  I wore those 3 dresses only one time each, for the occasion it was purchased, and never would have considered wearing any of them again.  I had lost both my touch for fashion, and the physical appearance to carry it off. 
    So it came as a surprise to even me that I bought a dress a few weeks ago, again with the intent of wearing it to a wedding. I'd previously bought a pants outfit, rather drab as befitting my present state when, as I was shopping for something else, I thought why not try a dress.  I selected about a half dozen off the rack, and brought them into the fitting room, where I tried them on and decided none of them would work.  When I brought  them to the "rejected "rack  outside the fitting room, I saw a dress that someone else had left there.  I tried it on and ended up buying it.  I have it at home, and am afraid to look at it.  A dress!  I have the feeling I may well revert to the safe old navy blue pantsuit.  Nowadays I'm not much for any kind of adventure. 

Haute Coutere

   If I were to walk the red carpet, and one of those officious and annoying members of the press were to ask, "Who are you wearing?"  I would have to answer, "Boscov."   (I'm trying to clear out my closet; I really am.)

Lesson #1, As Promised/Threatened

    Object:  To enable the prospective writer to engage the reader
    Topic:  The Persistent Cat
          Boring:The cat comes into the room.
                       I put the cat out.
                       The cat comes in again.
          Transformation into dramatic vein:
                        "There's that cat again.
                          Get out, you cat!"--
                          "What's  the use?"
Now class, which would you rather read?
                            "Neither," you say. 
                            "Well, *#@*  you!"
      

OK, it's me. Sort of.

  I googled  the term "daisy cutter"  and now I get it, kind of. It's a bomb and  a beer.  It's a military term and also a soccer term.  I guess it related to some powerful drive that can knock a field of daisies right off their roots and flatten an entire area.  I just didn't connect it to a papal action, and I would say the writer, in her quest to be edgy, has stretched the metaphor to where the meaning is murky.  Roses AND daisies---you're trying too hard.   Moral: We're never too old to learn.  (Or to criticize either.)

Reading the Newspaper

     I don't much care what format the newspaper is in.  I just like to be able to understand what I read.  I know certain terms have crept into the language, e.g. apps, selfie, and I've been able to assimilate them with no problem.  However, when I'm reading a rather formally written editorial, and I'm at a loss for meaning of content, I become uncomfortable:  Could it be me?   In today's paper, a  Viewpoint piece about the Pope says that he "doesn't sprinkle rose petals and platitudes,"  but "drops daisy cutters of truth."  I get the metaphor about the roses, but am stumped by whatever a daisy cutter is. Could it be a time-worn term that I've missed out on somehow?  A new expression?  A misprint?  Maybe I didn't read the entire article carefully enough.  I'll have to go back and see.  Oh, the horror of self doubt.