The Wreaths

    We'd come home from school to find the wreaths hanging in  the windows, and we knew Christmas was coming. On our child's time line though, still a long way off.  For if Ma had decorated the windows on the first day of December, Christmas was still an eternity away.
   My mother must have been thrilled to be in a house of her own at Christmas, after all those dismal rental houses, five of them I think.  Somehow, in those days of little or no money for anything but necessities, she had acquired wreaths, four of them by my count. They were kept in a cardboard box in one of the unused rooms upstairs and, having been squashed in storage, always took a little time to fluff out into their correct shape.  They were meant for inside, being of what seemed like rolled paper of some sort.  Of course they were round, and they were red.  She hung one in each of the 2 front-room windows, one in the middle room window, which faced the old mill, and one in the kitchen window looking out on the cinder block building.  I don't remember another wreath for the other kitchen window, but there could have been one. 

The First Christmas

  Well, the first one I remember anyway.  In one of the first old houses we lived in.  Being brought into the back room, which had been closed off and unheated, and seeing a tree in the house.  Being given a small wrapped package, being cold, not understanding what was going on.  I can almost---almost---remember what my  toy was in the wrapping, but not quite.  Dorothy's  toy was a little red rubber horse.  She had it for a long time, but in time its ears were broken off.  She may have chewed on them, since she was only a toddler.
     I suppose that may have been Dorothy's very first Christmas present.  A year or so later, her Christmas present was  a stick hobby horse. She used to ride it around the house and then hang its bridle strap over the doorknob.  Maybe that's where she learned to love horses; Ma must have endowed her with that. 
    I can't remember her gifts for her last Christmas.  We never know which that will be until too late.  In our later years, we used to forego giving each other gifts and instead go shopping right after Christmas, and pick out what we wanted for each other. That way we could shop and do lunch.  Simple activities which I'd give the world  to be able to do now.  We were all set to do that, almost ready to go out the door the day after New Year's in 2008, when the telephone rang with the news that would signal the beginning of the end.  She left to schedule appointments. 
    She would see that year's Christmas, and then two more, but things were never again the same.

One Clear Christmas Eve

     I've lived through many of them by now, way too many to recall.  But the mind works in mysterious ways, and memory even stranger.  Thousands upon thousands of days are not even a blurred memory, but are lost in time, as if they did not even happen.   But for some reason, there are memories that appear as scenes, complete with the inclusion of the sounds and thoughts as the moment of memory is drawn forth.  One such is a Christmas Eve.
      We are walking home from Midnight Mass back in the time when the Mass was actually at midnight.  Dorothy and Sandy and I are walking down the center of the road, on Main Street as it was known then.  State Street may have been the official name, stashed away in some stuffy old historical document  somewhere, but everybody called it Main Street.  Our parents had ridden home in the car, but we three had chosen to walk. The night was clear and maybe cold, but we are clad in our winter coats and hats and gloves, so the weather is no concern of ours. All the cars have left the church, so the open road is all ours. Our boots crunch the snow of Main Street.  Our minds are unfettered with problems of any type; our parents still bear the burden on that front; we are as yet untouched by romantic heartbreak, the regret of missed opportunity, the loss of loved ones, and we are on school vacation for the holidays.  All is calm. All is bright.  We walk and talk and laugh with the ease of waning childhood, feeling a little awed to be in the center of the road in the middle of the night, in our town, with no one else around.  The streetlights are contributing only slightly to the brightness of the night  and as we make our way toward home, we sense that the night is special, with the promise of tomorrow, yet so ordinary----with the unspoken feeling that if we could only  keep walking we might come upon something rare and wonderful.    But the road does end, and our moment  of immortality,  or whatever it was, ends with it.

Thwarted. Again.

     Tuesday I planned to go shopping.  Before I got in the shower in the morning, I turned up the heat. The house felt chilly, even though Dave had been up and out the door hours before.  The heat didn't come on, no matter how high I set the thermostat.  The oil tank had been recently filled, the circuit breakers were in order, pressing the furnace reset button did nothing.  Time to call for help---but our phones were dead.  Plan B involving the cell phone was futile because the battery needed charging.  Visits to house of working phone resulted in service calls from John Ray and Time Warner for later in the day.  No time to shop.
    Wednesday, I laid out my plans to go shopping while lazing in my night clothes in front of the TV. I heard a noise and looked out my front window to see a man and a red truck in the driveway.  I hastily ran and pulled on a sweatshirt to see what he wanted.  His truck broke down, he said, and he ended up coasting it into the driveway.  He thought it might be out of gas, because the low fuel light had come on, but usually he could drive quite a few miles beyond that.  He asked to use my phone so he could call a friend to help him out.  No one answered his calls.  They were all at work, he said. I told him there was a gas can in the shed, but he said the can was empty.  He said he had a gas can at home, in Johnsonville.
      So I drove him to his house, where he retrieved his gas can, also empty, but which he replenished at nearby Marpe's Store.  Back in my driveway, he poured the gas into the fuel tank of the truck.  The engine turned over, but would not start.  He raised the hood, but said he knew nothing about auto mechanics, so he, and I, just looked into the engine compartment.  He said he didn't know what to do, so I offered to drive him home. Again.   I wasn't anxious to do so because he lives on a dirt road, one of those where the ruts are covered with slippery half-frozen mud which threaten to pull you into their direction.  I hesitated to enter his driveway because he said his friend had gotten stuck there the other day.  So I maneuvered one of those three-point-turns from Driver Education class, a tactic I don't think I've used since 1956.  The aura of good deed-ism must have aided my safe return home.  The owner of the truck, Matt, and his friend arrived about 7:30 P.M. and towed his truck out and away.  Before they left, however, he knocked at the door, shook my hand and thanked me for "driving him around."  I can always shop tomorrow.

Apples and Oranges

"You can't do that!  It's like comparing apples and oranges!"  Lacking access to the trusty Venn Diagram, here goes:
    Similarities:
         Both are fruits.
         Both grow on trees.
         Both have seeds inside the fruit.
         Both are round, diameter usually between size of baseball and softball.
         Both rate high in nutrition value, with Vitamin C and lots of fiber.
         Both can be  a source of fruit juice.
         Both can be eaten raw, or combined with other ingredients.
   Differences:
         Apples, when ripe, are red, green, or yellow.
         Oranges, when ripe, are orange.
        Apples grow in wider range of climate.
        The fruit of the orange is sectioned.

  There, that wasn't so hard.  You will find that, deep down, all fruits are pretty much alike, regardless of the color of their skin.
    

       

Childish Logic

    When I was 10 years old, I answered for myself the question of whether dogs could go to heaven.   The answer seemed clear to me:  Yes, my dog would be with me in heaven because heaven is the place where you would be completely happy, and I knew I couldn't ever be happy without my dog. Ergo, dogs would be in heaven.
      I just read that Pope Francis said animals are God's creatures, and there is a place for them in Paradise.  I'll have to look up how many Popes there were before one of them agreed with me.  Instead of being  a source of comfort, though, the Pope's words made me cry because I no longer believe that.  I'd love to think that I would re-unite with Lassie, and it would be wonderful to hear Cosmo's "talking" in the morning, and writhing with joy when the boys returned home from college.  But then I think of the vast numbers of cows and chickens, birds, and fish and insects, and I lose hope.

Duh

What the heck is a dinner spoon?

Layaway Humbug

   I get the idea of charitable contributions to the needy, especially at Christmas time.  But this Pay Your Layaway scenario seems like a really bad idea.  A well-meaning benefactor surprises someone who has been saving for an extended period of time in order to buy Christmas gifts.  And the benefactor announces that the amount for the purchases has been paid, freeing the "saved money" to be used elsewhere.  I saw one interaction where the Christmas Club member, presumably and apparently needy,  broke into tears after being told her purchases were paid for. She was filled with gratitude.  When asked, she said the amount of her Christmas purchases was $2200.  Of course she was grateful for the financial boon, but really?  Over $2,000 of hard-to-come-by money spent on Christmas presents?
        She and the others would have been better served if they had been given the gift of learning how to budget their money.  NOBODY needs to spend two grand on gifts; that is insane.   Another woman in need was  compensated for 2 (very) large-screen televisions which she said was for her family.  She didn't say whether the family lived in one house or not, but it seemed likely they did.  And since it is very likely they that they already had television sets, the super-sized models fall into the category of luxury items. 
      No wonder people are caught up in poverty, and the encouragement of a Surprise Santa only deepens the problem facing society. The message should be to wake up:  no one is going to give you stuff.   Santa Claus is a myth, so is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, President Obama.  Wait, strike that last one.

Stuff

Step aside, George Carlin, I got stuff.  I haven't gotten  to the point of renting a storage unit yet, but it would solve some of the problems caused by accumulation of stuff.  Oddly enough, I'm not really attached to most of the things that qualify as stuff.  There is a certain number of things I can't do without, a lesser number of things I don't want to do without, and the rest I don't need or want.  But I keep them hanging 'round.  And I can reliably say that most of those things I did not buy, nor did Dave.  They just happened to enter our house and stay there.  One exception would be toys; the attic is loaded with old toys, and the parts of what were once toys.  Our cellar is full of paints and tools and hardware that landed on us from many sources.
      Again, I'll say I don't want or need most of the stuff in my house, but that doesn't mean that there is no sentimental or nostalgic connection with it.  After my father-in-law died, Dave's mother tried, mostly in vain, to sort out her life, and one of her starting efforts was in the basement of their house, attempting to put her life in order from the bottom up, so to speak.   She probably felt most and least connected to him there.  He was a mechanic and a craftsman, and the basement was loaded with the tools of his trade and of his hobbies, which included woodworking. It was not her venue, strictly his, so she must have felt proximity to him while also feeling estranged from his workplace.
      She started small, and sorted what must have been hundreds, even thousands, of screws and nuts and bolts and nails and hooks and the like.  She sorted them by size and purpose, into glass jars.  Many are still in our basement.  We  didn't really have a use for them; most often if Dave needed  hardware for any type of project, he'd go to Wiley's to figure out what to get.   But what do you do with something so remindful of a woman's agonizing attempts to try to re-start a life without her partner of close to half  a century. 
     From the time she was a little child, Dorothy liked pretty things.  I was always impressed with her ability to collect those things, even when anything tangible was hard to come by in our early circumstances. She would latch on to an old perfume bottle, a tassel, a shell, or a piece of  a broken comb, and play with them in the space beneath our old round dining room table, where she would crawl onto its large curved legs beneath the fringed tablecloth.  Later, when she saw something that caught her eye, say in Macy's--a miniature jewelry armoire, a soap dish, a figurine of a polar bear--she would buy it and often bought two, one of which she would give to me.  So now I have doubles of some items, and no place to put them, not in the  bare-bones architectural style of my house. 
    I realize the time is not far off when my stuff will threaten the sanctity of  order in the homes of others.  All the stuff will be someone else's burden, no longer imbued with the vapor of memory.  I know I won't really care at that point, but my mortal coil cries out for dispensation, or maybe I mean distribution.  Kind of like ashes. 
    When I say we grew up with almost nothing, that's not much of an exaggeration.  I remember an elementary school  classmate telling me one time that she'd gotten sick in the night and had thrown up all over her top sheet.  I felt shocked, and then embarrassed, at the awareness that I didn't know what a top sheet was.  We were lucky to have a bottom sheet. When I was a freshman in college, one of the New York City girls asked to walk with me from the campus to the athletic field. The day was chilly and she remarked that she'd called her mother that morning to have her send up her winter coats.  Winter coats!  Plural!  I was wearing my coat.  Singular.  I tended to avoid her after that; she was out of my league, with multiple winter coats.
    Our family ethic was not to throw anything away that was still of use, and I guess it stuck with me. Guilt  and sentimentality are more powerful than my puny attempts at divesting.  As a means of diverting some stuff from its entry into the maw of the Dumpster, I've been turning to eBay.  I could list at least a dozen items a day for more years than I have left, and I wouldn't be half way through  the contents of my house.  Moreover, only about 2% of my items sell, even at rock-bottom prices.  Who am I fooling anyway?  There's little market for jars of old nails, or even new holiday-themed mugs.

Engarde

Fear the face of the giant panda.

John Le Fever Editorial

                                         I Never Called Him Herman

     Sunday night, under a bright half-moon, I drove back up Route 28 after paying my last respects to Herman Schroder. 
      I never called him Herman.  It would have been something like calling my grandfather Ralph.  Most people, I think, have  a "second home" when they're growing up, and "Mr. and Mrs. Schroder" were in charge of mine. 
     It was a modest frame house  tucked among other frame houses on Wrentham Street.  Nothing special to look at.  Nothing special about Wrentham Street.  My memories of it are like the movies from the 30's and 40's about the kid next door. 
   Still, that was where my buddy Bill lived, and his brothers Dave and Don.  And just incidentally, their parents.  For us, at that age, parents were an unavoidable phenomenon; they came with the house, like the water pipes.  And Bill's father's name was Herman, and he called his wife Gert, and when they were around, it was always a little quieter than when they weren't. 
     Herman was a mechanic, and a good-enough one to be put in charge of a fleet of trucks at a Kingston company.  He was in charge of the fleet for as long as I can remember-----until last Friday.  He died on the job. 
     In fact, he had just gotten a broken-down truck running near Newburgh when, on the way back, he had a heart attack on the Thruway.
     Mrs. Schroder was a nurse.  And she worked as a nurse, also for as long as I can remember.  Often one of the problems with visiting Bill in the morning was that his mother had just spent the night at the hospital and was trying to get some sleep.  It was always clear to us that if we woke her up, we'd be sure to hear about it.
     In those days on Saturday morning, we didn't bother to use the phone.  We'd just go to the friend's house, stand near the back door and call, "Hey, Bill."   But if Mrs. Schroder wasn't moving around in the kitchen, "Hey, Bill" was delivered softly three or four times near a window. 
     Although we kids always knew who was in charge there, we weren't  afraid of that authority.  There was nothing to run from, unless there was a clear-cut case of criminal negligence, such as a broken window.  Then we all knew that when Herman got home, seeking peace, somebody was going to catch something that would make hell seem like a vacation.
     But the central tone of the place was a warm sense of humor, a kind of wry tolerance of the human condition.  In fact, with Herman, I had to watch out that he didn't catch me up in a joke of some kind. A bit like sending the new man out for left-handed pliers.  And not just me---the sons had to watch out even more.
     When Bill and I were 13 we caught the motor craze.  Thirteen, the age when, with three years to go before the driver's test, time ground to a halt and refused to budge.
     So with some help from Warren Hummer, a young man who had just survived 30-some missions over Germany as a B-17 belly gunner, Bill and I put together my first vehicle---a four-wheeled wobbler driven by a rebuilt Briggs and Stratton 2 1/2 horsepower engine that had gotten tired a little earlier and fallen off a garden tractor.  I paid $20 for it.
     The rig's axles were mounted on wooden four-by-fours, it had a real steering wheel, it was belt-driven with a clutch made of angle iron and a pulley, and it had a hand brake.  It also had a clumsy wooden body and it could attain speeds of up to 15 miles an hour.
    One day Herman came home from work and gave it an appraising eye.  "Pretty good,"  he said.  "But it sure won't carry both of you."  It was clear Bill and his father had to build one. 
    Herman couldn't afford to buy a motor (this was 1946).  But in his basement he had saved an old washing machine powered by a gasoline engine that could produce 1 3/4 horsepower if the weather was clear. 
     Bill complained he wouldn't be able to keep up with me. There's a large difference between 1 3/4 horsepower and 2 1/2.  Herman told him to keep his shirt on.
    Well, when they lifted it out of the basement, it was a sleek article indeed.  It was 30 pounds lighter than mine because its body consisted of three trim and springy boards of hard oak that would bend but not break.  Natural suspension, as compared to my un-natural lack of it.
     It was similar in other ways except that Herman had figured the size of the drive pulleys so that Bill's rig crept by mine at 15 1/2 miles an hour.  We used to hurtle around the armory, and I always had to keep Bill on the outside to win.
     Sunday night I said good-bye to Herman Schroder---that is, the mortal coil he left behind.  It didn't look like Herman, and since it lacked his animation, it wasn't really him at all.  He would have liked the half moon shining.
    

Artifacts of the Aged

  Not only do I have a flip phone, but I double space after periods at the end of sentences, a vestige from years past, or so I understand. 

P.S.

     I never cared for "Alice in Wonderland" either.  That serio-comic approach tends to turn me off. 

Panning Peter

   I just finished watching the live version of  "Peter Pan" and, counting Brian Williams, that makes at least two viewers who made it through the  big snore.   I admit that I never did care for the story anyway.  I think my introduction to Peter took place at my grandmother's house when Matt had brought home a Sunday newspaper which had some article in the comic section, and Helen read us the story.   I never quite understood the plot line, and even now, I'm not quite sure about the Tiger Lily character.  I probably should read the book.  
     For a live performance, the acting was okay, though I think Allison kept lapsing in and out of a British accent, the father  couldn't settle on either playing his strictness straight, or  turning his role into self parody, and I saw the dog being bribed with a treat to lure him into jumping on the father.  And  then poor Nana  was punished for it! Way back then I didn't like the dog's name either: I didn't get it.  Also, the actress who played Wendy outperformed the one playing Peter, though in that nightgown she looked pregnant.  The whole production just seemed so darn silly.  Bah, Humbug.

Keyed In At Last

      Dave drove the bad key to Rensselaer Honda today, and then drove it back home again.  He'd driven his own car, and they needed the Honda to program the key.  (The key is no longer that thing that used to be stamped out of metal.)  So he changed cars and back down he went.  This time success.  I think the "Good Will"  service must have escalated to a "Mercy Mission"  because the total charge was only $20.  Part was $8, installation $8, and tax.  Being pathetic has its good points, I guess. 

KEY

     In all the years that I've been driving, I have never lost my car key, this dating back to the era when there was one key for the ignition and another for the door.   But now I need a new key, not because it was lost, but because it is  broken.  Last week,  I inserted the  key in the ignition and went to turn it, but it went limp.  My initial thought was that something was wrong with my wrist, but it turned out that the key had bent between the metal insert and the plastic  housing of the remote.  A while ago, we  needed a duplicate key for another auto, and the cost was a whopping $135; my understanding is that  prices have increased since then.  And how do I  go about getting the  key repaired or replaced anyway?  
     I searched through the manual, determining that keys are not covered under the warranty, and I knew I had not bought the extended bumper to bumper package offered when I bought the car.  However, in an advice-seeking mission, I called the number for Customer Service, and, after admitting the aforementioned,  was referred to someone who may be able to help--Charles.  He re-took my information, went somewhere to check, and returned to tell me he "may be able to offer some assistance."   But first I would have to bring the broken key to a Honda dealer, for verification of the condition of the key.  He would then check with them and call me back the next day. 
    Bright and early the next morning, I drove the broken key to the dealership and  presented it and my story to the service rep, Jennifer.  She tightened the tiny screw, but said the key would need replacing, and she filled out a form for Honda Customer Service.  When I got home, Charles had already called, not waiting for evening, and when I returned his call, he was out of the office.  I left  a message and  he did call back, asking what happened at the dealership.   I relayed what was said and done, and he said he would call them, and let them know what he could do.   Then he would call me back to inform me, he said. 
     Today I learned from Jennifer at the dealership, that Honda will issue me a good will discount of 75% off the cost of the key.   The going price is about $165, she says, so that leaves only about $45 for me to pay.  All I need to do is surrender the broken key and pay my reduced portion.  ...This is how I spend   my time now that I don't have a job or anything to do. 
    (When I  called Customer Service, the reps there acted as if the concept of a broken key was completely new to them, asking for a description of how it broke and where.  But googling will unearth a  plethora of defunct Honda Accord keys, with descriptions of them as flimsy and prone to break.  My key was good for only 36,000 miles, so I guess a backup key may be a good idea.

A Little Ditty

Oh, yeah, life goes on,
Long after the thrill of living is gone.

How to Drug A Date

    I always thought that the drugs were slipped into the woman's drink when she wasn't looking.  But now I hear that in at least several of the cases, the perpetrator handed the woman pills, with no explanation as to why, and the woman took them, evidently without question, then woke up in a fog to an appalling scenario.  He must be thinking if only the pills were secreted, or if they were a tad stronger.....
     I can't help but be reminded of the long-ago time, during the single years, when a friend and I would go out, usually on Friday nights, and mostly to our regular, familiar nightspots.  One evening, after  some event, probably somebody's  graduation or such, we were dressed up more than usual, and so decided to go to a "more sophisticated," or so we thought, venue.  I think it was the Airport Inn, and since  lodging was associated with the bar, a location for a faster crowd. 
     The night we chose to go there was during a sales convention of some type, and the bar and restaurant area was filled with out of town sales representatives, all men as I recall.  As usual, though even the thought is foreign to me now, drinks were sent to our  table.  We never sat at the bar.  The drinks were followed by  two young men, though as we were in our twenties and they probably in their thirties, they didn't strike us as young then.  We  had our drinks and sat and talked for a while.  After a time, one of the men asked my friend to dance.  My companion took this opportunity to tell me that my friend would be going to her dance partner's room.  I assured him she wouldn't, that she would be riding  home with me, but he was adamant that she would not.  When the music ended, my friend returned to the table, and I told her what was said.   She laughed at first, but then said she was suddenly feeling really dizzy, and had only had two drinks, the second at the bar with the guy.  She believed he had "slipped her a mickey."   We threw some bills on the table, not wanting anything from them, or at least "him," and we literally ran out the door and across the parking lot to my car.  We were laughing as we ran, and I remember its  being a clear beautiful night, and feeling excited and  relieved at the same time, and just a little bit scared. 

47 Thanksgiving Turkeys

    The first was in Schaghticoke, in a Main Street apartment.  His 46 successors roasted in Valley Falls, in two different ovens.  The smallest was about 19 lbs, the largest almost 23, and this year's just under 22 lbs., a weight which fits comfortably (from the non-turkey viewpoint anyway) into the larger of 2 blue granite roasting pans.  I don't remember why I have 2; probably both were gifts.  Ma may have given me hers when I started cooking the Thanksgiving turkey for her house, but I seem to recall she had a big old stainless steel roasting pan.  Dave could have brought home the larger pan after we'd had some difficulty squeezing an early bird into the smaller pan.  It used to be a concerted effort for us to get the bird into the oven, but no longer.  I have found it easier to work alone, though I need help the night before when someone else has to hold down the handles of the lifter cooking rack, a wonderful convenience which Dorothy gave me some years ago. 
    The turkey went into the oven at 6:44 this morning, 21.8 lbs of fresh Premium Butterball Young Tom Turkey, raised without hormones and with no artificial ingredients.  According to my old Better Homes cookbook, it will be done in about 6 hours, but the Butterball enclosure says 4 and 1/2.  I usually opt for the longer time ,out of guilt, because I always stuff the bird, though all the advice-givers say not to.  As far as I know, no one has ever got sick from the stuffed turkeys I have cooked; I hope this year is the same. 
    I just read the headline of a post where some football personage is planning to serve tofu or something to his family because of what his children had seen on TV.  Yeah, maybe.  It's better not to think about some things too much.  I just saw a re-run of Mike Rowe's "Dirty Jobs," where he artificially inseminated turkeys and he made the same vow.  No more turkey for him, he said.  When my first two kids were tots, and television shows significant to them, they watched some show about a turkey and his harrowing escape from his Thanksgiving destiny.  A cartoon, I recall, but realistically done.  They both started crying, and pleaded that for Thanksgiving that year, we get a turkey "that was already dead."  And so we did.

Bill who?

    I haven't been following the story very closely, but am subject to the media blitz surrounding it. I don't much care because everything happened so long ago, including Cosby's celebrity.  In view of today's climate, who cares any longer who slept with who anyway.  Oh, of course, it's the pills and the lack of consent.  I just saw one faded beauty who described what happened. She, a nubile young thing, was in his room and Cosby presented her with 2 large white pills and told her to take them.  She did, apparently without question, and the next thing she remembered was waking to find Cosby having sex with her. And she didn't even enjoy it.  She admitted to the interviewer that she called Cosby later and went out with him again.  The interviewer asked if she had intercourse with him again and her answer was "Probably," but she didn't remember. 
    Most of the aging accusers are younger than Cosby, who, as most successful men, prefer the bounty of youth.  Now, as the ladies struggle to hang onto their looks, they view Cosby as old and unattractive and wonder how they could have wanted him, though actually he wasn't bad looking way back then.  But he is wealthy and they are not, and it's been a long time since they were sought after.  Humans are fallible, and many of them, male and female, are just plain pigs.

Fog Line

New term to me, but okay, I get it.

Rust Thou Art

     We had our fuel oil tank replaced last year.  It was old, original with the house, but it looked to be in fine shape, from the outside anyway.  But sophisticated diagnostic devices detected unseen rust on the inside of the tank.  I didn't understand how a vessel containing oil would rust, seemed counterintuitive to me.  The technician explained that heating oil contains some water, which condenses at the top of the tank and subsequently rusts.  We'd had the bladder water tank serving the main water pump replaced several years before, for much the same reason. So we're not in denial about  the power of rust.
     Last night we ran out of water, in the midst of a bathtub fill, suddenly and inexplicably.  No water anywhere, not in the bathroom or the kitchen.  I went into the basement and checked the circuit breakers; they were all in the correct "on" position. I flipped the switch on the water pump, to no avail.  What to do at this time of night?  Who to call---a plumber, electrician, well-driller, real estate agent?  I chose the obvious, and called Joe T., whose response time was well within the limits of  emergency responder.  He suspects the water pump needs replacing.  It is evidently not really old, but is visibly rusted.  As he was leaving through the front door, our outside light failed and, I, as has become my custom, reached up and tapped it to turn it back on.  Joe checked, said the bulb was loose, and the cap-screws holding the globe were rusted, making it hard to remove and tighten the bulb.  But he overcame the rust and Lo! There is light. 
   So I sit here this morning, parched and dry, and waiting for water, and pondering the  effects of rust:   insidious, destructive rust, that eats away from the inside out.  All are subject----fuel tanks, oil tanks, water pumps, water tanks, joints of any kind including knees, the mind-----Oz never did give nothing to the tin man.
   

To Hell with the Vine

I ain't gonna do it.

Cry for ?

I found this when sorting through old papers:
    June 17, 1994
       Today I heard of a woman who had to leave her home where she had lived her life up to now.  The reason was that she couldn't stop crying.  She cried, all the time. No one could stand it.  So they sent her away, to someplace else.  I wonder what kind of place it is, where people go who can't stop crying.   Are there people there who can stand the sound of crying?  And is this place filled, crowded?  Is there room for more?  And from this place of constant sobbing, does anyone ever leave?

Resignation

     I've seen  the show, "The First 48" a few times, and all I can think of is that Dorothy would have liked watching it.  She, until the end was approaching, enjoyed crime shows.  For the 7 or 8 of the final years of her life, she would be in my house during the weekends, and on Sunday evening she would watch CSI, or whatever the show was called, while I worked on the New York Times Crossword.  She seldom cried, she said, but the hauntingly eerie theme music at the end would bring her to tears.  She said she didn't know why.  I thought I did.
   Pretty much whenever I watch TV attentively enough to find any point of interest, I find myself mentally commenting to her.  I don't address her directly, not yet anyway, but my problem in life is that everything is essentially meaningless unless I can relate it to another person, and she was my last resource in that respect.  And there is no one left to take her place.  Whenever I look in a cookbook to follow a recipe, I want to talk to her; I know I can't but I try anyway. 
   One of my deepest regrets is not going with her to one of those "mystery nights" that she mentioned she thought would be fun.  It was expensive, about $500 each for  a weekend at a Lake George hotel.  I wish, too late, that we'd gone. 

Language

Term  was gas emissions; I heard gassy missions.   When I studied French in college, I couldn't discern when one word ended and another began,  And now, English.

8 Weeks

   Today's ultrasound, at Tuft's, reveals that the newest (as far as we know) Schroder is the size of a Gummy Bear, and has a strong heartbeat.
    My initial feeling was that baby is a boy, but that could just be a historical reaction because of  the previous babies.  If a girl, Charlotte may or may not be ruled out, possibly replaced by Juliette. 

Fly away home...

 ...or wherever you go.  Authentic lady bug, or some form of beetle wannabe, we don't want you here.  You are annoying and you do stink.  If you're inside and vacuumed up, your fate is not to be returned to the wild, but to be flushed.  Fly away soon.

Word---to the Wise

  I came across some advice, a while ago, about conversation:   Don't say anything unless you think it's something of importance to the listeners.  Your words  should be about something of interest to them, not to you.  In most cases then, you would be talking about them, not you or your thoughts or ideas.  You'll know, all right, when you stray from this advice. The words you utter sink to the ground like lead, lie there, and die.   I am speechless.

Puffballs and Saddle Shoes

  Puffballs, we called them
  Not knowing, or caring to know, their scientific names.
 We found them at random, without ever looking for them.
 They lay in wait, full and round and ripe,
  Waiting for detonation.

 We stomped them with our saddle shoes, or barefooted
  In the hot summer days.
  But no matter how hard we stomped,
 The results were always the same---
 No pop, no explosion:
 Just a quiet release of brown dust,
 Spores, we later learned.

 In the indolence of childhood, 
When everything remained  the same forever,
We knew what would happen, knew its unimportance,
But still we stomped.
Our saddle shoes bore the mute testament of dust.

Our vague, unspoken hope for something bigger
Waned, in time, and we no longer stomped.
Our childhood pursuits teetered at the brink of change,
And followed, all unknowing, the trail of an earlier dust.

Metaphorically Speaking...

  Some may not give a tinker's damn, but I don't give a fiddler's f**k.

Apples to Apples Ad Infinitum

    Today I am feeling the same way I did when I handed  in a college term paper:  immensely relieved.  I just made an apple crisp using the last of the apples I'd bought.  I probably always thought so, but preparing anything with apples now strikes me as a major chore.  I stand in front of the kitchen sink, with apples, bowl, specialty peeler, apple corer device,  paring knife and  plastic bag for the peels and cores.   I peel and core  away, and when I think I must be nearing the end of the supply of apples, I look over  and see there are still 5 left.  I've only done 2.  It seems like forever, as if they'll never be done. 
     I may bake 5 or 6 pies for Thanksgiving dinner each year, but I have never baked an apple pie for that day, and have no plans to ever do so.   Baking an apple pie is a reason in itself to declare a holiday.

Joint Procedure

     Liz Bishop's health interview today was with orthopedic expert Tim Bartos from Baptist Surgery and Rehabilitation Center.  The subject was knees and what to do about them, including total knee replacement. The preface to the talk was the usual caveat that knee replacement is either a success or a nightmare.  He said that recovery time is from 3 months to 1 year.  My TKR will be 3 months old later this week; I seem to be ahead of the pack, due to the miracle-worker surgeon, I guess. 

Costume Shock

    During the family Skype session a few days ago, the conversation turned to Halloween.  Annabel said she wanted to be a witch, a good witch, by the way. She thought her brother Theo should be a bat.  Papa volunteered he would be a pirate.  No one asked me.  I went into the bedroom and slipped into an actual costume.  I don't think I have ever worn a real costume in my entire life, but I happened to have in the house a cast-off left over from Marilyn's annual scholastic theme event, the year of the cartoon characters:   an adult sized, all -encompassing Tweety Bird with orange feet and big round canary head.  I walked into the Skype viewing area where Annabel was watching.  The instant she saw me, she froze  in mid-conversation.  Her eyes got big and she exclaimed (and  that is the right word)------"Oh, MY goodness!!"          O, the horror, I hope she's not marred for life.

Words of the day

     I see it coming, sense its arrival, await the saturation point.   "It's everything."   Who started it, I don't know, but it's all over the place.  Maybe it will be the next big thing when contestants on "American Idol,"  "The Voice,"  and various other contests are asked what winning would mean to them.  Something must be destined to replace,   "It would mean the world."    So many words, so few pertinent clichés.

What Is Your Emergency?

    Sleepless last night, I came across a show with a title something like this.  The show played actual conversations of people making absurd calls to  9-1-1.   One woman complained that a patrol car was following her and wanting her to pull over, a man said he was bothered by flies in the house, a woman said a dog was digging in her driveway, a man called because his wife had her jacket zipper stuck----foolish calls, all.  But one caller had a genuine emergency, in my opinion.  He called to say he was in a restaurant and had found a Band-aid in his soup.

Shape Shifter

  It happened several months ago.  The makers of margarine (or vegetable oil spread) changed their packaging from the familiar round container to a square container.   Several brands did so at the same time.  I wonder why.  There's not a lot of difference except the lids were easier to get off the round shaped tub.  Sometimes you have to lift the square lid in 2 separate areas.  It must have been costly to make the switch, and to what end is beyond me.  Change is inevitable, even in the world of Omega Fatty Acids. 

Obama! Care!

  A ''friend" of a "friend" is complaining and cussing out the hospital staff because she's in the E.R. and told them she's hungry, and they ignored her.   What is the world coming to?

Gone, Girl!

     I've heard favorable reviews of the movie, "Gone Girl," thought I might like to see it when it came out, and so when one of the morning talk shows announced they were going to air a clip, I was interested in watching it.  I did so, and now I'm not sure.
   The TV hosts and one of the stars of the movie engaged in considerable conversation  leading up to the actual clip, and I could understand every word they said.  Then the clip aired, featuring  dialog between two of the actors, and I might as well have gone deaf.  If I said I couldn't understand a word that was uttered, that might be an overstatement, but if I said I couldn't understand 90% of the dialog, that would be dead-on accurate.
      No doubt, I have incurred some hearing loss, but why it demonstrates itself only selectively I don't comprehend.  It must be the acoustics in the recording studio, but when actors do what actors do, and pretend to talk only to each other, that's precisely how it comes across to me--as if I'm not in on the conversation.  I know this is not specific just to me, because in the theater, viewers are constantly asking, "What  did he say?"   Not all who ask are of a certain age, either, but because I am, I make a concerted effort not to ask that question, and most of the time what is said is not that important anyway.  Maybe I'll just read the book.

Heads Will Roll

   After the series of atrocious blunders, you knew Secret Service Director Julia Pierson was toast.  She had to go.  Maybe she was the most clueless director ever, but what about the agents themselves?  Did whoever hire them assess their basic IQ's?  Even if your Director is inadequate, should a Secret Service Agent need someone to tell him that he needs to stop a fence jumper as  soon as possible. A basic rule for any security guard is exactly that----guard what you're hired to do.  That training should take about an hour at most:  "Do not let any unauthorized individual into the area that you're supposed to protect."   And if the President of the United States, a man who has been threatened many times, enters an elevator, at least install a metal detector.   Security for concerts and public buildings have figured that out.  We quake when the President travels out of the country or even makes a public appearance in this country, but he and his family should at least feel safe in their home. 
    If I were Director, the first thing I would have done was fire the oafs who let an intruder run past them---AFTER climbing a fence.  And, assuming there are security cameras, as there are in most grocery stores, I would get rid of the people who should have been observing.  And if Agents are too out of shape to run the guy down, hire those who are fit.  And if they are too timid to use their guns on a potential assassin, provide them with Tasers, which ordinary cops seem to have no problem using, even on those already in custody.  And just imagine what would happen if the intruder ran onto a football field.
    I was in an Amtrak station in Baltimore, and the alleged security consisted of four fat guys, with guns.  I saw them early in the morning all gathered at the main desk, backs to the front door, chatting with the woman behind the desk.  Someone could have walked  in and wiped out all of them before they even turned around.   That's the thing:   Surprise attacks are never announced.

Squash this.

   I think whoever made off with 250 acorn squash designated for a food pantry in Berkshire County was doing the needy a favor.    Who wants to deal with preparing squash?  You need a really sharp knife and a lot of determination, and then what do you get out of it but squash? 

Through a haze, darkly

   So Miss America is accused of severe sorority hazing.  And people are surprised?  After enduring the torture she inflicted on a viewing public?  I'd say combining "Happy" with a red Solo cup is at least as bad as an all-nighter of crafting. 

The Peripatetic Geriatric

    The Today Show's resident doctor appeared today in order to refute Dr. Emmanuel's article on wanting to die at 75.  The Today Show doctor,whose name I don't know, said he disagreed, that people are living, longer, healthier lives nowadays, no need to pack it in at 75. To illustrate his point, he cited a case of someone he'd just encountered, a man hale and healthy at the age of 92.  I was amazed---that guy sure does get around.  I know he's been at the office of the ophthalmologist I go to.  Last year, he underwent a  full joint replacement at the hands of the orthopedist who operated on me.  And his female counterpart outlived all pessimistic projections and survived way past the metastatic cancer time line.  Let's hear it for 92!

Rule that out.

  My son has a birthday coming up in about 2 weeks.  He is notoriously difficult to choose a gift for, ever since he abandoned the Intellivision games.  He just received what he ordered for himself---a 3D Printer.  So that's out as an idea.  I don't know what he plans to print........

F.U., Maybe

   Yesterday, the tech from the vet's office called to ask how Maybe was doing.  She did have anesthesia, but no surgery.  I reported that she was doing well, and was advised to call back if there were any changes.  I had surgery at St. Peter's, and I'm still waiting  for that check-up call; it's been over 2 months now......

I know it's good, but.....

   Whenever I hear the voice, Peter Coyote's, narrating "The Roosevelts,"  I get a gnawing pang in the pit of my stomach.  I know it is a well thought out and vividly presented production, as Ken Burns' programs are, but it brings back too many memories of my childhood angst.  I used to feel physically sick when I was little and heard the news presented by Gabriel Heatter. Even though he would say, "There's good news tonight," I always thought he meant the opposite.  My father would be glued to the radio; all conversation stopped.  I never spoke of my fears; children didn't back then, at least none we knew.  I knew there was a war; unlike modern times, everyone then was conscious of it, even with  only newspapers as media coverage, along with the evening  news on the  radio.  
     I used to lie in bed at night, and if I heard the sound of an airplane, I would be sure we were going to be bombed.  We never talked about it, but there were the blackouts and the sirens, and ration stamps, and a scarcity of sugar and butter, and my father driving his old car with cardboard blocking the glow of the headlights as he carried out his duties as marshal. 
     The voices emanating from our old radio conveyed doom and gloom.  You could tell bad things were in store just by the tone of the voices.  That is where the narration of "The Roosevelts" carries me---to a place of dread and sadness.  When the death of FDR was announced, my father cried.  I had never known him to cry and I was completely dismayed, as if the world were to end.  I know there are 14 hours of the Roosevelt saga, and they will be viewed in our house.  Valid and valuable historical airings as they are, I will need to find something else to do before I plunge into complete depression or develop an ulcer.  As I write, I can hear someone playing "Taps."  It might be too late.

"Hope to Die"

    Yesterday, the mail brought my October issue of "The Atlantic."  Inside is an article titled "Why I Hope to Die at 75."   The author is Ezekiel J. Emmanuel, described as an oncologist, bioethicist, and vice provost of the University of Pennsylvania, as well as the author of a number of books. 
    He asserts, in a detailed article, that he is not advocating for 75 in order to ration health care, but to try to delineate his views for a good life.  He unearths the truth that living too long is also a loss, says that, though his family thinks he is wrong, and  that he will re-evaluate his stance as he grows older, he proclaims that he will not, that he is sure of his position, at his present age of 57. He is in good health, has just climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro with family members.  He wants to die while still in his prime, specifying that his choice is for him alone, and not as an advocate of euthanasia or physician-assisted suicide.  When he reaches the age of 75, he will not actively end his own life, but will forego any screenings or preventive tests, will have no more colonoscopies, no prostate screening at all.  He will, on reaching 75, accept only palliative care if he develops cancer. 
      The article  prompts  a valid discussion in many respects: the most salient probably being that it forces us to think about the end of our own lives, and confront deep existentialist questions about what we would want to leave as a testament to why we were here, as well as debating the eternal question as to whether our contribution warrants our consumption.
      It's hardly a new idea, though.  I remember (though he probably would not)  Lucille Ball's saying essentially the same in a television interview some years before her death, and choosing the same end date as he---75.  Her statement was met with outrage and indignation at the time, but I don't think regarded as important, because she lacked the credentials that Dr. Emmanuel owns.
    The recent photograph accompanying the article shows a man who, while appearing lean and fit, looks to me to be somewhat older than his stated age of 57.  He's smiling in the photo, and  I wonder if he will continue to endure dental cleanings and tooth maintenance when he reaches 75, or if he'll just abandon that care also.  He is pictured with his hands on his hips, and appears to have manicured nails.  When will that amenity be forfeited?  If I were in a position to do so, I might mention to him that the tips of his fingers appear to be a bit clubbed, something which may bear looking into some time over the next 18 years. 
      Overall, I find something admirable about a person willing to take any kind of controversial stance, but I think Lucille Ball's* statement was more credible than his is.  He, after all, is a professional writer, who benefits from any work that is published.  Moreover, though at the outset of his article  he firmly denies he will ever veer from his position, there is  a cop-out at the end which I see as a fatal flaw in the literary value of his thought process.  Why does he weaken the entire argument?  Possibly because of some tenets of his heritage, for in closing, he says, "I retain the right to change my mind and offer a vigorous and reasoned defense of living as long as possible."  He posits  that would mean he would still have the capacity to be creative, the lack of which would be a reason not to live any longer. 
      I would not have wanted him as my oncologist.  He makes a better writer, though of the rather cowardly, commercial sort.
    
* Lucille Ball died in 1989 at the age of 78, from an aortic aneurism.
    

The Cat Came Back

   Dave retrieved Maybe from the vet's at 5:00 p.m. today, where she had been  since 7:45 this morning, on the third day of visits this week.  In addition to the exam and medical treatments, whatever they were, she was bathed and groomed, the first time in her life.  She now has a Lion Cut, and came home with a red bandana around her neck, and red bows in the hair that remains on her head.  I think it's safe to say that if she were adorned with a single-carat diamond, they still would have turned a tidy profit.  She is supposed to return next week so they can assess the effects of the medication they've prescribed, Clavamox, which evidently has  a number of dire side effects.  We also received notice of a new program---Big Pets---so we can help control her weight, which is now a mere 13.6 lbs.  She used to be several lbs. heavier, over 17, I think, but sans all that fur......

Apple Pie Order

    Back in the day, about 7 of us would pile in my car and trek to Borden's Orchard for our annual purchase of apples, cider, and whatever other goodies appealed to us at the time. Those days are gone, but I've gone there alone a few times.  A few Sundays ago, I drove to Hand Melon, and bought a melon.  While there I spotted their apples, and saw they were priced at almost $9.00 for half a peck, the small bag.  I'm not good at knowing the price of most foods, but the last I remembered I thought the full peck was about $5.00.  So I thought I'd wait.  A few days ago, I happened to be in ShopNSave and saw they had the half peck bag of McIntosh from Borden's.  I have no desire to drive to Easton anymore, so I bought the apples there. I didn't even bother to check the price.  I read the receipt when I got home and the cost was $6.53 or $1.49 a pound.  There were 11 medium sized apples.  I'd heard this was a bountiful year for apples, and I guess for apple growers too.
      So today, I'm about to make an apple pie, and decided I hated to deal with apples.  They're way too much work:  first, you wash, then you peel, and then the hard part---slicing and coring, making sure to remove the "fingernails."  All that even before the piecrust and ingredients part, and the hour-long baking.  The last time I made an apple pie, we each ate a slice, and after a few days, I threw the rest of the cold, soggy thing away.  I can't eat raw apples, and even applesauce is a lot of work.
       What was ever so tempting about a damn apple anyway? 
   

Critters

    I'm sitting on the front steps while the sun is shining, hoping to absorb enough  RDA of Vitamin D.  If not do-able now, when I am outside every day, what might befall my paltry level when winter comes.  My eye falls on the hole in the ground, no more than 3 feet from my doorstep, where the bees had been.  The hole had been excavated by some unknown creature 2 nights in a row, ever since the hole had been sprayed with bee-killer.  It had been left open since then, for several days, and I decided to fill it in.  I felt relatively safe doing so because the upturned soil was strewn with bee corpses amidst the excavated honey combs.  I grabbed my trusty little garden spade and packed all the dirt back into the hole.  I thought I would finish by putting one of the fairly large stones, which David had placed beneath the nearby barberry bushes some years ago,  on top of the hole, to discourage any more diggings.  The first stone was too heavy, or too enmeshed in the grasses for me to extract, so I tried for a smaller stone.  As I  picked it up, a garter snake, which had evidently been seeking heat along the side of the stone, emerged in the grass.  A little startled, I waited for it to slither away, as they usually do, but this snake continued to writhe around, twisting its body into spiral after spiral.  I wondered why until I looked closer and saw that my foot was on the back part of its body.  I stepped off, and gone was the snake.

Red House

     Sometimes, in the depths of a sleepless night, when I've exhausted all conscious thoughts and virtual conversations, I see the image of a house.   The house is red, and seemingly of modest construction, with front door and windows visible from the line of sight, but is too far away to see any detail more than that.   The house is set amidst an expanse of well maintained lawn, lush in its greenness.  A long driveway, bounded on each side by white board fencing, leads to the house.  But something appears amiss.  There is not the slightest sign that anyone or anything has ever entered  that driveway.  It is covered with grass, as pristine as that surrounding the house, with not the slightest track of a vehicle or even of footsteps leading down that long road to the little red house.   I wonder if I'd seen smoke coming from the chimney.  I'll try to remember to check the next time I'm in the office. 

DNR

Yes, it's true.  We've signed off on a resuscitation order for our cat, Maybe.  She has been to the vet's twice this week, for grooming issues and a possible recurring urinary tract infection.  Initially, she was prescribed an antibiotic, but she refused any of their attempts at much-needed grooming. So the word is that she will need to be anesthesized for this to be carried out. So she had to return for shots, injections, and blood tests.  Only then will she be accepted for the grooming/clipping/shearing process.  In addition  to the cost of hundreds of dollars, there is an additional fee of $500 if we choose for them to attempt to resuscitate her if she stops breathing during the procedure.  We opted to spare her from this.  
        Coincidentally, or not,  I received my statement for my July surgery, and noted there was an additional charge for special anesthesia services applied to patients under 1 year old and over 65.   I didn't notice any DNR sign above my bed. (But then, it would have been out of sight, wouldn't it?

TV

   I didn't watch a lot of TV this summer, had a few other things to do.  Now that I have absolutely nothing on my schedule, I've been catching up with some of the shows.  I watched (sort of) The View today.  It seemed contrived and boring.  I watched Whoopie  barely tolerate Rosie Perez' s input on some major issue or other, as to whether or not to humiliate a four-year-old child in order to dissuade him from bullying.  Rosie O'D. tried to make a point using personal child-rearing experiences.  She made sense, but  in a manner  totally unrelatable to most people.  BTW, she may have lost some weight, but when she said the sales rep told her she didn't need to shop for the extra-large sizes any more, I say wait a minute: if anything is to fit her in the stomach area, it better be from the XL sizing. 
    I saw Jennifer Hudson on AGT singing with a precociously annoying twelve-year-old boy, named Quintavious.  She looks like she's gained back a considerable amount of weight, but I must say her face is absolutely beautiful. On the same show, Cindi Lauper appeared to sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" with a blonde Gwen Stefani wanna-be who for some reason was vaulted into finalist standing by the judges.  The performance was even more awkward than the Hudson/Quintavious mismatch. Cindi looked like an unfortunate blending of The Pillsbury Doughboy and a haystack.  Why wouldn't somebody clue her in; the show has hair and wardrobe, wouldn't you think. Overall, she looked like a girl who just wanted off the stage.  The blonde girl crooner ended up in second place, behind a magician.  For a show which prides itself on showcasing a variety of talent, 4 out of the 6 final acts were singers, which is hardly the makings for a  unique show.  I never thought I'd say this, but I was glad when the magician won the million.  (I would submit that the voting viewers are more swayed by Howard Stern's remarks than by any of the other judges.)
    And as for Meredith Vieira's  coming out with the sexual abuse charges----yecchh, I can't even go there.

Quotes

   His birthday is approaching in a matter of weeks.  Of course, birthdays remind me of when the kids were little and so adorable. Not that they aren't now, of course, but in a different way.  I've always found it remarkable to hear any type of opinion from a being only a few years old.  Or only a number of months old, when he told his father, "Yeah, Daddy, you're not the boss around here."   When he was 3 years old, those green parkas with the fur trim were the must-have style.  His father had one, to shovel snow, do outside winter chores, and to wear while sleigh riding and building snowmen.   I bought one each for David and Marilyn.  She willingly wore hers, as a four-year old, but David balked at his, saying "It was too sticky."  I returned it to the store and when the clerk asked the reason for return I said that the owner didn't like it, that the material was too stiff.  (I clarified the language a little.)  The clerk, looking at the Size 2 coat, said, "How old is he, that he doesn't like it??"  He had just turned 3, but I knew he really didn't want to wear it, and he had given a valid  reason why.
     An early talker, he was even younger than that when he looked up from where he was playing with his cars on the floor, and announced that he didn't like Dinah Shore because she was "too magisaw."  The meaning wasn't quite as  clear that time, but I got the gist, I think. 
     When he was 28 months old, he had the extreme misfortune to be attacked by a 140 lb. pure black  German Shepherd, and hospitalized for a number of days.  He was little, weighing only about  26 lbs., and the nurses at the hospital had put him in diapers. It was the heart of winter on  a cold day in February, and when Dorothy and Gus came to visit him, they stayed while his father and I  took a break.  Dorothy hung her black faux-fur coat on the back of a chair, and somehow this triggered a reaction from him. Dorothy said the other visitors in the 4-bed ward were spellbound when what looked to be a baby stood up in his crib and delivered, in a clear voice,  a detailed account of what had happened to him, from leaving the post office to the dog's biting him and knocking him flat on his back, while standing over him, growling and taking more bites.  He ended by saying, "It wasn't my fault." 
    When he returned home, his solution, if he were ever to be in that  situation again, was that he "would flap his wings and fly away."  

Insanity

   It's a truism that everyone is a little crazy, but I'm finding more evidence that in many, it's more than a little.  

BUG

   The bug was small, less than half an inch long, flat-sided like a sailboat, and lime green in color.  Maybe a young cicada or something like that.  It was crawling across the edge of one of the steps to the pool, probably a span of almost three feet.  Its progress was slow and painstaking; it moved almost as if it were limping. It must have had 6 legs, in order to qualify as an insect, but I could see only 4.  Maybe the others hadn't developed yet, or were concealed beneath its body, which was slightly higher than it was long.  In any case, it took a long time for the bug to crawl from one end of the step to the other.  When it reached the end, it stopped for a while, then turned around and proceeded to retrace its path, all the way back to where it was when I first saw it.  It rested there for a short time, and then turned and started its trip all over again.
      The bug was solitary, no other in sight.  I wondered what it was doing, what it was looking for, all by itself traversing back and forth for what purpose.   Then I remembered why I was sitting there on the steps of the deck, observing the activity of a little bug.  I had finished ten counts of walking up and down the 5 steps as a form of rehab therapy, now that I'm left to my own devices. I had sat to rest after my solitary session of activity.  To any observer, my activity would have appeared much the same as that of the bug.  Only difference------no one was watching me.

A Loss for Words

  Although I've used many words in my lifetime, there must be thousands of familiar words I've never written, except maybe on a spelling test, such as "sombrero"  and "notwithstanding."   Sigh! So many words, so little time....

Annex to Nothing

   When I have nothing else to do to entertain myself, a  frequent occurrence, I open up some of the inane advice or information passages on the internet.  Usually the words  of wisdom or nuggets of knowledge are numbered:   The Ten Items Lurking in Your Refrigerator Waiting to Kill You, The Seven Things You Should Never Say to Your Spouse, Twenty Film Stars Who've Ruined Their Looks, The Twelve Best Dogs to Own if You Live in the Suburbs, or the City, or the Ghetto, Fourteen Foods to Avoid Eating if You Want to Lose Weight.   
   I'm not interested in reading the articles per se, but go to the end, to the "Comments."   Evidently, the world is made up of a great many people who are frustrated editors or else  fancy themselves critics of the highest order. The haters come out in full force, armed to the teeth.  Minor grammatical or language usage faults are picked up on in the most vitriolic manner. Flaws in thinking or lack of proof of theories are broken down and torn apart. Simon Cowell would pale before them.  I wonder how many there are who read so assiduously just so they can ridicule the writers.  I notice that so-called "helpful" articles on the AARP site are almost universally subjected to a barrage of critiques.  I suspect that many, many elderly people feel bitter and unappreciated, and envious of the position of others, not to mention defensive of their status, and otherwise voiceless

Just say "Why?"

    I know there is a brand of bakery products called "Bimbo,"  associated with Sara Lee, I believe.  And I would suspect of Hispanic roots, but really?

Words to Drive By

 My sole passenger is six years old and strapped into his child car seat in the rear seat of my car.  As I start to back out of my driveway onto the highway, I see him in my rearview mirror craning his neck to check the traffic and hear him say in a confident tone, as if he's done so many times before, "Okay, you're good."  I catch myself, look for myself:  he's right, nothing is coming.  But you can't do that, can you, rely on a six-year-old's assessment of traffic flow?

Running with Scissors

   Today the boys and their mother were running around with scissors, clipping wildflowers and assorted foliage. Their Fair entries for the Garden Department were due:  a hanging spider plant, a vase of wildflowers, a miniature log cabin arrangement, and an entry in the Unusual Container Dept., the container being a Lego-eater. 
    Cookies were entered yesterday:  oatmeal, chocolate chip, chocolate, sugar, snickerdoodles, peanut butter, molasses, and butter cookies.  All seem contenders for prizes, except the butter cookies would not roll out, and so were dropped on the cookie sheet like the rest of the cookies.  It doesn't seem butter cookies are meant to be treated this way, because they reciprocated by turning into solid blobs of dough, even baked.  Pity the judges, but occupational hazards exist in all areas. 
    P.S.  All 8 of the cookies received some award, most a first or second place.  Several were entered in 2 age divisions, where they received firsts in one category and second in the other.  The butter cookies were entered in both the under 12 and over 12 categories,   They received blue ribbons in each division.  I thought they were really bad, had considered throwing them out before entering them, when Ben valiantly tried to roll them out, but had to abandon that idea as they were way too  sticky.  But since I'd already paid the entry fee entered them anyway, hoping the judges wouldn't poke too much fun at them.  We ate every one of the cookies baked from the leftover cookie dough, except I did toss the butter cookies out the window. 

Sweet Memory

   On August 24, 2014, 2:00 P.M., Theodore Ronald David Schroder was baptized at St. Mary's Church in Holliston, Massachusetts.  Godparents were Nikola Smy and Daniel Schroder, in whose absence Dave Schroder Sr. acted as proxy.  The ceremony was lovely and enjoyed by all, but I couldn't help but think how happy, and yes, relieved, Theo's maternal great grandmother would have been, and indeed, I hope is, in another plane of being.  I say she would have been relieved because Theo was eight months old, not the eight days she would have preferred.  Hers was the time when the belief was that unbaptized babies who died were consigned to Limbo, not Heaven, so the idea was to baptize as early as possible.  Back in the day, infant deaths were frequent, and  therefore the reason for haste. 
    "David's son."    
          My mother used to collect grocery stamps, mostly S&H, I believe.  She acquired a great number of them as she cooked for a lot of people and in generous amounts.  She would redeem the stamps for merchandise, and when the grandchildren arrived, it was her pleasure to spend her stamps on items for them---youth chairs, toys, tricycles, little 2-wheeled bikes with training wheels for the very beginners.  The first five grandchildren were spaced a year apart, so hand-me-down items were usual.  Some of the outgrown items eventually disappeared, either worn out or given to another family.  But there was one item my mother did not want to part with: A red tricycle, very sturdy and in very nice condition after passing through the five stages of use.  She put it away, in the small room at the top of the stairs.  She said she was "saving it for David's son."    David was probably about nine years old at the time, and why she specified his son, I don't know.  The tricycle remained in that room until after my mother died; what became of it is lost in time, but she did anticipate the time that David would have a son.

Another NYC Cab Ride

   We're at a cab stand wanting to go to the Planetarium.  There are other people around, but we're not paying attention to them; some are farther down toward the end of the block.  A cab pulls up beside us and we  load the kids in the back, and Dave, as asked, gets in the front passenger seat.  A middle-aged man approaches, protesting that  he was waiting longer, and it should be his cab.  The driver ignores him, and Dave turns toward the driver as he closes the door.  No one wants to confront  his probably righteous indignation.  I'm watching him though, and as the driver starts to pull away, the man runs alongside the cab.  The driver and Dave don't want to deal with him, but all of a sudden I notice that the man's hand is closed in the door.  He really wanted that cab.  I yell out, that his hand is in the door.  The cabbie brakes as Dave opens the door, releasing the hand, then closes it and the cabbie takes off, leaving the man standing there, wringing his hand.   The cab driver said only, "He should know better than to approach a cab when there are people in it." 

Lesson in, Law

   The family was in NYC, taking a cab, to somewhere, I'm not sure where now.  The cab driver had David, about 10 years old, sit in the front seat with him.  Traffic was heavy, and the driver cut through some area to avoid the tie-up.  Suddenly, the loudest sound I'd ever heard, the amplified voice from a police car ordering the driver to pull over.  He did so, and was confronted by a cop angrily telling him he knew better, that it was not a through passage.  The driver, who was some "minority" but I don't recall which, agreed with the officer in a most subservient manner.  He was let go with a warning to never repeat his transgression. 
    As soon as the police car drove away, the driver turned to David, in the passenger seat, and, most likely relieved but still agitated from his brush with the law, delivered a lecture in a stern and serious tone:  "Did you hear what I said?   I said Yes, Sir, and No, Sir. That's how you talk to the police. I didn't try to explain or argue with the police.  And that's what you should do.  Remember to be polite, agree with them.  Remember that!"  

Suicide 2

   I think this is true.  If you are in the midst of mortal physical agony,  nothing else matters.  A woman in labor can not care if her house is burning down, it doesn't matter if she wins a million dollar lottery.  She is obsessed only with  finding a way to ease the terrible pain which wracks her body.  A suicidal person is likewise oblivious of  everything else in the world, including loved ones.  Everything is put aside in a desperate search for a way to end the pain of living.  Nothing else matters.  The deeply primal force that urges a newborn infant to cry out, as the only mechanism it has to assert self,  is the same force that propels one into doing whatever is necessary to assert self at the other end of the spectrum of life.  Nothing and no one can outrank the concept of self. Witness how parents love their own children more than any others; the children, as other loved ones, are an extension of self.
     We hear sirens, harbingers of potential tragedy, and our minds race as to where our loved ones are, and, once their safety is satisfied, to the hope that nothing bad has befallen anyone we know.  Our priorities are in direct proportion to their impact on our lives.  How very selfish of us.  The saying goes that you can't love another until you love yourself first.  With love or not, self is all any one of us has.  Everything else and everybody else can and will ultimately leave.  We are, each of us, alone.

The First Time Ever I Saw the Cape

      It was a long time ago, and it was summer, one of those hot summers.  I don't remember how it came about, but Barbara drove, I think it might have been her Mustang convertible, but I could be wrong. I remember riding along, carefree, with the radio playing "Hang On, Snoopy"  and perhaps, Dean Martin's "Houston."  We were there for probably a week or more, and went to several of the towns, but what I remember most was the trip to Truro, way far out on the Cape.  It seems we drove to the very end, into the dunes, until we came to a lighthouse on the edge of a cliff, pretty much deserted. It's hard to believe now, but back in the 60's, no one carried water with them, not even in their cars, no one we knew anyway.   Bottled water was yet to be invented, (except for glass quart bottles of Saratoga Vichy) , and people didn't eat and drink as often then anyhow.  Most likely, telephone service was not even available, and of course no one had ever heard of a cell phone.  Isolation was possible in those days. 
     For some reason, we decided to descend the dune, by the abandoned lighthouse, down to the ocean.  We made it down okay, and probably dipped our toes in the water, but the climb up almost killed us.  I speak for myself, but it must have been true for both of us.  The climb, for that's what it was, was long and steep,  the day was blazing hot, and we were parched.  I remember trying to gain purchase on the side of the cliff, and just grabbing a handful of sand.  There must have been a reason the place was deserted, and I think if we'd died that day our bodies could still be there.  
    Years later, on a family trip to the Cape, we decided to explore a little, and to revisit the scene of my near demise, but the road to that part of the cape was closed off, permanently I understood.

Suicide

   Being human means we all think of dying.  Our ultimate power is that we are capable of taking our own lives.  Losing the will to live afflicts most of us as we age, realizing that which used to be can not be forever.  It's a passive state of mind in  most cases, and life goes on.  Suicide prevails in some, when everything is internalized to the point where nothing  outside self matters. 
    Though a person may proclaim deep love for spouse, family, friends, that love is subsumed by self-obsession.  There is danger in looking too deeply or thinking too much.  Suicide is not a passive surrender; it is an outright act of  aggression.  While a few may successfully obliterate their existence on earth, most leave the spoils of their war for others to clean up.  Anyone who professes love for others  profanes  that avowed love by creating a grisly scene which will be for eternity etched in the minds of whoever finds what the suicide has left.

Family (Re) Union

    Trying to coordinate a family event is challenging, presently involving 5 states and 2 countries.  Everything all simultaneously interacting. The residents of Maryland will be in Maine, the New York family in Florida, the relatives traveling from Great Britain to Mass. And us, from Valley Falls to Cape Cod via Holliston.   To be resolved: the cat, the dog, and the cookie-baking for the Schaghticoke Fair, not to mention hauling the entries there, and re-scheduling appointments.  The logistics are mind-numbing, especially for one who has been pretty much in isolation at  home for the last year. 

Agitator

   I think there is nothing wrong with being an agitator.  They do a lot of good,  helping  to get rid of a lot of dirt,  straightening things out, and untangling a lot of soggy situations.  This is especially true of washing machines.  My washing machine was replaced when I was out of town.  I have paid no attention to washing machines since I bought the last one about 11 years ago.  When I looked into the new one, I was surprised to see an open chasm, no agitator rearing up in the center of the tub.  More room for clothes, I thought, a good thing, maybe.  But when I went to take the clothes from the washer, they are in lumps.  They need to be fully shaken out before going into the dryer.  The agitator was there for a reason, people.  (I guess I should read the directions, anyway.)

Six-Year-Plan

   He's 6 years old and has his future planned, some of it anyway.  He will have a child, a boy. That child will be adopted at an age beyond the baby and toddler stage because he doesn't really like very young children.  His wife will agree to this arrangement because they will have talked it over before they got married.  The adopted boy will be an only child.  That way, he says, he will not have to spend all his time and all his  money on child-raising. 

Closing Time

     It's 3:30 a.m., and I woke up a short time ago.  I remember going out on a Friday night, and regretting having to leave because it was closing time.  Did that used to be  4:00 A.M.?  After Ruthie got engaged in Hawaii, leaving her fiancé there, and she and I were teaching at HVC, we would go out every weekend, usually on Friday night.  I always drove, as she had neither a car nor a license.  We would go to different clubs or bars, the Country Grove, the OCA, Mario's, Raphael's, the Circle Inn, and a bunch of other places, but we  probably felt the most at home at Faye's in East Greenbush, so that was our usual hangout when we wanted to unwind.  We knew the owner and the bartender, and would occasionally go to breakfast with them after closing time, at Thornie's  Diner I think.  It was fun, in the most benign of ways; we were good girls, but we liked to stay out late, often arriving home with the rising sun.  One time, when driving home with morning full upon us, R.  said that if anyone asked, she was going to say we'd  had a flat tire. I agreed, though I wasn't worried about anyone asking me, but neither would I have expected anyone to believe that we'd  spent  6 or more hours having a few drinks, eating pizza, listening to music, dancing a little, and going out to breakfast with the bartenders. 
    We were never tired, possibly because we'd taken naps after work, but I don't think so in my case; I've never been one to sleep during the day, most likely because of Ma, who thought it almost sacrilegious to waste daylight.  It just turned 4:00 a.m. and I'm not tired now either, but  it's probably a good thing I don't have to drive home.
    

Recipes for Disaster

    I was looking for something that I couldn't find, out in the room attached to the kitchen: first a garage, then a playroom, later a storage room, and now a place where things go to die.  I couldn't find what I was looking for, a newspaper article about St. Peter's Hospital, and maybe that was for the better. (I'm bitter about some things.)  I came across a plastic bin containing  files and notebooks of recipes and cooking manuals.  It doesn't seem like too long ago that I put them out there, just for a while I thought at the time.  But the musty smell belied that they had been cast aside for only a brief time. 
   I'm trying to de-clutter my house, just to be fashionable of course.  I made an armful of the folders and notebooks and had the thought I should just toss them into the recycling bin, located only a few feet away.  But no, I had to look through them first, and that's where the trouble began.  I took a brown paper bag to recycle the discards.  I had no problem tossing a few sheaves of blank notebook paper, saved  to copy recipes on, I suppose, but now old and smelly. Likewise a recipe for a handwritten éclair cake.  I won't ever make that again.  Out with a Family Circle booklet of rich desserts---Bourbon Pound Cake, Black Bottom Pie, Meringue Torte.  A folder of different Cake Rolls from a 1983 Ladies Home Journal--they looked really good, but I don't roll cakes any more. I threw away a recipe for Double Duty Steamed Dessert, Fresh Grape Tart, Bear Squares, Orange-Maple Pecan Bars, a Pillsbury pamphlet on Molding Dough Cookies, and a recipe for Shrimp Salad with Oranges and Avocado, as well as Spinach Roll-Ups and Skillet Beef Stew.  I even pitched a New York Times article by William Safire on Newtonian Linguistics, very clever, I'd thought, back in 1993, when Newt Gingrich was a force to be reckoned with and which had somehow been tucked into my recipes. I even went so far as to discard a recipe for "Phil's Supremely Easy, Not-Yet-World-Famous Nesselrode Pie.  I'd heard of that kind of pie, but I'm pretty sure I never made it because I still don't know what it is.  I was making progress, slow but sure. 
     Then I hit a block.  I found a recipe for rice pudding which last winter I'd looked for and hadn't found.  It was the first thing I put aside.  With it was a recipe for bread pudding, which is akin to rice pudding, so I saved that also.  In an envelope was my collection of cheesecake recipes: I don't make cheesecake anymore, out of respect for cholesterol levels, but I have such favorable memories of the past productions I put them aside also.  Conditions rapidly deteriorated.  A thick envelope of all the decorated cake and cupcake idea that we used for Fair entries back in the day.  Better save them, I thought, for the grandkids.  They still want to do Fair  entries.  Then I realized that when they look for ideas, they log on to the internet, much easier and much more current.  There are copies of McCall's and Family Circle Magazines, marked on the front page with favorite recipes within.  I browse through them, and can't help being impressed by the number of cigarette ads showing beautiful women smoking, one woman wanting to Make Friends with Max, the Maximum 120 mm cigarette.  I'd forgotten about Doral also.  I'm getting nowhere, and then a crashing halt.  Tucked in among the recipes a drawing from a young Danny, of his Dad, probably for Father's Day. I used to put his little notes and pictures  in places where they would cheer me up as I came across them, but finding them now makes me want to kill myself.   I realize how long ago these recipes were collected, how many of them I thought I would make and never did and know now that I never will.  But still they remain in my house, reeking of the past. 

I knew I wasn't dreaming.

Some years ago in the wee hours of the morning, some weird-sex type show was on cable.  There was an organization of folks who pretended they were horse and had sex as such.  They would meet at conventions, and share their horsiness. There was a name for it, but I forget it. The video  was so graphic I couldn't believe my eyes, and even though no one else was around, I had to turn it off. It was a fantasy for sure, for some.  Now I hear about the Brony.   As I understand it, My Little Pony, and I don't want to think about what else.

Needle in A Haystack

   Maybe not literally true, but close enough.  "Have you seen my ring?" he asked, as he was getting ready to leave.  "I'm pretty sure I put it on the top corner of the desk in the bedroom.  I know I had it at J's house last night."  This didn't sound too encouraging to me, especially since I'd noticed the night before, at the restaurant, that he'd been wearing the ring on his little finger, irritating to his ring finger, he said.  He'd made a cursory, rushed search of the area where he thought he'd  left it, and came up empty.  He had to leave to catch his train, so now the search is up to me. 
    I started with the bed, stripped it of sheets and cases, ran my fingers through the bottom rail of the innerspring bracket, moved the bed out  from the wall, pulled away as best I could the old trundle bed frame still beneath  the mattress and box spring.  Nothing, despite my lying on the floor with hand vacuum and duster.  Next I attacked the bookcase headboard, removing each book to make sure the ring hadn't slipped between its pages.  No luck.
    Back to the desk, already searched, but not that thoroughly.  I took every single item off the desk and out of its cubbies with no success.  I pulled the desk out from the wall, thinking maybe it had fallen behind.  To move the desk, I had to take out from under it all my file boxes and bags that I'd used over the last 15 years in my job. A formidable task that yielded nothing.  Of course I'm thinking he lost the ring at the restaurant or somewhere outside my house.  He did not sound completely confident as to where he put it.  I start to put the stuff back, to where it's been stashed for years now, and then I have the thought that maybe I should look inside the boxes and totebags, just because I've been so thorough up to now.  I look through a few with no results, not that I'd really expected any by now.   As I looked in the largest box, the one holding folders and notebooks, I see in the corner a rounded object-----the ring!

Moon Landing

     Where was I to vividly remember the Apollo 11 moon landing?  In Waterford at the pediatrician's office for a 2-month well-baby checkup.  Infant and I were already in one of the examination rooms when Dr. Grattan came in and invited us into his office to see the extraordinary event, live as it happened.    I remember us mothers positioning our infants so they could see the TV screen.  We wanted them  to witness history in the making.  We wanted to be able to tell our children that they had borne witness.  Everything then was still so new and shiny.

I'm sorry, BUT...

I absolutely hate it when people preface their statements or opinions with these words.  Often in such non-debatable  context, as "I'm sorry, but I think equal rights should apply to all."  Or, "I'm sorry, but I don't think a person should be allowed to kick a puppy to death."   But take away these words and you'd take away about a third of Whoopie Goldberg's vocabulary.   I'm sorry, but that's just how I feel. 

Lettuce

  Some weeks ago, as noted, Blog, I found a bunch of old seed packets from 1999 to 2001, and put them in the ground, one plot for flowers and another for vegetables.  Not a single sprout.  Among the old envelopes were 2 small packets, about an inch square, probably complimentary offerings.  They were labeled BURPEE LIFELOCK.   I decided to challenge them and put them in a separate pot, outdoors of course.  Something sprouted in each, probably a growth for each seed, but I didn't know what it was at first.  Turns out it's lettuce!  I ate some this morning---kind of bitter, but it would need dressing.

Washed Away

  I finally went downstairs last night and met out new washing machine.  It's supposed to have the same capacity as our former washer.  I look inside and it seems  larger.  Much larger.  Then I realize that there is no agitator in the middle, just a large open drum.  I guess I'll have to read the manual....

July 8, 2014

   It's 1:47 in the morning, and I feel itchy.  Maybe it's the antibiotic soap or maybe it's nerves.  Nothing is the way I would have thought.

The Winter That Will Not End

   Winter started a long time ago, and I have been cold ever since.  The cold brought with it death, and sickness, and losses of all types.  It seems at times if the warmth will come to stay for a while, but it is a false hope, and soon goes away.  The song of September is already in the air, and any warmth will end as it always does, but this time with a difference somehow.

Big Gulp

     There are about 8 people in the waiting room when I enter.  All but one are at least of "that certain age,"  and the one who is not is a health aide, accompanying a wheelchair-bound patient.  All but 2 of the patients are what I would consider grossly overweight.  By that I mean I can, in comparison,  exclude myself from that category.  All the women, except the aide, are mobility impaired to some degree, and again I exclude myself from that category also, being without cane or wheelchair or noticeable affliction (or so I like to think.)  
    I ponder the age old chicken or egg question.  Could Mayor Bloomberg be right and we should ban those large sugary drinks?  Has obesity contributed to or caused these people's physical disabilities, or are they overweight because they can not move their bodies around freely?  No one is eating or drinking anything; office policy prohibits that, but no one looks as if  it's been very long since their last meal either. 
   Today is the day Joey Chestnut will try to eat 70 hotdogs, without dying.  Mayor Bloomberg, stop him!

Prohibition

    A new caveat issued for candidates for surgery:  "Do NOT shave or remove hair below the neck for five days before surgery."   All in the interest of preventing infection, from self-inflicted wounds.  I guess they're unaware of  the safety record of electric razors.  For the better good, I'm sure, but.....stupid. 
      

Chairy

     It's a perfectly good office chair, the one that sits in front of the computer.  Well, I suppose perfect is too strong a word to use in describing it, because, for about the last year, the leatherette upholstery  has been flaking off, onto the floor mostly, so it's been easy to vacuum up.  But since the weather  has gotten torrid and I've taken to wearing shorts (only in the house for decency's sake),  I've had a few scary moments.  It has seemed as if the skin on the backs of my legs was peeling off, some new kind of affliction.  As it turned out, the peeling skin was pieces of the leatherette that had adhered to my legs.  The clue was that the flaking skin was dark brown.