Crime Doesn't Pay

    Yesterday we received an official-looking letter from New York State Department of Taxation and Finance.  That can't be good news, I thought, as with trembling hands I slit open the envelope.  My fears were confirmed.  It was for taxes due.  For the tax year 2012.  That was the year I had to file and claim for an estate as well as ourselves.  I did my best, but the IRS found I owed slightly more than I'd paid. I didn't even try to figure out where the discrepancy was, just paid the additional amount, no problem.
   But the New York State Taxation Department never rests and is not to be denied.  They received notification that the IRS had adjusted our 2012 return, thereby affecting the amount we owe to NYS.  Therefore, they recomputed our NY tax to include the federal changes.  The Tax amount of the adjusted amount owed is $40.00 + $8.99 Interest.
   Our choices are to pay, which speaks for itself;  to disagree, for which there is a form and which must happen by Jan. 18, or else subject to collection actions; or to not respond, which will result in additional interest and additional penalties.
    Since the letter points out that there is no time limit when NYS may send a bill for additional tax in such cases, I think we'll just go ahead and pay.  We have until January 16, so I'm confident I can come up with the $48.99 by then.

Childhood Connection

A poem by Naomi Nye, found while looking through my child's Baby Book:
        "Supple Cord"
   My brother, in his small white bed,
   held one end.
   I tugged the other
   to signal I was still awake.
  We could have spoken,
  could have sung
  to one another.
  We were in the same room
   for five years,
   but the soft cord
   with its little frayed ends
   connected us
   in the dark,
   gave comfort
   even if we  had been bickering
  all day.
  When he fell asleep first
  and his end of the cord
 dropped to the floor,
I missed him terribly,
though I could hear his even breath
and we had such long and separate lives
ahead.

Season in the Sun

    I just came in from raking the yard, the area where the peonies are.  The irises look as if they want to grow, and the daffodils have sprouted up an inch or so. And the red peony shoots, which typically wait awhile, are also making an appearance.  I hope they recover from the inevitable.  Meanwhile, I think I'll have minimal raking to do this spring---will anyone want to go shopping?  Lunch?

The Chip----Ahoy.

     I know it's for our own good, and maybe it's effective, but that chip which is now installed on our credit cards can be problematic.  At Stewart's, it would not accept my card with chip at the gas pump so I couldn't pay outside.  At some registers,you must swipe your card first and then the section with the chip.  At other registers, you  need to insert  only the chip section.  But worst of all is the dialog that goes along with the credit card chip.  If you've paid this way, you know what I mean.  Innuendo, double entendre.  (I know I'm not the only one.)

That Sinking Feeling

    I hate to make mistakes, especially those that cannot remain concealed.  Recently, I sold an item on eBay, an item that had been relisted.  I could not find it. Because of large objects having been delivered to my house, things have  been packed and moved and redistributed all over the place. Anyway, I searched for 2 days trying to find a certain book.  To no avail.
    My first inclination is to avoid the computer where the issue lies. Though it demands some action on my part,  I don't want to face it.  I evaluate my feelings---that I am disorganized, incompetent, stupid, clumsy, careless, embarrassed, incapable.
   I appreciate that this departure from the norm  is between only myself and one other person, who seems not to be very concerned. A trifle really.
   I am so grateful that I am not Steve Harvey.
     

Nothing is simple anymore...is it?

     Yesterday, on a Wednesday, after my chores and responsibilities at home were taken care of, I drove to Clifton Park to see if I could do a little shopping.  I knew it could be an aimless pursuit but thought I might find inspiration through browsing.  I walked into a few of the smaller storefront shops, but left empty-handed. Then down the sidewalk a bit to Marshall's.  It was super-crowded at mid-day in mid-week.  Giving up on inspirational purchases, I got in my car and drove to Joseph A. Banks.
    I was interested in buying a sweater.  A single sweater.  One.  The sweaters were on a shelf, front and center of the store.  I know the store is rather pricey; the pricetag says  $109.  That is for one sweater, but wait.  The sign on the display reads, "Buy One, Get Two Free."   The last time I saw that type of deal was at Price Chopper, and I ended up paying full price for each of two English muffins because I had picked up only 2 packages instead of the 3.
  I'm anxious to buy something, so my rare day of shopping won't be a complete waste, so I have this thought.  I'm not sure of what size sweater to buy, so if I buy two  different sizes, one should fit, and the other could be returned.  I'm not even thinking about the third sweater by now.  I don't want to do anything even borderline sneaky, so I share this strategy with the clerk, and ask what the return policy would be.  She said the refund should be one-third of the price I paid, and she would give me gift receipts.  That seems okay with me, so I say I'll take the deal--3 sweaters, 2 sizes.  As she's checking me out, she asks me if I want to enroll in their customer-some-program-or other.  I politely decline, saying maybe some other time.
    Another salesman approaches the desk.  The store is not busy at all, with only one other person there, possibly a customer, or maybe an employee. He  sees my charge of $118 being rung up on the register, and says if I spend another $25, and enroll in the program, the last purchase of the $25 will be free.  All I have to do, he tells me, is provide my name and address.  OK, I say, and give that information.  Now, what can I buy in this store for $25?  I knew the answer to that.  The helpful rep showed me to the socks display.  The lowest three-pack of socks sold for $34, but since they were on sale for $24, I would need to buy two packs to qualify for the free $25.  By now, I probably would have bought the Brooklyn Bridge, so I'll take 2 packs, I tell him.
   My 3 sweaters are on the front counter where the first rep has neatly folded them.  The second rep brings the 2 packs of socks to the same area.  While I submit my credit card (that damn erratic chip), the second rep puts my purchases into one of their large shopping bags, and slides 5 gift boxes into another of the shopping bags.
    I put the 2 large shopping bags into the trunk of my car, and I'm so exhausted when I get home, I just leave them there.  I look at my receipt.  I paid $119.38 for 3 sweaters and 6 pairs of socks.  The receipt reads, "You saved $251.60."  That's not too bad, I tell myself, even if SNL does make  fun of it. And if they don't work out as gifts, I have receipts: gift receipts and original.
    This morning, I woke up early and retrieved my purchases from the trunk of my car.  One shopping bag held the 3 sweaters and the 2 packages of socks.  The second shopping bag held the 5 gift boxes, and, at the bottom of the bag, a pair of jeans with the pricetag of $89 and a plaid shirt with pricetag of $79.  I will return  them, but not until my next trip, I'll tell them.
 

Yay!

Am getting my washer repaired!  

Turkeys and Trees

   All of what we once erroneously considered traditions have gone by the  boards over the years, the latest to succumb being the tradition associated with the Christmas Tree.  Our first tree, in our Schaghticoke apartment, was perhaps the least spectacular. I have a vivid memory of walking up the two flights of outside stairs with my mother, who was helping my pregnant self carry groceries, and showing her the tree, and thinking it was not quite as impressive as its predecessors in her living room.   It was tall, though, and full, probably a pine.  It was in the corner of our living room, and so did not display as well as the trees that followed, 46 of them, which were always in front of the living room window.  All of our trees were tall, some fuller than others, and following in the tradition of the fore running  Thanksgiving turkeys, each considered to be spectacular in its own right.  I suppose if I really tried I could locate pictures of each and every tree, though that could be a lengthy and painstaking effort.  Such pictures may or may not substantiate their claim of being the best tree ever, but each did have its moment of glory.
    But change has come to our Christmas Tree tradition, at its own inexorable pace.  We can no longer  afford to relinquish our rather limited space to accommodate a tree of any significant size.  I forced myself to to overcome my long-standing aversion to artificial trees, knowing it was based on those creations of long ago-----the ugly, malformed sprigs of green plastic adhered  to stubby brown branches, the shiny silver celluloid tree, the pink frothy one.  So I went to Lowe's and looked at their displays.  The large trees were quite beautiful, but I didn't want large.  The smaller ones were less attractive, and it was challenging to try to match the display model with the stacks of boxed-up trees.  Which was which, and what kind of stand came with each, and how tall was the tree when in the stand.  I finally picked one out and put it in my cart, a pre-lighted tree, figuring  with all that shiny brightness, how could I go wrong.  But inexplicably, as I wheeled the cart toward checkout intending to buy the tree, I swapped it out for a living Norfolk Pine which was in the front of the store next to the cashiers.
    So our 48th Christmas Tree is a three-foot-tall potted Norfolk Pine, looking as such pines do, more tropical than Christmassy.  It's front and center, in our window, with an angel on top,  but I don't know if it will ever be camera-ready.
   

Countdown

   Lingerie drawer almost empty and lingerie hamper almost full.  It's been 24 days since the Whirlpool died, and 4 more days until a reprieve.  The weather is nice so I could wend my way down to the river and pound the clothes against the rocks, or, Heaven forbid, even  wash some clothes in the sink.  But thanks to my hoarding issues, I'm confident we can last until Home Depot arrives on Wednesday.

The IRS, Green Dot and Peter Pan

   What a day!  First I give  my SSN to an IRS agent to avoid imprisonment, and then I divulge the serial number so as to reload my Green Dot Money Pak Credit  Card.   Finally Peter Pan, fresh  from filming the Geico commercial, shows up to remind me that these scams happen to people over 70, and suggests that I not answer my phone.  But these callers---they want to help me.  My mind is so torn that I'm beginning to find common ground with Donald Trump.

Dirty Laundry

     Yep, I've got some, lots of it as a matter of fact.  Ever since the Whirlpool left us way too soon.  They said I was qualified to buy a Repair +1 Warranty because the machine has not been serviced or scheduled to be so.  The cost would be $331 for 1 year.  So stupid.  Anyway, I'm down to the bottom of my underwear drawer, to the place of the low-rise briefs, so I'm anxious for next Wednesday's delivery.  Either a new washer or new underwear.

Frank's #100

   Other than connecting him to "Family Guy," which I abhor, I didn't know that  much about Seth McFarlane, but I thought he was the best vocalist  on Sinatra's birthday celebration show.

Wash Cycle and Update

     Today I drove to Clifton Commons Lane to visit the Sears Home Appliance Showroom which we had been to during our visit last spring to the neighboring Miracle Ear store.  Where Sears had once been is now a pet products store.  So I decided to go over to Boscov's to their second floor appliance area.  That has been eradicated in favor of a larger furniture display and lots and lots of beds and bedding.  So I stopped at Lowe's and looked at the washers there.
      The salesman was readily available and agreeable enough, but rather detached.  I had 2 requirements;  a washer with an agitator and without a computer.  They are getting rather hard to find.  I suspect the manufacturers, repair departments, and warranty sellers are behind the switch to computerization.  That means a lot more business.  We found what I wanted, but the capacity was less than 4 cu. ft.  And with the agitator present, it looked like it wouldn't  wash even a single basket of laundry.  I found another model, about $100 more than my first choice, but I'll consider it.
  When I got home,  I checked the price of that model against Sears.  It was exactly the same. I put the item  in my check-out cart, but the box said no free delivery to my zip code.  I asked why, and the rep said she would make that available to me because, we all know, I'm such a good customer.  However, delivery can't be until December 17.  I'm not sure I have enough underwear to go that long sans laundering.  Maybe I'll just wait to hear from Jeff the CEO...
    Dec.5-- An ad popped up in the sidebar from Home Depot, so I checked and found the same model washer for significantly less.  I ordered it online with delivery scheduled for Dec. 16.
Sun., Dec. 6--Received an email response from  Whirlpool  Customer eXperience Center inviting me to call them during business hours.  I'm up for that...

Shake It Off

   Today I mailed a letter to the Chairman and CEO of the Board of Directors, Executive Board at  Whirlpool Corporate Headquarters.  I am so confident of the outcome that tomorrow I plan to buy a new washer, hoping to find a model that has an agitator and lacks a computer.
     On my third attempt to get my 16 month old washer back into working condition, after the suggestions first to re-boot and then to re-calibrate, I was told that since those attempts failed, I would need to replace the control board in the console.  I looked up the price for the part, which is over $200.  Even if I could install it myself and avoid the repair cost, that would be over $200 spent on a washer that crapped out after not much use.  Fie on it!

That "Tower of Song"

"Well, my friends are gone, and my hair is gray
  I ache in the places where I used to play..."

Expressions from the Past

    We used to visit relatives on occasion,when we were kids. All the visits had to be on weekends, usually Sundays, as I recall.  My father worked every day, and I don't think he ever took a day off.  He did have one week of vacation time, which after a number of years built up to two weeks, so maybe some of the longer visits took place then, like to his relatives in Glens Falls and Schenectady.
    Every two weeks or so, we did drive to my mother's old homestead to visit Nanny, Helen, and Matt and to her sister's house in Melrose,  where we kids felt more comfortable. And much less frequently to my father's brother's family in Hoosick Falls.  There were kids there.
      But on the extended visits to the other relatives, we kids usually sat quietly on the couch while the adults talked.  Back then, we kids may have been greeted when we walked in, but were otherwise ignored.  We just sat in silence.  Most of the people on those visits seemed to be of a generation older than my parents, or at least my mother who always seemed young to me.
     Not that I had much interest in the conversation of these adult strangers, but there was no option but to hear what they were talking about.  I remember there were two  expressions that bothered me at the time.  I suppose they triggered a kind of depression in me, though I would have had  no idea what that meant.  I only knew I found it unsettling when the adults spoke the words.  I was thinking about this the other night and it came to me that no one says these words anymore.
      One of the terms arose when someone  would announce, in response to an  affliction or potential health crisis affecting an elderly relative, "She's beginning to fail."  It was delivered in such a resigned fashion that I would wonder why anyone would admit or accept that state of health.  Well, they don't anymore.  Just ask Medicare.
     The other expression occurred when one of the women (always the women, the men were in the kitchen or out back, speaking their own language), would  say, in reference to something bad happening to someone young, how tragic it was.  "If it happened to me, I could understand, "the woman would say, "Because I've  had my life."  I just couldn't comprehend how living people could talk as if their lives were already over.   I don't think anybody ever says that anymore either.

Musing

   Is Carson Daly starting to look like a younger brother of Tom Hanks?

Skeptical

  Two teenage girls in Cohoes were accosted by a man as they sat in the park at 8 o'clock at night.  The man gave the impression that he was a cop, and made them feel he thought they'd done something wrong.  He flashed a police ID on his phone, and then another message asking if they wanted sex.  They fled.  They described him as a man in his late 50's or so, about 5 feet, 8 inches and 150 lbs. He had salt and pepper hair, cut short. They gave details of his clothing, and sneakers, and said he had an unshaven mole between his nose and his lip.  They added that he had greenish-gray sunken eyes.
     The police are looking for him on the premise that such predators usually strike again.  I hope they find him before that happens.  I am impressed with the girls' attention to detail and their night vision as well.

"He Shook It..."

  I have the TV on all the time now, but during the daytime, I'm usually in another room, at the computer in the kitchen or downstairs setting mousetraps and coaxing my washer into action, or in and out to the car,walking to the mailbox, tending the cat-care station, etc.  So daytime television is usually background sound for me.
   I hear the guest singers on the various stations, and usually I don't pay much attention.  But on the Today Show this morning, a voice was so compelling it actually drew me in to the living room to see who it was and listen to the song.  It was Tom Jones. (We saw him once, long ago, at the Colonie Theater.)

Psycho Cycle

   My new, well fairly new, washer is on the fritz.  The button that I push to start it has been temperamental for some time, I realize, now that the one-year warranty has expired.   Sometimes I would push the button to start it, and since there is quite a delay while the computer genius it possesses would sense the volume of the load of laundry, I would be upstairs before the process even began.  When I'd go to the basement to put the clothes in the dryer, I'd find nothing had happened and would assume that either I hadn't pushed the start button firm;y enough or had forgotten altogether.  Just another brick in the wall of my self doubt.
    When the washer wouldn't start at all, I was told by Customer Service to reboot it.  So I did and it worked. Once.  So I tried rebooting again, and again, for longer and longer times with no results. Since the Whirlpool rep had said the next step would be to schedule a repair visit, I  tried another option. I went on the internet and contacted an appliance question service where you interact with a repair technician, and you pay what you think the service is worth, if you're satisfied.
    I stated my problem.  His reply was to ask me if I had recalibrated the washer.  I told him that I didn't know what that meant, and even if I did, I wouldn't know how to do it.  Here's how, he told me:
   "Rotate the knob, slowly, 2 full revolutions counterclockwise, stopping at 12.  Then slowly (1/2 second between clicks) rotate the dial 3 clicks forward, 1 click back and 1 more click back.  All lights should light up if done correctly.  Then rotate forward until only Rinse is lit and press Start.  See if it completes a calibration and try it."  And oh, the washer should be empty.
    So I removed the load of laundry and tried it, several times.  It didn't work. So I combined the calibration with  the rebooting and eventually it worked, or at least it completed the Rinse cycle  on an empty tub.  I dumped the laundry back in and tried again, pressing the start button several times before it made a struggling sound and I could hear the water slowly entering the tub.  By this time, I'd made several trips upstairs to communicate my progress to the tech.  After a while we agreed to wait and check back to find out how the process worked out and if I'm satisfied enough to pay him.
   Caught between the Rebooting and the Recalibration, I'm reluctant to ask the washer to perform.  If it does work, I don't know how to tell which procedure is effective and how often will I need to employ them?  Every time?  Dirty laundry is taking on new meaning.
   

Thanksgiving Turkey #48

    Beginning with Thanksgiving Day 1968 in our Schaghticoke apartment, I have cooked, if my count is correct, 48 Thanksgiving turkeys.  Fresh, frozen, injected, not injected, about as many different brands as there are, or were, all of them over 20 lbs., as there were many people
at the table and a few take-out dinners for homebodies.
    This year's is from Market 32---Grade A Shady Brook Farm Fresh Young Turkey weighing in at 21.28 lbs. and at $1.29 a pound costing $27.45.  I wasn't committed to buying a fresh bird as the frozen Butterballs were .99 a pound, and others .59 or less, but my shopping time was delayed by an unexpected interlude, and I didn't think a 20+ pounder would have time to thaw.
  I plan to do most of the cooking, as usual, and since I have only one stove and oven, start preparations early.  I made the cranberry sauce, so we'll have the whole berry as well as the "Canberry" sauce, the kind with the markings from the can. A certain guest used to mock that, but the year I omitted it, he asked for it.  Kids!   I baked a shell for the lemon meringue pie, which I'll fill later.
   Today I turned the oven on to bake the mincemeat and pumpkin pies.  I remembered too late that I had laid the bread out to dry for the stuffing and had put it in the oven for safekeeping.  I'll need to buy more bread.  Before I reconstituted the mincemeat mix, I read the list of ingredients I'd need and laid them out on the counter.  I hadn't recalled there being an egg in the recipe, but it has been a whole year since the last time I made a mince pie, so I added the egg to the mincemeat mix.  Then I realized the egg was for brushing on top to make a nice brown crust.  Oh, well, the egg will provide added nutrients, and the top actually got a little too brown anyway, especially around the edges, although I protected it with an aluminum crust protector that Dorothy gave me. Now I have to make room for them in the space-limited refrigerator.  And then on to chopping the celery and onions.

Same Thing

  I ordered the Beef on Weck and asked the waitress what weck means.  "Oh," she said, "That's the kind of roll they use in Boston.  All the restaurants around there have them. "  When I pointed out that the menu described the weck sandwich  as from the Buffalo area, she blithely answered, " Boston. Buffalo. Po-tay-toe.  Po-tah-toe, it's all the same."

Reboot this!

   My 16 month WHIRLPOOL washing machine is failing to start.  The warranty was for 1 year, and I did not buy the extended warranty.  I don't like the washer anyway because it lacks an agitator, which results in rolled up clumps of the washed articles.  I would gladly replace it if need be after 5 years or so.  But 14 months seem rather insulting for a new washer that hasn't seen much use for just 2 people, and no heavy use at all.
   So I called Customer Service and eventually spoke to Gary.  He suggested I REBOOT the washer.  Something about all the electricity gets stored up in there, a surfeit of technical jargon. The washer contains a computer.   "Unplug it for 20 minutes or so and try again to restart it."
    I agreed and asked what my options were if that doesn't work.  He said to call and schedule a repair service call.  I said I thought that it seemed like an awful short time for a service call.  He said, "Yes, it does."

Mouses and Houses

   Off I went a few weeks ago to Country Living Store in Mechanicville in an attempt to thwart the influx of mice into our house.  My goal was to buy some caulk to apply to the crevices in the foundation of our house.  The clerk was a man who looked and sounded a little like Jerry Van Dyke.  He was most helpful, found me some caulk and asked if I had a caulking gun. I knew we did; there are at least 3 in our basement.  I'd noticed them earlier in the year among our cache of 5 lawn sprinklers.  I bought 2 tubes or canisters of caulk; the nice man told me I could return the extra one if I didn't need it.
   I've never actually caulked anything before. Spackled, yes, but never caulked.  But I've seen it done and it looked easy--and almost fun, or at least satisfying.  I loaded the canister into the gun; I did need a little in-house advice for that, but then I was ready to go.  It was nice weather, a good day to be outside.  I'd already scraped out the old loose caulk and brushed it away with a wire brush.  I had come prepared, armed even with the metal scraper thing to smooth it out after the application.
      I pressed the nozzle of the gun into the crevice and pulled the trigger, but nothing much happened.  I tried several times, my thumb getting sore from  the pressure, and only a few drops or blobs of caulk squiggling out.  I had expected it to be kind of like toothpaste smoothly inserting itself into the space and filling it up.  Instead it was more like trying to fill a crack with crumbly cookie dough. It wasn't working and my fingers were hurting.  I stopped.
    But I didn't give up--not then.  I went back down into the basement and retrieved a second caulking gun, a newer model.  It worked a little better, but only a little--not well enough.  I came up with another plan:  I would cut open the tube of caulk  and dab the caulk into the crevices with a putty knife.  The tube turned out to be made of impenetrable steel though, so that approach didn't work either; not even  an Exacto knife could slice into the metal.
  My final strategy was to squish all the caulk out of the tube into a bucket and then spackle it into the crevices.  The weather turned cold, so that hasn't happened yet, though the possibility is there.
  Anyway, the mouse invasion seemed to have ceased.  The lone trap in the basement has seen no action the last few weeks, Maybe no longer stares under the oven door, I still see no signs of mouse presence. I'm feeling relieved.  Surely the season has ended.
   When we came home this evening, I turned on the oven to cook a small roast.  After it was in the oven about 40 minutes or so, I was checking it for  doneness when a mouse ran directly in front of my feet, across the floor from one side of the oven door to the other.  Of course I screamed(though I'm not really afraid of mice), though evidently not very loud as it never woke the cat who was sleeping on the couch.
    I feel I must take action.  I had already looked, admittedly half-heartedly, in Yankee Dollar and Rite Aid for mousetraps, and could find none.  I didn't ask because who wants to admit they have a rodent infestation.  My only recourse was to go outside and retrieve the trap I'd thrown away a few weeks ago with a mouse corpse in it,  the trap in the bag which had mysteriously been torn open and its victim's body removed.
   The trap has been outside in the rain and presumably stripped of all traces of mouse remnants but I spray it with antibacterial cleaner and dab peanut butter on the business part before nestling it on the counter behind the toaster.
   A short time ago, while I was working on the computer, I hear that familiar snap, familiar but still surprisingly loud.  It's followed by a brief spasmodic thrashing sound.  I reach into my supply of plastic grocery bags (I hope they don't do away with them) and put one bag over my hand,  slide the trap and carcass into a second bag, drop the first bag into the second, knot it and drop it into the darkness outside my front door.
 

Chip

    I was in the area today, on my way back from a medical transport, so I stopped to fill my tank at the station where I ordinarily get gas, where gas is  priced  about 13 to 15 cents a gallon lower than the gas station in our area.   It is so easy to pay at the pump, just by inserting my credit card, or so I thought.  Today I tried, and the process didn't go through.  I tried again with no success. I'd just gotten gas there last week, no problem;  I was even using the same credit card.  I tried again, and again.  Then I gave up and walked into the store, to prepay for the gas. When I told the clerk I'd been unable to pay outside, she asked if my credit card had a chip.  I said it did.  She said that only the day before, they had "updated" the system at the pumps, and it would no longer function with cards that had a chip.  So much for progress.

In Pursuit of the Trivial

   The scope of tragedy is too grievous to process.  But still we go about our daily routines, one of which is shopping for food. Ordinarily I find it to be a dull and unwelcome task, but today I almost welcomed its diversion.  I bought sugar----the stuff that comes in a paper sack, the weight of which has shrunk from five to four pounds over the years.  Some health advocates consider white sugar to be almost toxic.  Maybe that's why the bag reads, "Great for Cookies, Cakes & Brownies."  There is even a recipe on the side of the bag for Peanut Butter Chocolate Chunk Brownies.  Nutrition Facts on the side of the bag read that the sugar is Gluten-Free, and contains only 15 calories per teaspoon.  There are far worse ways to die.

Friday the 13th--so far *Update

   The Honda is at the shop for a routine inspection, but we're told it needs new rear brakes and a new battery.
  I go outside to start the Subaru, but the battery is stone cold dead, and the engine won't even turn over.
   With no transportation, we have to cancel this morning's medical appointment.  They seem understanding about the late notice.
    I had been asked to contact a certain telephone number to procure tickets for an event, but the number I was given is not in service.
    It's only a little past 10:00 a.m.
* Minor casualty-----Out of boredom, I made banana bread, before I called to see if my car was ready.  I remembered it when I got back home.  New name for it is Crispy Banana Bread.
** It was a windy day, the 13th on Friday, and because our waste collector bypassed our house this week, the garbage can was still out front, away from any shelter, tipped over, and the recyclables strewn.  Oh, well.

Say What!!

   I use coupons occasionally, mostly those for  fifty-cents or a dollar , so I don't mind it when a store's cash register spews out a couple along with my receipt.  At Rite-Aid today, I got two coupons, one for $2.00 off and one for $4.00 off.  Both were for Incontinence products.  Certainly not based on past purchases, but what?  Age?  I think I'll file a lawsuit charging  elder abuse---of the emotional type.

Operation Mouse Eyes

   In the past several months, I have accumulated enough real-life forensic experience to form a valid conclusion:  the eyes of a dead mouse look just like the eyes of a live mouse.  It is a fact that of late I have seen more of the former, and mice eyes, though sightless, gleam bright and beady.
   A mouse was caught last night, in one of those classic wooden traps,of the powerful spring-loaded type.   I can't bear to touch them.  Thank heavens for the plastic grocery bags.  I slip my hand into bag one to pick up the trap and then drop trap and attached carcass into another bag which I usually throw into the trash can behind the house.  Because it was already dark outside, I didn't want to venture around back, so I deposited the little body-bag outside the front door.  This morning, when I went outside, the bag was gone.  I searched and, while the plastic bag may have blown away in the night wind, I located the trap about twenty feet away.  The trap with nothing in it.  This particular mouse had met its doom caught right in the center of its body, firmly wedged beneath the wire of execution.  The trap was clean as a whistle.

CAMPAIGN m. e..s.s.a.g.e.....

      Because we live in a split-level (party-enrollment-wise) household,we receive political messages from both major parties.  Yesterday we got a call from Dr. Ben Carson.  But his voice was so soft, and his message so lengthy, his words were mostly unintelligible------sounded something like he had tried to stab a relative who was robbing a Popeye's because their grain supply was too old.  Or something along those lines....

To Blog A Tale

   As the narrator of the Canterbury Tales explained to the diverse travelers he'd required to tell a tale: "If a tale has meaning for you take it and use it; if not, be entertained by it on the journey."

1969 House and Hearth

   We never lived, just the two of us, in the house.  When we moved in, so long ago now, we had a weeks-old  infant in arms, so the focus was never on how to make the plain and modest structure into a home.  Whatever happened, happened as it became first home to a child and a new family. 
    The hearth fires burned brightly for a time, but time is subject to change, must change.  What once seemed  permanent became only a space in time. 

Revenge of the Manuscript, Volume 1 Issue 2

                                    The Walking Wounded
     My name is Sinclair O'Reily.  I am a freelance reporter based in Richmond, Va.  I've been following various generals from the North during the whole Civil War.  Today I visit a Union hospital ward.
    I meet a doctor named Roger Flushing.  He was born in Vermont, relatively close to my birthplace in Connecticut.  We briefly speak of the scenery and the cities of the area.
    I follow Dr. Flushing into a tent.  Inside are some of the most sickening sights I have ever seen.  Men---not men but boys: dead, dying, sick, thirsty.  The sick air of death envelops me.  I almost speak but Dr. Flushing sees my struggle and says sternly, "This is the critical tent. The worst ones are brought here." He whispers to me, "All these will die soon."
   We leave that canvas of doom and enter another tent adjacent to the last.  Inside a few pristine beds are set in the corner.  Here the sounds of moans and coughs do not invade your ear with vicious swords as in the other tent.
    Dr. Flushing tells me this is the stable ward.  I peer around and notice a few soldiers are missing limbs. Others have broken bones or large gashes.  Dr. Flushing, looking around the room, says to me "These will live; some will even go back to the field."
    We retreat from that tent and I notice that two nurses are carrying a bag filled with the wasted lot of a boy soldier.  Amidst this death, however, there is a feeling of acceptance. The soldiers in these tents know their fate, and sleep with either the sweet or sour secret buried in their brains.
    As I leave Dr. Flushing, I notice he is bleeding.  I try to tell him but he melts into a solution of people.  I begin to leave when I am startled by a voice behind me.  The voice introduces himself as Pilgrim.  "Don't bother with titles, " he says. "Makes no difference, right? I'll show you out." I vaguely nod my head in agreement.
    As we exit the camp, I say, "Geez, it's awful in there."  I don't expect any response.  I only say it to fill an awkward void of conversation.
    He stares at me through a rough face; however, his eyes do have a softness to them.  Not an innocence but an introspectiveness.  We cut through a grove of apple trees and there, almost supernaturally, stands a legion of soldiers.  Pilgrim leads me toward them.
    He says, "These are the so-called lucky ones.  You see, Mr. O'Reily, the ones back there, they know they'll die, now or later.  Here, on the battleground. it is uncertain.  Look at them.  What do you see?"
    I see five perfect lines, about one-hundred fifty deep, of perfectly still soldiers.  Their shoulders strong.  Their confidence high. I tell Pilgrim this.
     "Let me show you something."  We walk to the soldiers.  They do not notice us, not even when I bump into a rather burly one.
     Pilgrim leads me to one soldier.  "See this one?"  Pilgrim points to the man's foot.  "He has a small cut on his big toe.  He will develop gangrene  in three weeks and die."
    Pilgrim points to the next soldier.  "He will develop a mental disorder after the war.  He will jump off a bridge in a terrible fit."
  We continue down the line and every single one of the men is wounded.  Some have infections while the others are already dead on the inside.
   "Mr. O'Reily, these are what we call the walking wounded.  There are thousands, millions, of them.  Most of the walking wounded haven't even been on a battlefield.  Their battleground is your town, your school, your churches and your country."
    I stop to ponder this for a minute.
    "Why don't we heal them?" I ask.
 He answers, "The walking wounded conceal their wounds under bandages and clothing and skin."
     I want to say more, but Pilgrim cuts my voice with a nod of his head.  I walk away, not stopping until I reach the apple grove.  I see that the apples,  moments ago bright and red, are now brown and decaying.  I want to look back but I know no one is there anymore.  I slowly walk back to the camp. I'll sleep well tonight.
 

In Dreams

    Dreams seem so real when you are in their moment, but so absurd when you wake up.  Lately, what happens in the dream state is more detailed and emotionally significant than the events that happen when I'm awake. Maybe because dreams bypass age and isolation.
   We were all getting ready to leave for Kingston, some of the family already in the car.  We remembered the dog at the last minute so I went back inside to feed Cosmo.  He was very hungry, and kept trying to eat the food before I could put it in his dish, so it took a little longer than expected.  Dorothy came in from the car, and told me she felt bad about bringing up the subject of Cosmo and making Dave sad over the loss of his dog.  I tried to reassure her, as I continued to put food in his bowl, that we knew the life expectancy was only about ten years.
   Dorothy went back out to the car, and before joining them I decided to wear not a parka, but a  really nice gray wool coat.  I knew it might be a little less comfortable to travel in than my usual jacket, but I compromised by leaving another article of clothing unhooked.

Product Placement

   With all the nostalgic reminiscing about items and objects from the past "good old days,"  I've yet to hear or read of anyone's commenting on one of the most iconic products of its time, and  I don't mean the familiar packaging of Pall Mall cigarettes or Coca Cola.  I refer to the personal product that started with  the letter K.
   I used to work in Sara's store, a building attached to my house, so I have first-hand knowledge of sales in that line.  The K product was kept in a glass-fronted cabinet along the wall, on the bottom shelf, visible only to those in need;  no one had to refer to it by name; the customers, almost always women, could help themselves without the embarrassment of having to mouth the words.  At the time, the K brand pretty much owned the market, the one and only choice; the M. product surfaced a little later.
   Though ostensibly keeping a low profile, K was packaged in such a way that it silently screamed its name.  Nothing else came close to the shape and size of the box.  It was mostly blue, rectangular, about 14 inches by 10 inches by 4 inches deep would be my estimate, and contained about maybe twenty or so of the items.  Now the box itself would be signal enough, but in an attempt to maintain  discretion even further, the distinctive box would be deposited in an even more distinctive paper bag.  The bags came with the K, since the box with its unique shape would not fit in any ordinary grocery bag.
   The paper sacks or bags were made expressly for the size and shape of K.  They could not have held any other item sold in the store.  And besides, each box of K required a corresponding bag.  I can see, and even feel, that bag.  It was of quite thin, faintly striated paper, pale beige in tone, with a single seam along the bottom.  Just strong enough to hold only the box of K and almost strong enough to prevent a sharp corner of the box from poking through, which only occasionally happened.
    I think when I started to work in the store, a box of K cost 35 cents, then 39, 45, and 49 cents.  After the customer paid for their purchase, they were free to retreat in peace if it was a good day.  But some days, and remember this was often a spontaneous purchase, the unfortunate customers had to run the gauntlet----the group of pre-teen and early-teen boys swigging from soda bottles and smoking cigarettes who hung out in front of the store.  There was nothing the women customers could do other than just press forward, feigning ignorance of the testosterone-fueled comments and leers that were triggered by the sight  of a box in a bag.  That was then, in the early 50's.
 

What Lies Beneath

   I never paid too much attention to the contents of our basement. I mean in terms of the necessities, relating to heat water, electricity, and the various motors and components thereof.  For quite a few years, nothing needed much care or attention, aside from scheduling an annual furnace cleaning.
  But time does move on, and everything needed something done, not exactly all at once, but within a certain time span.  When we have replaced one of the significant elements, someone always asked who did it for us and how much did it cost. Once the bill is paid, neither of us remembers when, or who, or how much.  So I'm attempting to clarify, mostly for our own interests.
   11/08/1995  Roland J Down installed Oneida Royal Oil Furnace for $1, 985.00
   11/11/1999  Classic Construction--Install basement windows, door     $1, 025
   *12/21/2005  Wiley Bros.--Water Tank                                                $   318.09
   12/15/2013  Gene Barton----275 Gallon Fuel Tank, pipes, etc.          $1, 565.56
   11/21/2014 Jay Speanburgh--McDonald Submersible Pump, etc.      $1, 626.60
  *3/30/2015  Mike O'Brien---Bradford White 50 gal. Hot Water Tank $   975.00

Other:
      Exterior:
       8/12/2003   Drain Care Septic & Sewer Service                       $273.33                
       9/30/2005   Hopeck Roofing----Install 3 ft. of shingles; Drip Edge   $1900
     11/09/2005   Hopeck Roofing-----30 Year Architectural Shingles           $4950
      8/5/2006     A+ Seamless Gutters 55 ft. + 26 ft. Downspout                     $350       9/22/2006   Stan Cooper Asphalt Driveway                                             $1500
    10/19/2010   Wiley Bros.  Eaves repair Rick Boyce $64.40+325              $389
     12/05/2009  Window World, 6 Stimulus Energy Pkg.                             $1974
     11/30/2010  Window World  8 Windows                                                 $2632       8/25/2015   Phillips Home Solutions exterior door, installed                  $2585
   Interior:
      7/16/2002    Nathan Herrington, Greenwich--Tub surround               $1410.21
      2/3/2006      Benjamin's Flooring "Install owner's ceramic tile"          $513.6
      4/26/2008   Home Depot  Kitchen Countertop  (Butterrum Gr.          $549.78*                         * Materials only.  Joe T. installed        
   
 
     We have replaced our roof at least one other time, the June that Danny was taking his SATS, and we woke to the sounds of hammering. That roof didn't  last very long---shingles were by Armstrong, I remember.  
   I thought we might be finished for life (ours, that is), but looking at the dates, anything before 2006 or so needs replacing anyway.The gutters seem okay, and I hope "30-year shingles" is not just a euphemism.   *The water tank from 2005 was spewing flames and frightening the technician John Ray sent to offer us a tuneup, so that  was replaced last year, after only 10 years with us.  Seems so young to burn out---all it did was hold water.
   I can't think of anything else in the basement, but there is something down there that looks kind of sketchy, and I can't even think what it is.

NXIVM Intrigue

   I subscribe to the Albany Times Union for weekend delivery only, and for the last several months have been reading the reports investigating the events surrounding  NXIVM. Maybe because I missed some of the other reports, I am not able to form a perspective on the story.  I just don't understand it, is what I'm trying to say.  NXIVM is a secretive organization which has been investigated for the last 2 years by the State Police.  There are countless millions of dollars involved.  NXIVM is charging several of its former employees with computer trespass. Dealings extend into Canada and Mexico, at least, and there are ties to major companies, and government employees as well as representatives and massive inheritances, and child pornography, all this  amid attempts to lure women to Mexico to have them imprisoned.
     A special prosecutor has been assigned, but will not comment, according to T.U. reporter Brendan J. Lyons, who seems to  be the only one commenting on the story as far as I can determine.  It sounds like a story on the cusp of a major breakthrough.  I need to figure it out.

"Remembrance of Things Past"

   With tribute to Marcel Proust, I think it might have been the scent that triggered what occurred.  The scent in this case being a sachet, or the traces thereof.  For as is usual, when I pack away my winter clothes for what I hope is a long summer, I place an air freshener, or leftover sachet or empty perfume bottle in the drawer.  Last night was chilly so I reached into the drawer to find a warmer top to put on over my nightgown.  As I started to fall asleep, I  noticed the smell of the cloth, lightly infused with a faint odor.  I thought of getting out of bed to change my shirt, as scents do not sit well with my sinuses, but instead I fell asleep.
   Something woke me up. I awakened in the upstairs bedroom of my house, where I was sleeping alone in my old bedroom, the room  with a doorway in each of its four walls.   I heard a sound, as of someone breathing.  I needed to find where  the sound was coming from.  I got out of bed and looked into the doorway of what used to be my brother's room.  It was empty.  I stood there, realizing, and these words came to me as on a banner, tangible and real:  "THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE WHO SLEEP HERE ANYMORE."  True.  My father was gone, and my sister and brother had left, as had Uncle Joe, Aunt Helen, the Bartholomew sisters, Judy and Patty, and the kids my mother used to watch from Sunday night to  Friday evening.
   I knew my mother would be there though, so I changed direction and walked through the doorway to her room.  For a time, after my father died, and my sister had married and left, I used to suffer from some kind of night paralysis where I would wake up unable to move or to breathe.  When I was able to get my breath back, I would go to  my mother's room and climb into bed with her, and so be able to go back to sleep.
   So last night on the very verge of feeling that old night terror, I went to my mother's bedroom.  Her bed was against the wall which faced the stairway, and she was asleep. When I first entered the room, I noticed some article of clothing which was hanging on the doorknob, kind of furled up and touching the floor. It was black with a white attachment of some kind, unrecognizable to me, as it didn't seem like anything my mother would have worn.  It didn't really disturb me: it was just a slight distraction.
     I went to the side of the bed where she was asleep, preparing to climb in beside her, as I used to do.  But I hesitated because the bed seemed narrow, and I didn't want to disturb her.  And as I stood there, the bed seemed to look even narrower, too narrow to hold me I was thinking. I moved closer and could smell that same scent as of the times I  crawled in with her.  I used to refer to it as a peppery smell.  It came to me, just before I woke up in my own bedroom, that the scent from my dream was the same as that from my nightshirt.
 

The Chicken Challenge

    Day 3 and what's for supper is beef stew.  Yesterday was haddock and Monday was spaghetti and sausage.  I'm not a big fan of spaghetti and I dislike fish, but beef stew is okay, as long as it is topped with dumplings.  Tomorrow, I don't know.  Maybe meatloaf, kind of blah as that is.
     I'm trying to go a week without having chicken on the menu.  I like chicken and usually cook it multiple times a week, maybe too often now that there are only 2 of us eating it.  Last week I bought a nice roaster chicken, and we ate it 3 days in a row, and then I froze what was left, an entire half breast. Chicken overdose, at least for me.
    I guess we could have pizza on Friday, but that doesn't thrill me much. This time of year, cooking is boring and for that matter so is eating. What to do...
   Update:  Spaghetti, fish, beef stew, then leftover beef stew, then pizza, followed by hamburgers, and today, Sunday was to be roast pork.  But we went to the Olive Garden, and partook of the offerings from their exotic menu.  Tomorrow, Columbus Day, should be the roast pork.  So there we have it--a chicken-free week.

Secluded

  When I was little, our main contact with the outside world was through listening to the radio, mostly in the evening.  Whenever there was a tragedy or serious misfortune of some kind, the afflicted family was reported to be "secluded in their home."  Depending on the nature of the tragedy, police officers were often posted outside to insure the family's privacy.  For certainly no afflicted person would want to be subject to public scrutiny.  Not back then.
   I used to wonder what it was like inside the secluded house.  I pictured  a blazing fireplace in a spacious home, making it seem warm and protected from the coldness and bitterness of the horrible thing that had happened to them.  I knew the house would be filled with family members and relatives, and close family friends, all walking throughout the house, seeking each other out to offer comfort, and make them feel better.  I couldn't think what was said though. I understood they were talking, almost constant conversation I assumed, but what words did they use?   I tried to imagine being secluded in my own house, with security outside insuring our privacy, but I had no idea who in our family would do the comforting and what in the world would they say anyway?

True Dat

"Stuff happens."

Out of Balance

The Balance Test of What Is "Normal" when standing on one leg with hands on hips:
   Ages 40-49     42 seconds with eyes open, 13 seconds with eyes closed
  Ages 70-79      22 seconds with eyes open, 3 seconds with eyes closed
                             No cheating!

Rodent Control

 I stopped at Lowe's today and invested in a supply of mousetraps.  We have had no signs of mice for 10 years, when our new 4-month old kitten, Maybe, caught a mouse as it emerged from beneath the oven door.  I keep our fall decor Indian corn in a mesh bag in the basement.  During the few years when we were catless, some of the corn would be nibbled off the ears.  But for the last decade, we've been able to use the same corn.  Until this year.  One ear was completely stripped of its kernels.  Well, down in the cellar, who cares?  But the mice moved upstairs, a whole litter of them apparently.  Oddly enough, they haven't gnawed into any of the sealed cartons or boxes of food. Everything else is in the refrigerator so the only thing they've nibbled on is the tomatoes I've left to ripen on the kitchen counter.  It appears that Maybe has retired from catching mice; she only stares in the direction where she senses they are, quite accurately too.  I suspect the mice are eating her catfood at night.  Her dish is cleaned out in the morning, unusual for her.
    In the past few weeks I've collected all the unused traps from the basement, the cabinet and even in the outdoor shed.  I've challenged myself to bait and set them and even remove the little coffins from the counters after they snap, but there is no way that I can bring myself to remove the carcass from the traps, so mouse and trap goes into the garbage.  So I ran out of traps.
   Today I bought different versions of the mousetrap.  They are by TOMCAT, and one set of traps is billed as disposable and the other as reusable.  They are guaranteed to kill mice, have a one-touch set, and offer clean disposal.  They are plastic and almost attractive.  The disposable traps contain the trapped mouse after it triggers the spring, and you can throw it away without ever laying eyes on the body.  The reusable model is black plastic, and after the mouse springs the setting, you can release its body by pressing the lever on the closed, opposite end, or else throw the whole thing away.
     Right now, I have 3 traps set, baited with peanut butter.  I have a minor panic attack whenever I hear the loud snap.  I'm hoping the mice have all been eradicated, or have moved away.
      I have the thought that when Pope Francis said that there was a place in heaven for all God's creatures if that would  include mice, and if so, how will they react meeting those who killed them.  And what about termites and cockroaches?

Documentation

 I got up early this morning and the house was cold.  I wrapped myself in a blanket and turned on the TV to the early news, as usual.  The meteorologist said it was so chilly that he had turned on the heat in his house.  AHA, I thought and turned the heat on.  What a breakthrough!

And then this happened

  I had a dream that I sawed a black and white rat in half with a wooden stick.

Social Interactions

   Since mine are rare and sparse nowadays, I probably pay attention to those which I used to ignore---back in the days when I had regular contact with more or less normal human beings, who welcomed social interactions.
    I was on an outing the other day, a rare enough event, a medical visit, unfortunately not rare at all.  I had in my possession a Handicapped hangtag, fully legitimate too, from the Town of Pittstown, valid for my passenger.  On the way home, we stopped at Walmart, and I pulled into the nearest handicapped parking slot, as close to the store as possible, wanting to lessen the walking distance. As I got out of the car, a tall, white-haired woman who had parked in the aisle across from me called out that I had parked wrong.  Actually, I was in the lined part that I think is meant for lowering wheelchairs.  I started to turn back, thinking I'd move my car over a few feet, but a man approached from further down the parking lot, and told me I was fine, that I didn't have to move my car.  I'm so darned polite these days that I'd already thanked the white-haired woman for her input, and now I thanked him for his.  He then crossed over to where the woman was, and started telling her his opinion.  I didn't stop to  listen, just walked into the store.  When we came back out, my car was just as I left it, no problems.  The worst that had happened was that during the brief exchange, Dave had entered the store and zoomed off out of sight in the motorized shopping cart, and to locate him, I had to ask a clerk where the Printer Ink section was.
    Almost as exciting a conversation as when he was getting a haircut and I was reading the newspaper.  A man came in and sat next to me, and evidently glanced at the paper.  "Is Yogi Berra dead?" he asked. I answered yes, that's why everybody on TV is recalling his quotes.  He didn't watch TV, he said.  I handed him the newspaper so he could catch up.  He took it, but said he didn't read the papers either.

Another Drop in the Bucket

      Pretty soon I'll need to bring in the Spider Plants, about eleven of them, and subject the now healthy-looking plants to nine months of miserable confinement in the depths of the basement, from which they will emerge pale and emaciated next spring, if all goes as routine dictates.   In order to clear a little space, I tried to reinstate the cellar-cleaning process I began this spring.  I realize there is some market for metal, so last evening out went a number of curtain rods, large and small, two old metal shovels, a broken tool, a piece of plumbing hardware, an old badminton set with metal posts, some metal mop and broom handles and some other unidentifiable pieces.  I put them in a cardboard box on the edge of the lot.  This morning, all that is left is the box.
      A while ago, I watched an episode of "Hoarders" where the affected woman went out to the dumpster and pulled off any of the trash that was metal, insisting it should be recycled, that people were desperately poor and would willingly claim it.  She must be right.  I guess one man's trash really is...oh, you know the cliche.

Crossing the Bridge

     That sounds so symbolic.  I know all the good little doggies cross the Rainbow Bridge to their Forever Homes, but I'm referring to the Valley Falls Bridge.  And by crossing that bridge, I don't mean driving over it, but walking across it.  Time was walking across the bridge was a common occurrence for us.  We used to walk to Dwyer's Pond for ice skating, though since my sister and I didn't own skates, we must have just watched. Some years later, a younger group of kids was enroute to the pond when a child ran to the woman in the house next door crying that her daughter was "stuck on the bridge."  The mother thought that her daughter had tried to climb over the rail and under the bridge like the boys used to, but she found out that it was her daughter's tongue that was stuck to the iron railing, the result of curiosity and a dare.  She took off in her car with a teakettle of hot water, and solved that problem.
    When we were really young, I remember walking to Brackley's house with my brother.  I think his parents must have thought it a good idea, the time we were recent citizens of the Village.  The sidewalk over the bridge then had a lower and narrow curb alongside it. My fear of heights made me walk across that first day on the very narrow side curb.  I didn't want to be close to the rail of the bridge.
    Later on, the bridge was just a place to walk.  We walked kids we were babysitting over it just for another place to go.  I remember a few times we walked home from the movie theater in Schaghticoke at night, after the show, the times when we could get a ride over, but not a return trip.  During our high school years, it was a common practice for boys in cars, from neighboring vicinities, to cruise around and talk to girls through their  rolled down car windows, and the bridge was the ideal place for a confrontation of that sort.  A little exhilarating, but perfectly safe, back in those days.  No one, of us anyway, ever got IN the car, or were even asked to.  And of course we walked to the Schaghticoke Fair---nobody ever had a car, and all the fathers worked.  When Ben Geren opened a small grocery store in his home, we would occasionally shop there if Sammy's was out of a certain product.
    Some of the kids, boys naturally, used to climb over the rail of the bridge and lower themselves down onto the beams underneath where pigeons nested. What they did to those pigeons is best left unsaid.  Another boy was a springtime visitor, carrying a bag of kittens, ordered by his parents to dispose of them.  I suppose  the requisite rock was also in the bag.  I never asked or wanted to know.   One interesting thing about the old Valley Falls Bridge was the stairway.  That was a favorite adventure, a good place to occupy the walking skills of the kids we were watching; all kids loved climbing.  The all-metal stairway wound down along  the west side of the bridge for the convenience of the mill workers, and there were many who utilized it regularly.
     By the "old bridge," I mean the one built in probably the 1940's or maybe even the 30's.   The original bridge, before our time, was lower and carries a sad connotation for our family, as it was the bridge my Uncle Joe's only child, Joseph, fell from and drowned at the age of eleven.  Tragically, the boys he was playing with ran home, frightened, and hid in their bedrooms, afraid to tell what they had seen. Or so the story went, along with the speculation that they might have contributed to his fall, but that was of course a possibility that was never pursued, not in those days.
   I crossed the bridge today.  I walked across it.  I don't know how long it has been since I last did so, but it was a long time ago.  It seemed a shorter walk somehow. Probably the last time I crossed the bridge there was a sidewalk on either side, but  I had to return today on the same side I walked over on.  So I missed some of the view.  The view of the trees along the river, toward where I live, borders on the spectacular, even though this September is still green.  I don't know when my next walk across the bridge will be---we'll cross that bridge when...
 

And it's Not Even 6:00 A.M.

     When I can't sleep, as is often the case, I get up and turn on the computer, and read or write stories. Since I no longer have any deadlines to meet or any reason to be up and out early, I don't mind being sleepless, and find it rather comforting to while away my time, alone in the kitchen area. But this morning I was not quite alone. Maybe had stayed in because she'd switched her focus from staring under the oven door to peering under the dishwasher. After all these years, almost a decade, of having a mouse-free house, two mice have met their doom inside our house. I've heard if you see one mouse, that means there are a lot more, some very high number which I can't recall. A hundred, could be. So we let the cat stay in our living area.
     While at the computer, in the very early morning hours, I heard a crash. Maybe had leapt up onto the sink, and a few nearby items went flying. As I ran to the sink, Maybe jumped down. She knows she's not supposed to be there, and strictly obeys that rule, usually. I looked into the sink and saw a mouse, which, I say with shame, always makes me scream. I'm not really scared of mice. The mouse ran along the counter and out of sight. I tried to get the cat to pursue it, but she slunk away, afraid of being in trouble for being on the counter, or more accurately, in the sink.
      I hadn't had breakfast yet, usually a blueberry waffle, but the thought of using any dish or appliance that might have had mouse contact made me lose my appetite anyway. I'm not a fastidious housekeeper by any means, but rodent leavings are a different story. I grabbed the spray bottle of anti-bacterial cleaner from the counter, and a few old towels and started cleaning everything in sight. I loaded the dishwasher with everything that could go in it, including a few items that probably shouldn't. I threw away the old bread, washed the breadbox and the wall behind it.
      Then I remembered seeing a package of unused mousetraps in the storage area of the family room and retrieved them. Before settling down again at the computer, I set a mousetrap, the old fashioned kind with the lever. I may have set a few traps back in the old days, but I have to say it seemed like a new experience for me. First of all, the tension is very strong, likely to snap a little mouse right in two, I thought. I also had the thought that it was capable of severing a human finger if one were unlucky enough to land in its grip. I did incur a side-snap and a bruise on the side of my right middle finger, but no major damage. I dabbed a bit of peanut butter on the target and slid the set trap into the freshly sanitized area behind the breadbox.
      It's still early and I went back to the computer, researching some improbable fact or such. Not twenty minutes later, over the sound of the dishwasher, I heard a snap, quite a loud snap. Aha, I thought, and waited. But I did not hear the sound of silence, but of a thrashing around. Death spasms, I thought, and hoped. But no, the sounds persisted--10, 20, 30 minutes passed, and more. Not a sure hit, must be the mouse has a paw caught, or maybe two paws. I had visions of the mouse crawling out on its back legs, with bloody stumps where it had gnawed off its trapped front paws. Nothing happened. Except the sporadic thrashing sounds.
      I've got to do something. I go outside, find a large bucket, turn on the hose, half-fill it with water. I put on a pair of rubber gloves, locate and don a face mask (from a pack David sent us during some kind of epidemic). I gingerly pull aside the breadbox. I try not to look but can't help but see that the mouse is caught by its arm and shoulder. I reach in with my gloved hand, and deposit mouse and trap in the bucket of water. That should do it, I think. But no again. The wood in the trap is made of some type of light wood, balsa maybe or just a light pine. Anyway, whatever wood it is floats. And the little mouse is using it like a surf board, holding its head above water, and using its other legs to swim around.
     WHAT WOULD YOU DO NOW?

Endless Apples

    Sisyphus has nothing on me, not when I'm staring into a bowl of apples.  The more of them I peel, the more they seem to multiply.  It's not exactly rolling a boulder, but it does appear to be an endless task.

Back to What

 "It's late September and I really should be back in school."  But not really, not any more,   Though the month of September still brings with it that achy, yearning, unsettled feeling. My mother used to refer to that kind of nervous anxiety as "the new-school feeling."  She suffered from it, or rather endured it, all her life, dating back to the hardship of her school days when poverty and misfortune were considered sinful and deserving of contempt from the more fortunate.  Unlike today, right?  Anyway, this will be the third year that I haven't returned to school in some capacity.  I still get that unsettled feeling, culminating I suppose from past experience combined with nostalgia.  Possibly it would go away if only the school year started in January or April or some month not associated with the end of things.

Of Mice and .....

...well, you know.  It's that time of year in the rodent world, time to start preparing for winter. Maybe has been crouching on the kitchen floor in a hunting stance and staring under the oven door.  She's begun her second decade  now, and I don't know what's going on in her head; almost exactly ten years ago, when she was still a kitten, she caught her one and only mouse (as far as we know) as it came out from under the oven drawer.  So it could be she's reliving past dreams of her youthful glory, or else there really is a mouse presence there.
    I pulled the drawer out from under the stove, and checked.  I saw no signs of mouse infiltration, if you know what I mean.  Maybe was very interested in the area though, so I left the drawer, with its content of pans and lids, out for a while.  She kept staring, and eventually crawled into the space, and lay down there for a while. So far, nothing. I'll probably replace the drawer today.
  Earlier in the summer, I'd re-stained the outdoor shed with some leftover redwood paint from the basement, and, wanting to do something outside today while it's still nice weather, I took  the broom over to sweep off the grass and webs that had already begun to accumulate on and near the shed. I opened the doors to it, and swept inside.  A box has been in there for over four years now, filled with a few board games and a number of nicely framed pictures.  Time to deal with it, I thought, and carried the box out to the nearby picnic table.  I placed the box on top of the table and leaned over to remove  a picture, and then another.  At that, I found myself staring closeup into the eyes of an immobilized mouse.  She just sat there, inches from my face, and stared.  Until she heard a scream that is, a scream that came from some primal source within me.  Because I'm not really afraid of mice.  At that, she took off, and I saw the reason why she'd stayed in that nest of grass. Inside  it were seven little pink squirming baby newborn mice,   I just walked away and left them there.  This morning the box is still out there, on the picnic table.  What lies within, I don't know.
   Does anyone need some picture frames?  They're really nice.

Cookies

     Seven cookie entries, all first place blue ribbon winners:  sugar cookies, butter cookies, oatmeal cookies, chocolate cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies and snickerdoodles.  (The peanut butter cookies were topped with  Boston Red Sox roasted peanuts straight from Fenway.  Yesterday I was told by the gifter that the peanuts  were spoiled, but none of the food judges died, as far as I know. I think the peanuts were just a little under-roasted, so slightly chewier than the norm, not lethal at all.

Rules of the Road

That red splotchy area of gravel, by the entrance or intersection of the new bridge in Schaghticoke, what is its significance and why is it there?  The part in the raised concrete bed, I get that, but the rest of it????

Dwindling Down

"Oh, it's a long long while from May to December, but the days grow short when you reach September..."

Fair Warning

    He is a Town Justice and he has as many as fifty cases on court night. He has been judge for twenty some years and where the cases he once heard were primarily traffic offenses, now most of his cases are drug and domestic violence cases, with most of  the latter attributable to drugs.   He advises us to always keep our doors locked, and if anyone comes to the door, don't open it; if they don't go away,  go get your shotgun.

Where Are They Now?

   Prior to taking down the more than forty-year-old spruce tree last Friday, the contractor stripped its branches to find, about seventy feet up in the tree, a nest with three baby  birds in it.  He left that part of the tree until the next day, with the hope that the mother bird could somehow relocate the babies. A mourning dove appeared, once the noise and cutting activity had ceased, flying over and around the tree where the nest was, and in and out of the trees in the front of the house. The next day when the  worker climbed the tree, armed with a basket in case the birds were still there, he found them dead.
    Of necessity, the noisy work continued throughout much of the day, and the dove could be seen, and its distinctive notes heard.  When the workers finally stopped and left, the bird flew into the brush beneath the tree, and then out again.  Tonight, two days later, I still hear the sound that doves make, when they cry.  She is still looking.  I know how she feels.

Say it isn't so, Sam!

I always thought those notes played by Sam the Bugler were intoxicating.  They should recall his Bobbleheads, don't you think?

Word of the Day

Maybe a real word, maybe a made up one, but there is a lot of it going around lately-----"Humblebragging."

Better Butter Batter

   Today was Greg's turn.  I picked him up after his golf lesson, and we broke out the cookie recipe files.  Butter cookies are not as popular as many other cookies, and we needed to search through to find a viable one.  We even googled; there is a lot of variety among the recipes.  Yes, all recipes call for butter, and flour, and baking soda, but there the similarity ends.  Do we use an egg, 2 eggs, or no egg?  White sugar, or brown sugar?  Vanilla, or lemon juice, or orange juice?  A little salt, of course, unless you are sodium restricted.  Decisions were made, the batter was mixed, and the dough was contained, labeled, and put in the fridge with the other prospective entries.  We didn't turn the oven on for the taste test; it was too hot.  We're hoping for the best.  

Thje Pumpkin Capers

        Years ago, I used to plant a few pumpkin seeds out in the back, and would reap a harvest of a dozen or so pumpkins, with only a few having suffered woodchuck bites.  Then came the long dry spell, where nothing I planted seemed to flourish.  Flowers that formerly thrived failed to germinate or else dried up and withered away, even the traditional and dependable  petunias.  The grape vines twined over the old child's gym set used to supply enough purple grapes for jelly or grape juice.  But for the last ten years or so, the grapes develop normally almost to the point of ripeness, and then just as they start to turn from green to purple, dry up and fall off the vine.  I've googled possible causes, but there are no definite answers or else such a myriad of potential causes that none offers any help.  Sunflowers used to self-seed from the seeds cast off from the  bird feeders, but this year not a single one sprouted.
    This spring I invested in a package of pumpkin seeds purchased at Rite-Aid.  I was determined not to have to buy a Halloween pumpkin.  The packet contained ridiculously few seeds but I planted them with care.  Well, maybe not such great care, because I forgot where I planted each of the dozen or so seeds the packet contained.  Though I did expect I would recognize the plants when they sprouted.  And I did----3 separate plants in 3 different locations.  Three healthy looking vines with numerous yellow blossoms that should have or could have developed into the fruit of the pumpkin vine. Alas, I could count only 3 baby pumpkins.  One grew to the size of a tennis ball before it was nibbled on, by the resident chipmunk I believe, and eventually carried off.  Another, near the pool, grew a small pumpkin, whose progress I diligently tracked for a while, and then it disappeared.  So that leaves one pumpkin.  It is under  the barberry bush on the lawn in front of the house.  It is still green but has developed to a size about midway between a softball and a soccer ball.  It looks promising.  The chipmunks scurry around that area, helping themselves to the offerings from my Patio Tomato plant from time to time, but I don't think they are interested in my one and only pumpkin.  I can only hope.
   SURPRISE!   Today, I was given a pumpkin, from a most unlikely donor.  She asked me if I ever made pumpkin pie from scratch.  I said I had; I did not say I had no plans to ever do so again---canned pumpkin is fine with me.  She offered me a pumpkin a friend had given her.  She was told it was a pie pumpkin, and she didn't go that route, so she didn't want to keep it.  She even offered to carry it out to the car for me.  I carried it myself though, and it is the biggest pie pumpkin I've ever seen.  It is bright orange, weighs in at 14.5 lbs. and has a diameter of 36 inches.  I'll keep it in the coolness of our cellar and hope it lasts until it's time for it to sit on our front step to welcome the fall season.  Don't know about the from-scratch pie.
 

Recipe for Success, Cookie-wise

     We're hoping.  With August coming to an end, it's time---time to make the cookies, or the cookie dough anyway. The Schaghticoke Fair is just a few weeks away.  One of its long-time  exhibitors was in the house, and available for the first venture---sugar cookies.  The recipe we traditionally use calls for shortening, and there was none in the house.  I've pretty much switched to using margarine or olive oil in its place, wanting to avoid the dread animal fats.    But I didn't want to chance having the cookies be too oily or too flat, so I searched for another recipe.  The best I could do was a recipe which called for half a cup of butter and half a cup of shortening, and we decided to use margarine in place of the shortening.
      The recipe is called "Crisp Sugar Drop Cookies."  The biggest challenge was trying to grate lemon rind, a new venture for the entrant, especially since he had to use a cheese grater, and the lemon had an especially firm rind, or so it seemed.  The recipe also called for 2 tablespoonfuls of vinegar, but since he had already attacked a lemon, we used lemon juice instead.  All the other steps went well, and we test-baked half a dozen cookies before storing the rest of the dough in the refrigerator.  The cookies passed the taste test with flying colors, first place for sure, the 3 of us in the house decided, or maybe that decision was only mine.
    I took another look at the recipe booklet, which had been stored in my cookie recipe file, and most likely never used.  Time was when I fully expected to use every single recipe I collected, the same as when I had every expectation that someday I would have used all the recipes in my Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, a wedding gift in 1968.  I've used that book thousands of times, but actually have only explored a small percentage of its offerings.  But back to today's recipe.  The booklet is titled, "New Fashioned Old-Fashioned Recipes."  It is copyrighted 1951, and every recipe in it calls for Arm & Hammer Brand or Cow Brand Baking Soda, and also vinegar.  What? we ask.  Vinegar?  So I turn to the forward page in the little pamphlet, and find the explanation, by Martha Lee Anderson of the Home Economics Department of Church & Dwight Co., Inc. in New York, N.Y. (No zip code, not yet)
       She writes, "I think most of us have a warm spot in our memories for some special food, which, long ago, nobody could ever bake so well as Grandmother.  Chances are it was Baking Soda which made those old-time baked goods so extra light and tender, moist and delicious.  To get them that way took real skill, because Grandmother's leavening was provided by Baking Soda and sour milk, with  its variable acidity.  Today, there's a new way of using Baking Soda, which produces fine, uniform results.  This new way calls for Baking Soda and vinegar.  Because of the fairly uniform acidity of vinegar, the use of this new method is dependable.  The vinegar releases the same amount of leavening gas from Baking Soda.  I hope you will follow the new-fashioned way to old-fashioned goodness with the recipes in this book!"  
    It's probably a safe bet to assume Martha Lee has probably long since stopped caring about whether the combination of vinegar and Baking Soda ever made its way into the annals of good cooking.  She, if ever an actual person, has provided Ben with valuable insights into chemistry as well as enhancement of  his baking skills.  Maybe someday in chemistry class he can follow up on the difference between the variable acidity of sour milk as opposed to the more uniform  acidity of  vinegar.  And maybe even gain further insight into how vinegar releases leavening gas from baking soda.  That process used to fascinate him and his brother when they were toddlers---I think they called it making a volcano back then.
  P.S. I do feel a certain amount of guilt for having substituted lemon juice,
   
   

Word of the Day

"haboob"    You could look it up.....

August 9, 2015

Three new Christians:   Madeleine, Cora, and Archimedes

Semantics--or psychosis?

   I once worked with a woman who had red hair.  She dyed it red but she said she was a real redhead because her doctor told her so.  She had fair skin and freckles.  She kept her hair the sort of burgundy tone of red, and it was quite attractive.  No one contradicted her, because, really, what difference did it make.  But everyone knew she wasn't a natural redhead; after all, she dyed her hair red.
     If I were a man who aspired to be a woman, I would want to wait, as Caitlyn did, until after the time of periods and childbearing, and UTI's.  Womanhood is not all that easy or attractive when you come right down to it.  Manicures and designer makeup and fashionable gowns and dresses are fringe benefits of actual womanhood, not the real thing.  Only a hairdresser may know for sure what color hair one may naturally have, but no hairdresser could possibly fathom a person's true sexual identity.
    Caitlyn, as she says in her new TV show, is attracted to both men and women, though saying she has never been with a man.  (Or so I read, missed the show.) So the truth seems to be  that she doesn't have a clear idea if she wants to date a man or a woman or to be a man or a woman.  It seems possible that Caitlyn is attracted mostly to Caitlyn.  Olympic star, Reality Show cast member, high-profile family, Vanity Fair cover, heroism award, own TV show:  all very public ventures.  What's not to love.  She could be Donald Trump's Vice-Presidential candidate.

Zounds.

     It's such an immense strain just trying to stay relevant.  Isn't it?

Earwigs, Stupid Earwig

     It is said that the reason a song gets stuck in your head, and you keep hearing the refrain without meaning to, is that there are other things you don't want to think of.  So your subconscious fills your mind with song lyrics.  I don't deny that there are things I do not want to think about, so maybe that's why I keep hearing, and even singing, the lyrics to songs from the past.  I wish, though, that the songs could be more current, or even songs that I liked.  When I was a little child, I liked all songs that I heard on the radio because listening to them was a real treat, maybe on Saturday evenings when my father would attach the antenna and turn the radio on.  That was before we lived in a house that was wired for electricity.
      The first song I remember disliking went  something like, "Give me five minutes more, only five minutes more, give me five minutes more of your love."  I can't remember why I didn't like it, maybe because it was a love song, before I was interested in love.  Those lyrics, if indeed correct, started coursing through my head with little letup, when I was walking around outside, pulling a few weeds, or watering the flowers.  I mean, why would my subconscious or the id or whatever, pick that song.  Why not something I liked?
    Today, another blast from the past.
"Two little girls in blue, two little girls in blue.  One became your mother, I married the other, but soon we drifted apart."  I had no particular liking for that song either, but accepted it as something to sing, probably not giving it much thought.  But now that the song has materialized onto my mental playlist, I couldn't figure out what the heck it meant:   twins the storyteller couldn't tell apart? Double vision? Pre-marital hanky-panky?  Split personality?  Wishful thinking?  I had to look it up, back in the archives of old songs.  Turns out the singer is talking to his nephew.  Aha, after all these years...

Longhorn Steer Horns

    As restaurant lightposts?  I don't know, maybe a little creepy...

Inventory

     I live above an eclectic collection of items.  Seven bicycles, two old adding machines, a vintage electric typewriter, an antique cash register, a recent portable generator ( a gift), a large assortment of items for the pool, such as several covers, an insulated cover and a whole lot of chemicals, lawn furniture, at least four antique chairs, wooden and wicker, a highchair that once transformed into a rocking chair that I remember sitting in when I was a baby,several small stands and an antique piano stool kind of beaten up, four golf bags, a golf cart, a golf ball retriever, several dozen used golf balls, several pairs of skis and poles, a later  model air conditioner in addition to the two presently installed upstairs, an old Baby Butler dresser that supports the bags of  salt for the water softener, four artificial wreaths, Christmas tree stands and decorations, two Have-A-Heart traps, two little old stepladders that I withdrew from an ebay sale by request,  aluminum ladders, an old full-sized wooden one, two snow rakes, different sizes, old curtain rods, long and short, a bunch of books, a box of knickknacks, 3 shelving units full of tools and containers of auto and household products, some canning jars of course, the now stored bird feeders, and a trash can filled with planting soil and plant food, in addition to a number of flower pots and a dozen or so florist's vases.  A lot of old sporting equipment, bats, balls, badminton sets, a couple of them, a croquet set, dartboard,  a set of iron horseshoes, and boxes of toys.Other items too numerous to mention, but there is the body of a once motorized wagon that my father-in-law built for his son.  The spider plants, 9 or 10 of them , are outside now.  The only plant remaining in the cellar is an aloe plant that Carmen gave me, which is now too large and heavy to move out.  So it sits on a  large wooden spool table that was once a dance platform.  Come visit anytime.
    It may seem like the space would be very cramped, with all that stuff, in addition to the furnace, washer and dryer, humidifier and oil tank, but the basement runs the full length of the house, and while the house has less than 1,000 feet of living space, the basement is a single open space with two full-sized windows and a door which opens to the outside.  So actually, it's quite roomy.  The attic is a different story, haven't been up there in years for any inventory, but that day may come.  Or not.

Shark Tank Fails?

    Some products, even if funded by Shark Tank, are so astoundingly unnecessary that you'd have to wonder how they ever went into production.     I remember how outraged some people were when it was revealed that Jackie Kennedy had a towel warmer installed in a White House bathroom.  Now I see, via online garage sales, that people are selling their never-or-little-used Wipe Warmers.  Alert CPS:  somewhere somebody is using room temperature diaper wipes on their child.

.don't really care

The lady or the tiger, the dentist or the lion-----I don't really like any of them. They all eat their young.

What do you do with a moon?

   Driving home yesterday, in the late evening, I saw the moon in its absolute glory, round and orange and glowing.  The sight of it made me sad.  One if those moments in time came to me----of my mother calling me one evening to say that she could see the moon from her window and it was beautiful.  She said she didn't know if I was beyond the stage of looking at the moon, but she had to tell me.  My kids were still small, and I was much younger then, but I remember feeling sorrow for some yet unknown reason.

In Reverse

    I hate backing my car up.  Even when there is no apparent obstruction anywhere in sight, I still half expect to hear, and feel, that fateful impact.  I have not backed into anything in years, but the thought is always there.  A long time ago, I backed into a tree in front of a friend's house.  I wasn't driving fast, but I remember feeling my teeth gnash together.  I have a memory of backing into some huge concrete barrier at the edge of the parking lot of the old J.M. Fields store in Lansingburgh, also a teeth rattler, but no reportable damage of any kind. Not too many years ago, I backed into the bumper of a truck that had pulled in behind me in the front of the Clifton Park Pizza Hut.  He wasn't there, and then he was.  It was just a gentle tap, but the driver glared at me.
   Probably the worst backing up event was a near miss.  I almost backed up into a passenger who had just gotten out of my car to retrieve her belongings from the trunk of my car to place them in hers.  She was rather annoying and I was in kind of a rush to be done with her and get on home, though I didn't wish her dead or anything.  In my defense, I'll say that I didn't know she was going to make two trips.  And do you know how hard it is to  see when the trunk of your car is raised?  It blocks out the light, and you see just emptiness, as if no one is there. Anyway, she was fine.
     When I bought the car I have now, the salesman wanted me to test drive their latest model, the one with all the bells and whistles, including the then highly touted back-up camera. When we returned from the test drive, he insisted that I  back up to the front of the display window of the business, so I could see how efficient the back-up camera was, giving me a clear picture of the path I was taking.  With much trepidation, disguised as well as possible, I did as he directed, thinking all the time that he wouldn't be so blase about it if he knew the reality of the situation.  The reality being that my depth perception is somewhat compromised by a congenital corneal condition.  I have pretty much learned to accommodate to the dysfunction, but not when it involves mirrors or backing.I stopped in time, right in front of the plate glass window, and he never suspected a thing.  I didn't buy a car with that feature though.
    Today, I drove into the crowded parking lot of a busy restaurant in Mechanicville, the kind of lot where vehicles are parked at asymmetric angles. I parked in the only spot available, but when I went to leave, one of those large black monster vehicles was parked behind me, and I couldn't turn either right or left to drive out frontwards.  I had to back all the way out, trying to see around the massive black vehicle, and not sure when I could turn the wheel.  I was gingerly doing my best when the kindest gentleman in the world stopped on his way into the restaurant to tell me that he was going to help me back out.  He did so, and I instantly fell in love with him, and his curly-headed grandson too.
 
   

Also Gone

    I hauled some metal onto my front lawn earlier today;  A full to queen size metal bed frame, an old lawn recliner, some aluminum strips from our former windows, an old-style louvered window insert, some old metal paint rollers, and probably a few miscellaneous items that I don't recall, and  added a sign  that said also a dryer and an air conditioner.  A few hours later, at 4:30 a man stopped his truck and he and companion took everything, this time for free.  Now to get back to my e-bay listings, if only they'd provide more freebie listings.

Outta My House

Gone, as of yesterday:  3 old pieces, very old, probably early 20th century, dresser/wardrobe/chest, a large heavy beveled mirror which unfortunately had a broken edge, a twin headboard, and several large sheets of plywood.  The drawers of all the furniture were swollen shut, hadn't been opened in years, so I have no idea what they might have contained, but I'll try to get along without it.  A Honus Wagner card, maybe?

Kids in Jeopardy

  As I was leaving the house yesterday to get some groceries, I asked the 3 visiting grandchildren if they wanted anything. One said last time I had gotten them gum, so I picked up three of those extended packs in the grocery aisle, recognizing only Juicy Fruit, one of the brands from the old days.  I can remember there being maybe 6 or 7 different kinds of gum sold then, and always in the pack of 5 sticks, except for Chiclets which came  in a box.  Now there are dozens of different types of gum, and I don't think any are in sticks any more , but packaged individually like capsules in  little blister packs.
     When I got home, I put the 3 multi-packages of gum on the counter, and invited the boys to help themselves.  Now, as then, it is not unusual for a chewer to pop all the gum in the pack  into their mouths, ever seeking to refresh the flavor.  That's fine with me; let them savor chewing gum before the orthodontist nixes it. Most of the gum was chewed in short order.
   Today when I returned home from an errand, Dave said he found a piece of nicotine gum on the living room floor.  I thought he was mistaken at first, seeing regular chewing gum packaged in the small rectangular form.  But when I examined the piece he handed me, I saw it was clearly marked "Nicotine Gum."  A chill went through me: had I inadvertently provided my grandchildren with nicotine gum?  The same kids who may well have chewed an entire pack of a regulated substance?  But wait a second, nicotine gum wouldn't just be on the shelf with other chewing gum, would it?  Unless by mistake?  So I scrabbled through the torn-open packages of the gum and, in addition to the Juicy Fruit,  I had bought Eclipse Sugarless Gum and Dentyne Ice, all of the gum packaged in little cubes, the same as the piece of Nicotine Gum found on my living room floor.  Some things have no apparent explanation.