Mortification, in the 1960's

    My friend Joann asked me to go shoe shopping with her on our lunch hour, during the time we both worked as customer representatives for the New York Telephone Company.  We both started at the same time and were in trainee class together.  I worked there for about one year, and she for considerably longer, though our friendship continued for a number of years.  She lives in Florida now. 
     She was engaged to be married, and she needed shoes for her wedding.  We went to one of the shoe stores in downtown Troy, and the salesclerk, a man, asked her what size heel she was interested in.  The other customer he was helping was insistent that she not be taller than her husband-to-be  and wanted pumps with fairly low heels.  When the clerk posed the question to Joann, she promptly responded, "Oh, I don't have to worry.  I have six inches to play around with."  Nothing more needed to be said.

Whenceforth White Privilege

    I found a stowed-away carton of old books yesterday.  One of the volumes is "The Pedagogue"  1960 yearbook for what is now SUNY Albany.  I had never gotten my copy: this is my sister's.  As I remember, the shipment came in late in the year, and had to be picked up at Brubacher Hall, walking distance, but quite a hike, from the academic buildings.  Dorothy had reason to go there, and picked up her copy, but they wouldn't release mine to her because she didn't have my student ID card.  Neither of us had any spare time because we were dependent on a narrow window of access to transportation, and I didn't have the time to go there.  I didn't mind a whole lot, though the cost of the yearbook had been deducted from my account.  Truth be told, I didn't even know our pictures were included in the book. 
    But today I sit on a lawn chair in front of my house and look at my college yearbook for the first time.  Indeed, our pictures are in the book, in the graduating seniors section, not on any of the activities pages.  All we did during the 4 years of college was study and travel to get there.  That consumed our lives. 
   There were over 300 students in our class when we enrolled, the largest class ever accepted at the time. I don't know how many made it to graduation; at our very first class convocation, in the packed auditorium, the dean told us to look to  our right and then to our left, and said one of that three would not be here past the first year.  There wasn't room, he said. Back in the late 50's and early 60's, the State University at Albany was a very competitive school, one of the most difficult to be accepted at. It was ranked very high academically.  It was also strictly an institution for education.  Moreover, there was no tuition;  there were class  fees and enrollment charges and books to buy.  But it was a very attractive package even for students of means, many of whom planned to transfer to a more prestigious (and costly) college to graduate from.
    I look through my yearbook, at least a few hundred graduates, and not a single "person of color."  I scan through the pages of sports and activities, including  an all-white basketball team, and finally see one Afro-American male in one of the fraternities.  I seem to remember his being in student government.  He must have felt very exceptional, or very lonely.

Ouch!

Common Core notwithstanding, my rating on a test of Shakespeare lore was, "Thou art an errant dizzy-eyed neophyte." 

For me...

I came across an envelope, with my name in my mother's handwriting.  It may have included a card, but obviously  a gift of cash because she had written on it for me to "Buy something nice for yourself."   I wonder what I bought. 
   In her later years, speculating what she would do if she ever won a bunch of money, in the lottery or such, she would say, "Sure, what would I do with it?"

Surge of Memories

"And there's nothing short of dying half as lonesome as the sound of a sleeping Sunday sidewalk, and Sunday morning coming down."

Pink Washcloths

      Beneath my bathroom sink is the place where the washcloths are stored, about 20 to 30 of them I'd say.  Most are fairly old and well used; the newest are from one of those packs of 10, and are pink.  Every single one of them is frayed at the edges and here is the reason why:   they get caught in the part of the dryer, above the lint filter.  Each time I open the dryer, almost every day, there is a pink washcloth dangling from the top of the dryer.  Always a pink one out of the many and I'm not sure why.  A  regular load of laundry contains about a dozen washcloths, only some of them pink.  There  are many because, in addition to their use for bathing,  I habitually keep one on each side of the sink:  one to open the bathroom door after applying hand lotion when my hands are slippery, and the other to depress the flushing lever, avoiding any bare handed contact with that yucky part of the toilet, even in my own home. 
      The other day one of the pink cloths was so firmly wedged in whatever crevice retains it that, in order to release it, I used  a scissors from the downstairs workbench  and tried to cut it away from the part that was stuck. The scissors, being old and not a little rusty, locked on the fabric of the washcloth and I couldn't tear it away, not even with the aid of a nearby screwdriver.  The pink washcloth was now left  dangling with  a pair of scissors attached.  I went upstairs and, armed with a sharper scissors and a bigger screwdriver, hacked and pried away until the cloth and scissors separated from the dryer, taking with them  a piece of the molding that was around the dryer door.  I probably will buy a new dryer, and most likely some new washcloths.
       The dryer is not so old, about 8 years.  Its companion washer was replaced last summer, when I embarked on a vigorous pre-surgery housekeeping regimen, and stressed it out by trying to wash everything in the house, including bathroom rugs and mats. The washer was replaced in my absence, and I'll never understand how any appliance engineer could have thought it was a good idea to design a washing machine without an agitator.  Washcloths, as well as socks, end up on the bottom looking like softballs, and, unless individually shaken out, would go like that into the dryer.  And the too-vigorous spinning  possibly caused the above problem---that's my theory anyway, at 4:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning.

GET (It) OFF MY LAWN!

    All gone in just a few days:
        Two weeks ago, 3 old appliance motors, one too heavy to lift that I had to tie with a  piece of rope to wrangle it out of the cellar and into the yard.
       Two days ago, a rusty old wheelbarrow and a vintage playpen.
Cancel the dumpster.

Gender Fashion

   I think Bruce Jenner may have a misguided understanding  of what being a woman is if he  associates wearing a dress with womanhood.  Of course, the woman he will finally become may well spend a lot of time on the Red Carpet and at celebrity functions, where a dress is the usually dictated  fashion.  In his day-to-day life,  he can join the rest of us in our fashion statement of jeans, sweats, and, oh yes, the dread pedal-pushers. 

A New Low

   I can't believe I've spent the morning binge-watching episodes of "Catfish."   I am able to walk away, but find myself compelled to see how it all turns out.  What fools we mortals be.

Voices

"Come home, come home, it's suppertime. The shadows lengthen fast."

Ala Goldilocks

    We walked into the new local restaurant.  The restaurant and the bar area were pretty much filled, at about 6 o'clock on a Friday evening.  The hostess promptly approached and escorted us to a seating section that was unoccupied, several tables located across from the bar area and near the dining room.  "Will this be all right?" she asked.  Now I don't like to be uncooperative, especially on a first visit to a new restaurant on a busy night, but I took one look and had to say no.  The tables were of the highboy type, and, considering our situation, the tall stools appeared to loom up like one of those climbing walls.  If we had made the climb, there wouldn't have been much of a ledge to grasp onto, either, as the table was about the size of a standard checkerboard.  The hostess asked us to wait while she went to check with somebody, and after a short while came back and seated us in a booth in the main dining area.  There was only one step up to get to that table, and the booth was large enough for at least six people.  As we left, I noticed that the series of  high-altitude seats  was unoccupied, as they were when we'd entered.  I assume no one else wanted to eat dinner in the nosebleed section either. 

Horticulture

I planted a few pumpkin seeds today. I'm not exactly looking forward to harvest time though.  I fear  an overabundance of pumpkins and the approach of winter.  I attempt to be positive but that damn negativity keeps rearing its ugly head...

SDF

   There is evidently a new day of recognition----according to Facebook, Google, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and Tumblr.  SIBLINGS DAY   The Siblings Day Foundation is soliciting  funding so it, the SDF, can continue its work, which is "dedicated to celebrating the sibling relationship, and the bond that is forever a special gift."  The SDF has solicited support from 49 state governors (Damn that California) as well as many other prominent individuals and entities.  A jubilant and worthy celebration to be sure----most people have brothers and sisters, in  numbers  likely greater than of mothers and fathers.  Any donations to this worthy enterprise can be mailed to a post office box in Grand Central Station.  How the money will be spent is the issue---there are so many to share the glory.

Conflagration

   Just thinking, the area near the intersection of State Street and Route 67  must be the Bermuda Triangle of burning buildings:  Jensen's house, White's Funeral Parlor, the Valley Inn, the Village Tavern,  the James Thompson Mill, and now 6 State Street.  The others were total losses, but maybe there's hope this time.....

Waterfall

     It is said that a  man's wallet holds his driver's license and credit cards, but a woman's pocketbook holds her life.  If that is so, I drowned today. 
     It goes without saying that you never want to put your pocketbook on the floor of a public restroom, no matter how sanitary that bathroom may appear.  Apparently most public bathrooms have been designed by men, because in most cases there are no provisions made for where to place one's purse.  A hook on the wall would be nice, but seldom found.  So the go-to location, and often the only place available, is the bathroom sink. 
   Now of course I mean the side of the bathroom sink, but again the lack of consideration for sufficient space rears its head.  A hook, a shelf, enough room on the side of the sink---it's just not going to happen.
   Today, in the ladies' room of a medical office, I placed my pocketbook in the only available space, along the side of the sink.  In the best of all worlds, that is where it would have stayed, but, alas!   When I returned to the sink, my pocketbook had slid down into the sink proper.  And as modernity would have it, one of those automatic sinks where the water runs when you place your hands beneath the faucet.  Stupid sink, not to recognize the difference between hands presented for washing and a pocketbook accidentally slipping in from the too narrow side of the sink.
    The water pressure in the building must be excellent, and the water flow optimal, because in the brief time period of its immersion, the pocketbook, which had landed in an upright position, and of the type not closed on top, was filled to the brim with water.  Enough water so that I upended it and poured it into the sink, but the leather bag and its contents were totally soaked through, and dripping.  I had only a few minutes to get to my appointment, not enough time to return to my car with the seeping, oozing bag.  I certainly didn't want to have to explain what had happened, so I took the only course available.  I grabbed handfuls of paper towels out of the wall, dispenser ( a fortunate alternative to the blower) , and layered them into my pocketbook.  I hoped I would not have to delve into my purse for insurance cards; I would not relish being pointed out as the crazy old lady stealing a whole bag full of paper towels.  Wish granted---everything was on the computer. Phew!

Torture Defined

    In retrospect funny maybe, but I didn't laugh when Hoda Kotk related the nightmare incident of dance class when she was 6 years old.  Her mother had enrolled her in  tapdance class, and she wasn't very good, she said.  One day during a recital, she hadn't had a chance to use the bathroom before she had to go on stage, and as she started to tap, she peed her pants, which made her cry, as she was slipping on the pee.  I can relate to that incident because my daughter took dance class,with  about a dozen other four-year girls, almost  all of whom were constantly running to the bathroom, and running back out to have their mothers pull up their tights. I must say that my daughter  rarely if ever had to use the bathroom at the studio, but if she had, only she and one other girl could adjust their leotards afterwards.  So Hoda would have fit right into the category of putting off going to the bathroom because of the complications of readjusting the dancewear.  She had been embarrassed and could laugh about it now, but at the time she'd felt terrible.  Nothing there to make me laugh.
       Then this from the inimitable Kathie Lee:  "Tapping, crying, peeing, slipping--that's me  getting out of my Spanx."