"Held Harmless" Indeed

   So Social Security recipients are granted a  0.3% increase for 2017, no COLA this year, but an "adjustment."   But Part B Medicare costs also increase, in amount higher than the benefit paid. So, unless you have the hold harmless provision, your benefit check will probably be less in 2017 than in 2016.  A piddling amount either way, so no worries.  Wait til next year.

1-20-17

Maybe Kelly Conway is a good singer, possibly really, really good.  The goodest even.

Outta Here

    Today I went Christmas shopping, sort of, my goal being to get toys for the little tots, those who don't yet appreciate the value of cold hard cash.  I went Christmas shopping last year once, I think to Boscov's but I can't remember what I bought.  I only know it was a rather short excursion, though not as brief as today's.  I left the house about 1:30, knowing there wouldn't be much alone time.
   The weather was good, the traffic flow light, and it seemed  strangely reassuring to be driving my car and listening to NPR, as in the old days.  The speaker was Tom Friedman, and he spoke of his book and his thoughts of the present and for the future.  His talk lasted most of the way to Clifton Park, ending in the parking lot of Toys R Us.  He presented a lengthy analysis of today's society.  If one word could sum it up, that word would be:  CYBERSPACE. Disturbing in that there are no rules or police in cyberspace, and one person can affect the entire world.
    I walked through the doors into a world of toys, thousands and thousands of presentations and choices. I saw the tables by the entrance and picked up 3 toys, fairly equivalent in size and pricing.  I was not yet acclimated to shopping after such a long time away, and so was not ready to venture down the aisles looming and booming with merchandise for the youngest among us.
   I was so efficient, time-wise, that I drove across to Boscov's, and visited the men's department for some much needed basic items.  The women's department, particularly, looked as if it was ready to be cleared out for new merchandise; there were sales aplenty. My guess would be that the spring fashions are already waiting in the wings, and will be on display long before my next shopping excursion. I pulled a sweater from a 75% off display rack, and bought it.  It felt really soft and was really cheap, and it fit.  It is brown and will probably make me look like Chewbacca, but I wanted to buy something new.  Dorothy and I used to shop almost weekly and we always bought something.  On sale of course.  Never, never pay full price.
   I stopped at McDonald's to bring home supper, in keeping with my mini-vacation.  As I walked into the store, I was struck by the sight of the Christmas tree.  I almost commented on it, but than realized it must have been put up a while ago, while I hadn't been there since probably last September.  It was kind of a Rip Van Winkle moment.  What!  Public Christmas displays, Pre-Christmas, year-end sales?  Is there no end to the madness.

FB Fails

You might as well take the bridge if this were to happen to you:
1)  You post a picture of you and yours on Facebook, and you don't get the "Beautiful family" feedback
2) You say you're done, or over it, or you threaten to unfriend your FB cohort, and nobody asks why.

Maybe

NOW we have the Christmas Tree picture.

Christmas Cactus Revival?

Christmas cactus, from Ma's house, where it bloomed profusely, and then with plentiful blooms at our house.  But for last several years, no blossoms.  This year, a few. Hope for the future?

Social Insecurity

    I just received a notice from the SSA saying my benefits will increase by 0.3% because of a rise in the cost of living, and that I can use this letter as proof if I need to apply for bank loans or other assistance.
    So, with the COLA, the amount of my new benefit, to be received on or about Jan. 18, 2017 is:    exactly the same as my present benefit.  Must be the .003 add-on is too insignificant to bother with.  And I can take that to the bank.

The Keys to the Kingdom

Time was when there was

half a pound of keys on his key ring, so many they used to wear a hole in the lining of his pockets.  House keys, car keys, office keys, shed keys, mysterious keys to things forgotten.

Gracias, Elves

Tech Support

Thank you.

Parents and Plants

  Millennials, it is said, view their parents the same way they view potted plants. They want them around; they just don't want to interact with them.

IHS

   I don't know if there is such a place as Purgatory, but if so, I don't think I need to spend any time there, having spent the last hour sitting through a program called "A Pentatonix Christmas."

The Best of Times

    While I was half watching TV the other night,  some new show was on, where the main character was a doctor in some kind of neurological hospital. This young idealistic doctor asked one of his patients, a teenage girl with a serious brain condition, what would be her best wish.  Her answer was that she would want to attend a Phillip Phillips concert.  (I decided then to watch the rest of the show, knowing he would likely make a guest appearance. And he did.)  The young patient, mature beyond her years, then asked the doctor the same question.     The doctor, the thoughtful and dedicated type, answered by saying  that when he was a boy, he lived with his mother.  He would walk around the streets of his neighborhood at night and through the windows he would see people in their houses watching television together.  It moved him because his mother would never watch TV with him. He didn't say why.  His wish would be to have a family to sit and watch television with.  That would be his wish come true.
    The show, sentimental as it was, still struck a chord with me. It reminded me of the question the occupational therapist posed to  his patient. He asked what would be your idea of a good day, and the patient's answer was  having lunch with his daughter and grandsons and visiting with his brother.
    I believe wishing and hoping and yearning are all part of the grand scheme of things, but I don't think most of us know when our wishes are realized.  Until later.

Subaru

   The Subaru left the driveway about 12:30 p.m. today, leaving a vacant space in the driveway and other places. Since its purchase in 2009, it was at first a regular weekend  visitor to our driveway until it took up permanent residence in 2011.  During those first years, my heart would lift when it pulled into  the driveway, signaling a most welcome guest. When those visits came to an end, the Subaru came to reside here, and was gone for much of the day. The sight of it parked in the driveway meant I was not home alone.  For the last year, it mostly sat in the driveway with nowhere to go, again, sadly, without a driver.  Even thus, the sight of it there was reassuring in a sense, memory not always separate from reality.  I wish for the Subaru and its new passengers a safe and happy journey, and destination.

Electrifying

  So the keyboard is worn out, sticks on letters, particularly the letter "v." It was a surprise to find how frequently I type that letter, so annoying when there is a series of vvv. We had an extra keyboard, in actuality a Dell, the one that came with our present computer, but was never connected.  Though I've never replaced a keyboard, it needed doing so I figured it had to be an easy thing to do:  Simply unplug the old and plug in the new.
    That sounds easy and indeed it is---once you've found your way through the jumble of wires and cords and cables in colors of yellow, blue and black. I wiggled the wire, a black one, connected to the top of the old keyboard, and isolated it by following it through the tangles, and I mean tangles, of connections for the computer, the monitor, the keyboard, the phone, the answering and copy machine, a pair of speakers,  the Guardian alert, something called Trendnet, and the desk lamp.  I unplugged the old, taking great pains to remember which slot I removed it from. I located the proper opening and inserted the wire for the new Dell keyboard, and Voila!  Success.  The keyboard was functioning.
    But hold on, when I tried to access the internet, the message read "No connection."   Weaving through the jumble of wires must have detached or loosened something.  Back beneath the computer I go, exploring. I find on the floor there a clothespin.  Surely not used to hold a wire in position, I hope.  Then, a 2-inch long yellow plastic item with a white cap, something I'd never seen before, and also a slender 4-inch black plastic-handled implement of some type, completely foreign to me.  I place the 3 items on the table, and proceed to randomly push in or tighten every connection I can find, sporadically checking to see if we're back on the internet. Eventually I find a yellow wire that's loose, lying on the floor, at least by now.  I see that one end is connected at the back of the computer, but where the other end should go is a mystery to me.  I don't understand enough about technology to even see the big picture of what connects the computer modem to the internet, so I just look for open slots where I can plug something in. I find one and it works.  I don't remember where it was. I've never heard of anyone being electrocuted by computer, The day I hear it happens is probably the day I give up home repair.
   *I rather like the new keyboard. It clickity-clacks, like a typewriter.  The previous one was, or had become, silent, with the key pressure soft and kind of squishy.  Due to old age, I presume.

I of a Camera Hallelujah?

I dropped you from a kitchen chair,
It broke your lens, and to my despair
No longer can I forward photos through you.

'Twas all a dream / Sauteed Onion Skins

   It's legend that nothing is more intolerable than to be captive to the recounting of someone's dreams, so O Blog, I won't bore even you with the details.  But we were in Kingston, and nobody was old yet, and we were sitting down to dinner, and one of the featured dishes was Danny's offering of salad topped with sauteed onion skins.  I was curious to know how to prepare onion skins, if the skins were what I was thinking they were. Yes, I was told, as I filled my dish with the salad.  I was just about to serve myself the sauteed onion skins when I was abruptly called back to the present time. I suspect "I'll never find that recipe again."

Catching Up

 The Butterball Fresh Turkey was delicious, said all.  The new vegetable peeler is not a good fit, cannot come close to replacing the lost Ekco. It's okay for scraping, not peeling.  I did relent and pulled the dahlias out of the snow covered ground, some of them anyway.  They're in the cellar now, dead or alive I don't know.  J. replaced the last strip beneath the back "door to nowhere."  Mouse-proofed or not, who knows?

"Coffee Spoons"

   I don't drink coffee, but I get it, J. Alfred.  I know exactly what you mean.  I would just  replace coffee spoons with ebay listings.  Same general effect, though lacking the ordinariness  of the utilitarian spoons, the listings are somewhat more evocative of past life.

Cats---go figure.

  There has been for about 2 weeks a very large, billboard-sized sign on the corner by the bridge, seeking information on a missing orange tiger cat.  I feel a little sad passing the sign because I know most missing cats turn up dead or never, and it appears this cat was deeply loved.  This morning I drove by the sign and there was an addition to it saying the cat had been found and expressing thanks.   Inexplicably, there was a gray tiger cat crouched directly in front of the sign, even in the lightly falling but chilly rain.

Dahlia Dilemma

     Once upon a time, not too long ago, the dahlias I was gifted with bloomed in force.  They were red and the flowers covered their foliage so thickly that some people assumed they were rose bushes. I dutifully dug them up at the start of winter weather, brushed them off, wrapped them in newspaper, and stored them in the basement, to be replanted in the spring. Each year the reward was plentiful blooms, though they did begin their blooming process  fairly late in the year, mid-to-late August.
    Then, about 5 or 6 seasons ago, something changed.  Though the dahlia plants grew, as usual, strong and healthy-appearing, the flowers were few and far between; this year, and last, I counted only 3 blooms. Back in the day, when the grandchildren were still little, they entered them in the Schaghticoke Fair, their entry class requiring 3 blooms.  The kids used to pick and choose which were the best blooms. Until that fateful year when there were not even 3 blooms available, and the entry was cancelled. That was the beginning of the dahlia decline, yet to be reversed.   I sought the ultimate professionals, those on google of course, and discovered a slew of things that could have impeded their floral display.
   Over the last 4 or 5 years, I attempted to follow the advice:  Plant them deeper, or not so deep.  Give them plant food, prior to and/or  after planting.  Dig them up after the first hard frost.  Store them in cardboard, not plastic.  Plant them in the sun, full, or partially shaded.  Divide them with a sharp knife. Or gently pull the tubers apart.  Or leave them attached, for more, though possibly smaller, flowers, one site said.
   At one point or another, I followed all the suggestions, each year looking at the nicely growing plants and thinking, "This will be the year that they'll bloom like they used to, during  those glory years."  This past year, the hope remained.  Only to be dashed when the lovely greenery produced only a measly few offspring.
   It's easier to forgive the non-productive when they are independent and self sufficient; slacking off is their prerogative.  But when you are so heavily invested in their care, what with digging up, dealing with, storing, and then replanting, resentment begins to build.  Even threats---"I'll just leave you there all winter; just see if you can survive by yourself."  I know they can't.  I've left several in different areas, only to find their dried up remains in the spring.
   Then, this year, an end to the struggle.  Snow fell, and heavily, before the first hard frost, the dahlia bed deeply covered by the plow's accumulation.  No way am I going to shovel in order to dig them up.  Problem solved.
   Today, a thaw, which promises (or threatens) to reveal the stalks of the dahlias, crying out to be rescued for the chance of one more season in the sun.  I'd already decided to forego their appeal.  Whether I'll succumb to their appeal depends----on what the weather is like tomorrow.

Turkey in the Raw

The 49th Step

Thanksgiving Turkeys through the years.  When I first recorded the bird's vital statistics into the pages of my wedding gift BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS NEW COOKBOOK, I was still oblivious to the passing of time, such is the blindness of youth. I would never have entertained the thought that I would run out of space to record the trappings of this November holiday. I had no idea who would ever be interested in reading about holidays past, and certainly never could have imagined that I would be entering such into a blog.  So, my trusted and entrapped Blog, it's up to you to know that on 11/25/1999 the turkey was a 20.45 lb. Grand Union Fresh Tom Turkey, and at @.99 per lb., cost $20.25.
    The Turkey of 2016 is a Fresh Butterball, weighing 21.33 lbs. @$1.59 per lb. priced at $33.91.  It's not the largest, may not be the best, appears it may be the most costly, but what's money for unless to spend, and what else is there to buy anyway.  We've had, over the years, fresh, frozen, off the farm, and all different brands.  I have never detected any difference, and no one has ever commented except favorably. I hope this year will fall in that category.
     ****Just musing---All the cooking shows warn about over-cooking a turkey. I wonder if it's possible to do that.  I tend to go with the upper roasting time limits, don't think I've ever overdone a turkey, but think an undercooked turkey would be grossly horrible as well as a health hazard.  Happy Thanksgiving, Blog and Everybody.

Problematic Peeling

   This fall, after peeling apples for my annual apple pie, I lost my trusty peeler, an Ekco from the very early days, which sold for about $.39.  I must have discarded it along with the apple peels.   Though I've tried using many others, I could only use that old Ekco.  All others were fails.
    Last week, I bought a new one, but I hold slim hope it will be satisfactory.  Alas, Thanksgiving mashed potatoes, turnips, not to mention the parsnips.

.

The Elusive Mincemeat

 Once again, the search was on.  I'm pretty sure I'd seen it earlier in the year on the shelves of ShopN'Save, but there was none to be found the week before Thanksgiving.  So I traveled all the way to Price Chopper and finally found a small cache behind a display rack.  Evidently it's not a top-shelf, priority display item.  But the search reminded me of the old, and I must add unappreciated, narrative of "The Thanksgiving Story."  So one more time:
         My daughter, just out of college, was going shopping at Thanksgiving time and asked me if I needed anything. Yes, I told her, a package of mincemeat, since the local stores were out of it.  A while later, she called me from a store, some place in Clifton Park I think, and said she was unable to find mincemeat, even with the help of a store employee, so she asked me for the brand name of the product.
       "NONE SUCH,"  I told her.  Instantly she was angry;  "That's not funny, Mom.  I've spent all this time looking, and the guy here is even trying to help me. This is no time for a prank."
       Foolish children we all are.

Poetic License?

The rain is the
                  tears of the cloud.
Any time wind moves him
                  very harshly,
The cloud cries.
And on a hot day he takes
                 a steambath,
And starts all over.
          3-24-86

And what do you want to be when you grow up, Little Girl?

    Back in the day, as far as I was aware, there were only 3 possible professions for a girl:  Secretary, Nurse, or Teacher.  The girls who wanted to be secretaries didn't want to go to college.  They were  tired of school and wanted to get jobs and to get on with their lives.  I always aspired to go to college, so I ruled that choice out.  One of my first school friends had a sister who worked as a nurse, so she wanted to follow in her path.  As soon as it was explained to me  what a bedpan was, that career was completely out of consideration.  That left teaching, which was an easy choice anyway.  I'd always loved school, everything from the books to the desks to the order of the classroom. A little later, I read "Good Morning, Miss Dove,"  and that added to the attraction.
    I did in fact become a teacher, though obtaining that goal was far more difficult than just answering the question of selecting a career.  That job ended and the question of what I wanted to be was answered instead by what I had been.  Life goes on, though, until it runs its course, and while life's options inevitably subside, its duties still remain, where the choices of youth surrender to the reality of age.
  MORAL:  Fate doesn't mind kicking you in the head.

SuperMoon

November 13,

2016

De-Railed

Yesterday, I had a few hours to myself.  I painted the front railing---to mixed reviews.  But I happen to prefer it to the "natural wood." It doesn't stick out so much like a sore thumb (or knee) screaming "I need help to get up all those steps."

Let's get the terminology straight...

   When our house was last broken into and our stuff stolen, the State Police Investigator made it clear:   It was not a robbery.  It was a burglary.  You weren't there.     (They never caught the burglars either.  Robbers outrank burglars.

Options...

Annual Candy Inanity

Note to All Cooking or Recipe Shows:   If you can't eat or give away your leftover Halloween candy, just throw it out.  Do not, I repeat, do not, follow a recipe that adds butter or flour or anything else to leftover candy to make it into another dessert.  For God's sake, it's CANDY,  get rid of it if you don't want it anymore.

Forlorn Solo Rose, Oct.31, 2016

How Much Land Does A Man Need?

How Much Land Does A Man Need?

Ma

Sunday, October 30, 1983-Sunday October 30, 2016
   ...Never thought we'd be missing you for this long.

Carpenter

Who knew?

Home Improvements 2016

Jan.7-------Spa Tub installed---Dale also Feb.7
Feb. 3------The Wall repaired by J.T.
Apr.13-----Drain Care pumped septic tank
Apr.14-----Bender Labs Water Test
April 18----Kitchen Faucets, Ryan Klass
Apr.28-----Shane Napoli Brush Removal                      **Picture #4
Apr. 30----Old Paint to Sch. Garage, about 40 containers
May 21---Outside Ramp installed by Carl, VA June
June 18---Concrete poured for J.T. slab
July 14--Attorney
Aug. 9----Stump grinding, McCray                               **Picture #3
Sept.7----H&R Block
Oct. 5----Furnace installed, Holbrook@ Home Depot---Picture #5
Oct.14--Basement door repaired---Jason-------             *Picture #1
Oct.17---Foundation caulked, Jason-------------              Picture #2

Home Improvements 2016

Jan.7-------Spa Tub installed---Dale also Feb.7
Feb. 3------The Wall repaired by J.T.
Apr.13-----Drain Care pumped septic tank
Apr.14-----Bender Labs Water Test
April 18----Kitchen Faucets, Ryan K.
Apr.28-----Shane Napoli Brush Removal                      **Picture #4
Apr. 30----Old Paint to Sch. Garage, about 40 containers
May 21---Outside Ramp installed by Carl, VA June
June 18---Concrete poured for J.T. slab
July 14--Attorney
Aug. 9----Stump grinding, McCray                               **Picture #3
Sept.7----H&R Block
Oct. 5----Furnace installed, Holbrook@ Home Depot---Picture #5
Oct.14--Basement door repaired---Jason-------             *Picture #1
Oct.17---Foundation caulked, Jason-------------              Picture #2
Oct.23--Regan Pest Control

Did'ya ever...

...open a container of yogurt and go to pour off the watery liquid on top and have the entire contents slide into the sink?

Shattered Illusions

   First it was Ryan Lochte who fell off his pedestal; then Brangelena came crashing down.  On top of that, Billy Bush was found to have put his foot in it, and now we find the dark side of none other than Ken Bone. Is there no one left for us to idolize?

I wish, ...

...among many other things, that game show contestants and everybody else for that matter would stop saying, "I'm going to go with my gut."

The Furnace

October, 7, 2016
                    It takes a village...
     If I'm still here next spring, I'm going to plant lots of zinnias.

Lost.

  My vegetable peeler.  Worse, since I'm the only one in the kitchen anymore, I must  be the one who lost it.  Bad enough that a few years ago Dave threw away my spatula from 1968, just because it was split a little and caused his scrambled eggs to become trapped in it.  I did finally adapt to a new one, of the half dozen or so in the drawer, but this is different!  A peeler customizes itself to your grip, becomes a personal appendage, as it were.  It was an Ekco, costing probably $.39 back in the day, and I own at least 4 more.  But the original was irreplaceable.
    I had bought a peck of apples at ShopNSave about a week and a half ago, breaking my longtime so-called tradition of going to Borden's. We went every year, Ma and Helen, then with Mary and Dorothy B, later with my own kids in whatever configuration would fit in the car.  We would buy apples, cider, sometimes pears. When the kids grew up, and away, it was back to Ma and Helen then only Helen and me.   Much later, I would go by myself, a much shorter trip.
     Last year I went and bought the half-bushel of apples, and spotted some peaches in the case. They looked good.  I'm always wary of peaches, so I asked the woman at the counter how they were.  She said she'd had some and she thought they were very good.  That was the beautiful sunny day that I brought my luscious-looking peach out to the deck, along with a paring knife because I don't like anything fuzzy in my mouth and a napkin to take care of the juice.   I sliced a piece of the peach, saw not a trace of juice, put the slice in my mouth and it was like a wad of cotton.  I remember standing on the deck and cursing that peach as I hurled it down into the woods.
    So I bought the apples at the grocery store this year; the Borden's tradition  now a bygone memory.  The apples were from the Borden's orchard though, and just  a peck, probably only about 16 or 17 apples.  Last week I made an apple pie.  I don't know how it came out. And today I decided to make applesauce.
Even at best, a bag of apples sitting on  my kitchen table reminds me of homework.  I need to break it into manageable sections.  First, always, an apple pie, then applesauce, and back in the glory days an apple crisp.
    I enjoy the finished products, but have never liked preparing the apples.  Too many steps: wash them, peel them, section them, and remove the "fingernail" parts.  I depend on the peeler, and now I can't find it.  I never put it in the dishwasher, always put it in a certain section of the appropriate drawer, and it's not there.  I'm afraid I may have discarded it along with the peels from the pie.  So more than likely no more apple pies, and Mott's applesauce.
    (If I hear one more comment about DT, I don't know what I'll do...

VP Debate Synopsis

Pence used the word "feckless"  way too many times.  Who says that anymore?
Kaine looks very Irish, like a Madigan.

"A Stitch in Time Saves Nine"

  Axioms, proverbs, old sayings are all in jeopardy of obsolescence.  Let's face it: nobody uses them anymore.  "Haste makes waste."  Has any person living today ever uttered those words.  No one since the time of Ben Franklin wants to hear trite advice offered by some self-appointed sage.
   An exception to the above is the use of such pithy aphorisms by neurologists, or at least one.  Having recently been in consult with four such esteemed professionals, it is clear that they all tend to hark back to the presentations of their medical school years.  Why else would  two separate neurologists, in different practices in different cities, when seeking to determine their patient's cognitive level, ask him to spell a word, and then spell it backwards, and the word used by both doctors is the same. Spell "world."  OK, now spell it backwards.  Same word, he could have studied for that test.
    After Neurologist #3  had tested the "world" spelling, he moved on to a more sophisticated assessment:    He asked what does this statement mean to you:   "A stitch in time saves nine."  The patient paused briefly and then launched into a rather lengthy  collection of words, smooth -flowing but circuitous in nature.  The doctor nodded knowingly and made a notation on his chart.
   While there is not much doubt that there is an  impact on cognitive fluency, something is a little off about  this type of assessment in every case.  This patient has always had a more analytic mind, heavily weighted toward the mechanical: design and graphics and spatial skills.  He was never one to analyze literature, was more of a direct thinker in the vein of say what you mean, don't obfuscate your intention with verbiage.
    So one day I posed this adage to his brother, who has no known neurological impairment, and his interpretation was even more skewed. A while later, I tried again, with two of my grandsons this time.  The older went with an astronomical or scientific version, with the "stitch in time" relating to some circumstances of the universe.  So far, I hadn't been able to follow any  of the three explanations of the axiom.
 But that all cleared up when I asked the eight-year-old.  He said it means:
    If 9 people are camping out and lying down under a blanket, and they are really cold, if you sew it up on top, they would stay warm and that could save their lives.
   Aha!
 

HERO July 19, 2009

    We were in the house, Dave at the computer, this fine summer day, when I heard a cry for help.  Actually, and literally---someone yelling "Help!"   I looked out the front window and saw a large hay-filled truck with a person pinned underneath the rear wheel on the passenger side.  The driver was trying to fix a flat tire, had pulled over in front of our driveway, was attempting to jack the back wheel up when it slipped, trapping his leg.
   I opened the door, and went outside to see a young man, saying he was unable to move and desperately asking for help. I ran back inside, told Dave, and I dialed 9-1-1, reported the situation and our address, and then got caught in the web of estimating the age of the driver, and trying to explain at what intersection we were located.  Dave took the phone, bellowed "Get here!" and then sprang into action.  He grabbed the jack from the trunk of his car and, in not much time at all, succeeded in freeing the leg of the trapped driver, before the emergency vehicles arrived.
   As it turned out, the driver was not badly injured, as the wheel that was atop his leg was on the soft dirt-roadside, not the paved or blacktop of the highway..  He was Joanne Molesky's grandson, and about 18 years old. His mother arrived, after the rescue, and calmly said to me that I seemed more nervous then she was.  But she got there when he was okay, though I believe they took him to the ER, and she hadn't seen him  begging for help, trapped beneath a heavy and teetering burden of hay.

If true, Marilu...

 Marilu Henner, if you can remember everything that ever happened in your life, how could you forget the steps of your routine yesterday on Dancing with the Stars?  Derek was really annoyed with you.

Terror of the Surreal

  The strongest emotions any television show ever triggered in me was the 1990's series  "Twin Peaks."  I have memories of sitting on one end of the couch with my youngest child on the other end, and both of us entranced and semi-terrified as each  show played out.  It seemed we were always watching alone, in an empty house. His brother and sister would have been away at college, and perhaps their father was working out of town that year, because the focus was always on just us two.  The mood of the show was strangely surreal, with danger lurking in the most unexpected places, including inanimate objects.
    I was unable to take my eyes off any of the scenes, was fascinated by each  scene and every eerie camera angle.  I waited eagerly for each episode to begin: I think it may have been shown on Thursdays from 9 to 10 p.m.  and though I watched each minute of the show, I remember running out to the kitchen during the commercials to check the clock, hoping it was close to 10 because I couldn't bear the suspense.
   The plot was double-edged, campy, mysterious, deliberately ambiguous, with double-edged occurrences and multiple themes, microcosms in and of themselves.  There was the obvious evil and the perception of evil  in the presentation of common objects.  The camera would pan around, and we would wait, expecting  to see something absolutely horrible in its depravity, but it would settle instead on a clock, and that would appear as the most mortally terrifying sight imaginable.  Just a clock, ticking away.
   I have now, in my present situation, my own presentations of the absurdly surreal Twin Peaks images.  By necessity, I'm the last one to go to bed at night.  As I brush my teeth, I see, reflected in the bathroom mirror, the image of the black headrest of the wheelchair, its back turned for easier access.  I see the same illusion in the early mornings also, and though now I've grown accustomed to its presence, and know what it is, it still elicits the eeriness of the unknown, that fallen-away jolt of the unexpected potential threat.
    And I can't dismiss the appearance of a black shrouded figure disguised as a headrest as a solitary incident either.  Late last night, I went down to retrieve some laundry in the basement.  Now our basement runs the length of the house, a walk-in basement I think it's called.  There is a door that opens to the outside, and  two full-length windows.  All are locked, theoretically, but sometimes one forgets, and the windows still have the screens in place.  Unfortunately, there is a lot of clutter in the basement, as well as tools and pool stuff, a lot of cartons; that is, sufficient space for many concealed  beings.  But who would want to hang out in our cellar, I assure myself, so I'm not really scared, just wary.  So:
     I open the door to the basement, turn on the light, which is not that bright, but serves to illuminate the steps.  I take a few steps down, and see on the floor at the bottom of the steps....something.  I peer at it, trying for identification.  I can't make anything out of it, can't think of what it could be,  It's not large, a dead bird maybe? Or even a live bird? Or another creature, dead or alive?  Some years ago, I discovered the body of a red squirrel curled up on the chair by the dryer.  I thought at first it was one of my son's stuffed animals.  But that was in daylight, and there were other people in the house.  This item is lying in the middle of the concrete floor, in a place I know I hadn't put it no matter what it turns out to be.
My eyes attempt to focus on it, much like the Twin Peaks camera.  I look closer, finally walk nearer to it, and in the dim light, finally see that it is a fanned-open whisk broom.  The theme music from Twin Peaks fades from my brain.
 

Wedding Days

Sister and Brother:
  September 26, 1964  Dorothy Evelyn Madigan and Arthur Augustus King
  September 24, 1966  Rosemary Keegan and Joseph Edward Madigan
Two days alive with hopes and dreams.

Salted Caramel Hoax

   Who the heck comes up with these things anyway?  I guess salted caramel might sound good, but why does it appear in every product at the same time?  Didn't we already have caramel and salt in Carmel-Corn popcorn, isn't that enough. I succumbed to the inane trend and bought a package of Thomas's Salted Caramel English Muffins; they tasted neither like salt or caramel, but bitter, so I threw them away.  I tried salted caramel yogurt, and didn't like that well enough to eat it either.  Not one to give up easily, I ventured to buy salted caramel ice cream.  That was bland, no flavor at all that I could detect.  Maybe it's me...

Bite me.

Brand Infringement?

   Today I went to Rite Aid.  Near the checkout is a fully stocked display of small boxes with what appeared to be the Entenmann's brand beneath a sign reading "Candles."  Each box bore the descriptive label of pumpkin spice, vanilla cream or whatever.  I thought the sign may have read Candies--it's lower case with only one slim letter difference.  I picked one up, a small square box with what looks like the authentic Entenmann's colors and branding.  It is indeed a candle, with a delicious-sounding scent (flavor) and most likely aroma too, though I didn't smell anything through the sealed package.
   I can't believe this is a genuine product, but neither can I believe anyone who has ever heard of a recall would  stock such an item in their store.  I wonder what they taste like....

The Shark

     In a moment of weakness, and out of utter boredom, I succumbed to an Infomercial for the first time ever.  And ordered a Shark Rocket. It was a little pricey for a vacuum cleaner, but shipping was free, and also free returns.  Besides, I have a considerable windfall,  a refund coming  from overpaying my income taxes for 2014, or so the accountant tells me,though I haven't received it yet.
   So I'm stuck in the house, unable to shop for anything except groceries, and watching the Shark infomercial.  I don't need a new vacuum, strictly speaking, because there are two in the house, though one is broken.
    I think my first vacuum was a Hoover, maybe more than one, and then a number of those little stick vacuums that were popular as wedding and shower gifts.  They had limited lifespans.
    The oldest one in the house right now is a fairly modern Hoover Wind Tunnel, a behemoth of a vacuum, very heavy but also automatically powered, which can be very hard on your feet when you travel from carpeting to bare floors. Especially if you vacuum in your bare feet, which I always do.  Don't know why, just have always done so.  The Wind Tunnel came equipped with a signal light on the base:  it stays red until all the dirt is removed and then it turns green.  Sometimes that can take eight or ten  passes before you can move on to the next swath, rather tiring and also boring, but impossible to ignore.
    I was glad to retire the Wind Tunnel when I was given a Dyson.  It was lighter, seemed more thorough, and best of all was bagless.  I was completely satisfied with the Dyson for several years. Then when I was in the hospital for knee surgery, someone decided to clean up a little and bashed the vacuum into some furniture, cracking off the plastic cord rewind holder.  I priced the replacement part, but like today's automobiles, you can't replace the small plastic part, but need to buy the entire housing.  So I used it as is, wrapping the cord around the unit as best I could.  The first chink in its armor, until about a year ago, when one day it made a horrible noise and our attempts at replacing the belt or belts were in vain. So the Dyson remains in the section reserved for repairs some day.
    It was back to the old Wind Tunnel.  It still worked though seemed hesitant to vacuum up Maybe's cat hair, a challenge to be sure, one that kept the red light glowing for many swipes.  It also has the paper bags, a feature I thought I was  done with for good.  I used it-----until THE SHARK.
    The commercial was strangely engrossing; I believe the psychology that goes into the sales pitches makes sure of that. I ordered one.
   Even for something that costs "less than $200," buyer's remorse set in, actually not so much for the cost but because here's another thing I don't have room for. The package arrived yesterday, and I thought  of returning it unopened, but tonight I opened the package and assembled all the pieces, a lot of plastic, though a very pretty aubergine color.  I'll give it a try, I thought.  I had "just" vacuumed on Monday, when I had the opportunity of having the house to myself.  It's hard  to vacuum around someone, and also kind of rude.  I expected the floor to be fairly clean; I'm the only one who walks in and out on a regular basis anymore, and I usually take my shoes off in the house.  So I pushed the vacuum over the living room floor.  It moved easily, weighing only about the nine advertised pounds, and was very quiet, also as advertised, so it didn't seem to have much suction.  When I went to empty the cup into the kitchen garbage, the cup was jam-packed overflowing with not just the usual cat hair which had been mostly previously vacuumed up, but just plain dirt, scads of it.  The Shark had struck.
 
 

Repugnant

   In a single week, I've learned from watching TV that Hoda runs the water to help her pee, that Mel B. has saved Bear's life by peeing on his jellyfish sting, and that Heidi Klum eats boogers, fried or otherwise.  I didn't get all the details, too grossed out.

So which case is it?

Their own site has it as eBay, ebay, or in some instances Ebay.  Can't we all agree?

Retro Wildflowers

   Across the road was a huge field teeming with all sorts of wildflowers, or so it seemed then.  But I believe that was not far from the truth.  Helen would lead us over there across the narrow dirt road, a road that led to only one other house further up the road.  That was the reason that they could not get "the electric."  The power company would not erect poles and bring their resource unless there were enough customers, much like the cable and then internet offerings.  But I digress.  There was a sea of flowers, colorful, most of them at least  waist-high, to the waists of us kids anyway.  There were daisies, buttercups, and paintbrushes, both the red and yellow versions. We would pick and pick, armloads for us and an apronful for Helen.
    Back to grandmother's house we would go bearing our bounty, and ready to put them in a receptacle with water.  We needed to keep them fresh because of course we would bring them home.  The container would always be the same: the only suitable and available flower holder would be a canning jar, Atlas or Ball.  Unlike today's collectible vintage canning jars, then they  would be ordinary household items, necessities as everybody canned, just extra jars that were not in use.
    I have no recollection of what happened with the flowers when we arrived home.  But seared in my memory is the vision of a sun-filled field full of flowers and Helen in her glory, amidst the flowers and the visiting children that she loved.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

  Wildflowers, that is.  The kids, as usual, entered the "Wildflowers" category for the Schaghticoke Fair.  Seems simple: each of you just go pick a bunch of wildflowers.  But trying to find them is not as easy as you might think, not anymore.  Oops, the purplestrife across the road from our house unexpectedly got mowed down just the week before.  I guess the highway workers are still compensating for a snowless winter.  So we'll try the ball field, maybe along the fence.  Also mowed and neatly trimmed.  We drove along, looking in the ditches, but they'd all been recently mowed also.  We finally found some along the roadside, but the area was much too dangerous. One doesn't want to stop and pick wildflowers anywhere near  where flowers have been planted as a memorial.            The village playground had a few growths of Goldenrod near the back roadside border.  I usually try to avoid this plant because so many are allergic to it, but we're getting desperate.  Greg, armed with scissors, exits the car, cuts  what he thinks would constitute a wildflower bouquet worthy of being an entry, and deposits them in the back seat next to his brother, who yelps, "A bee is in there!  And I got stung in the forehead once, and I really didn't like it!"  I tell him not to move until we get home, where the kids left the car and I was left to remove  flowers and  bee.  That was Entry #1.
    Right next to the front door of our house is a growth of yellow flowers resembling Black-Eyed-Susans, but much taller, which mysteriously appeared just this spring.  I don't remember having planted them, so we deemed them wildflowers, and the bee-intimidated one safely snipped off several of the blossoms.  Entry #2 was satisfied.
    The third and last entry was the most iffy.  Some tall plant with what could conceivably be called a flower at the top qualified, at least in our state of wildflower fatigue.
   

Close Shave

   Did you ever hear of anybody who used an electric razor to shave both legs, and only afterwards realized that the blade guard had been left on the whole time?  No!  It wasn't me!

Sweet Charity

I'm thinking of opening  a Gofundme site to arrange a decent burial for the 300 Norwegian reindeer victims of a lightning strike.

Rituals and Rites

Opening Events-----Okay, good
Closing Ceremonies.........Yuck
   Same goes for victory celebrations and parades, post-game interviews, de-sanctifications, and post-mortems of any kind.  Let it go.

School Days

     I can remember walking to school, mouthing the letters of the spelling words.  We did have spelling tests in first grade back then, and so far I hadn't missed any words.  My mother would go over the list with me and everything had made perfect sense.  Until this time:  there were 2 words on the list that threw me.  The words were "store" and "white."   The first I thought I had, but I could make no sense of the word white, so I relied on memorization.  Around the corner by the Valley Inn, past the Methodist Church, and up the steps into  the red brick school building, I repeated the spellings over and over, my stomach churning every step of the way.
    I was in my seat, pencil in hand, blank sheet of paper before me, awaiting the dictation of the words.  The rest of the list, as usual, was easy, no problem, even the word store, once written, looked right to me. But I panicked at the word white.  I knew it started with a "w" but beyond that, I knew what all the letters were, but had no idea of where they came after the w.  I tried, writing over the letters I thought needed changing.  The word looked scratchy and scrawled.
    Then, the moment of dread---the arrival of the teacher to correct the test.  The teacher was Mrs.Flynn,  to my first-grade self a tall and foreboding presence.  She loomed above my desk, over my shoulder.  And she had her pencil with her, with the sharpened red end at the ready. She scrolled it down over my list of words, and Horrors! stopped at my feeble attempt.  "What is this supposed to be? she asked, in her stern, schoolmarm voice.  I was sure everyone in the room, including the second-grade section on the left side of the room, was watching, aghast.  I whispered "white" and she halted the progress of her pen down the list and laid down a big red Check Mark next to the offending entry.  She said no more, just walked away.
     Is that all there is to a fire?



   
 

Liberated and/or Doomed

    Maybe a mixture of both.  That's the feeling you get when you cancel your doctors' appointments.  It's not that I don't believe in health care, but there is a time and a place for everything.
   Kids hardly ever seem to get sick anymore, except in the most terrible instances where the poor little tykes are diagnosed with cancer.  Back in the day, kids routinely got all the "childhood diseases," and we were no exception:  Chicken pox, which was usually considered a minor disease, when compared to the others; Mumps, which was so very uncomfortable;  Whooping Cough, which threatened Dorothy's life during her severe coughing and strangling spells; Measles, the "regular, red" sort, from which I got so sick I wanted to die;  German Measles, another mild, "You're only sick for about one week" ailment. Our old school Report Cards document our absences during these sieges, some for weeks at a time, and we loved to go to school, hated missing it.
   Even a generation later, my own children, 2 of them, were very sick with Chicken Pox, and its lasting effects of blisters and styes.  They were not yet able to be protected from Mumps, which caused them a lot of misery and pain, from which the youngest was saved due to the advent of the vaccine.
    For a time, there was, and maybe still is, a theory that there are so many more child cancer victims today because children are now spared from the childhood diseases which routinely took the lives of those kids with the weakest immune systems. I think environmental causes have pretty much displaced that theory, though it probably holds a grain of truth, if not more.
    The focus of modern medicine is, and rightfully so, on maintaining health and preventing diseases.  What can be done for treating acquired and chronic conditions can be undoubtedly helpful, some if not all the time.   After all, what doctors and health providers do is prolong your life, not save it.
 

The Case of the Fourth Air Conditioner.

   I couldn't figure out how we came to possess 4 "modern" A.C.'s.  I should have known:  David sent it, for his father.  It is the only one we have that has a remote control, so the temperature and air flow can be regulated without his getting out of bed.

A Different View

   I woke up this morning, and something seemed different. As if something important had occurred.  But everything is the same, exactly the same. And I'm not superstitious, or psychic.  Maybe the planet changed course in the middle of the night.

A Fortune

Pamella Couthiner contacted me through a feedback I'd left for the VA several months ago.  She has terminal throat cancer, lost her husband, is from England but is now in France and has chosen to donate to me her fortune of 60,000 somethings, maybe Euros.  I just need to contact her; who says nobody cares?

Toast Crumbs in the Butter

    It's a hard truth to have to face, but when no one else has access, you are the one who is responsible for the toast crumbs in the butter container. You alone must bear responsibility for the spilled coffee stains on the kitchen counter, and only you could have left the front door ajar instead of closing it securely for the night.   But then, nobody knows and nobody sees and nobody cares but me.

Frozen in Time ( Another Draft, 2016)

  While the house he grew up in may have undergone some changes, according to the recent pictures and some background knowledge, the house next door appeared exactly the same.  Well kept up,with the lawn perfectly maintained, as in the old days.  A young couple lived next door, the friendliest and most helpful neighbors the senior Schroders could have imagined. In our early marriage years, when we visited Kingston frequently, the family consisted of  Jan and Jerry, their son, a sweet little boy called Jay, and their toddler daughter Jill, who had completely stolen the heart of Dave's father.  Her mother was very conscious of not intruding when the neighbors had company, but occasionally the child would come over anyway and Herman would have her stand on the footstool in the living room so he could "interview" her and delight in her reactions, before her mother came to claim her.  A few years later, a baby boy joined the family, Jimmy, a gentle and sweet little child.
    But time marches on, Dave's parents gone, 140 Wrentham sold, the swimming pool, the focus of many a summer visit, filled in by the new owners.  Dave's father had a penchant for acquiring that which would bring the family together, and an inground pool, though not exactly a novelty at the time, was rather cutting edge.  He installed the pool, with help from neighbors and family, the weekend that Marilyn was being born.  Hello, grandchidren in the pool!
    When Dave heard that David's curiosity had led to his driving by the old Kingston homestead, a communication on Skype or such, Dave suggested he stop in and see Jan and Jerry.  Their 3 kids were grown and gone by now.  But no one answered the door.  David took pictures of their house also; it was so close to #140.
   Their house and lawn looked exactly the same.  No one had removed their front porch as had been done on the Schroder house.  Dave called to mind the last he had heard about Jerry.  An old mutual friend told him he was accustomed  to seeing  Jerry riding his bicycle around town.  It was easy to picture things as they had been, the inside as frozen in time as the outward appearance.
    Today, Dave took it upon himself to call Jerry, and tell him David had driven by his house, but no one was home.  Jerry answered the phone, from the haven of his seemingly unchanged home.  He told Dave that Jan, his wife, had died several weeks ago.  He said that his daughter Jill, had died several years ago, suddenly, at the age of 44.  And that he no longer rode his bicycle around the town.
 

Frozen in Time

  While the house he grew up in may have undergone some changes, according to the recent pictures and some background knowledge, the house next door appeared exactly the same.  Well kept up,with the lawn perfectly maintained, as in the old days.  A young couple lived next door, the friendliest and most helpful neighbors the senior Schroders could have imagined. In our early marriage years, when we visited Kingston frequently, the family consisted of  Jan and Jerry, their son, a sweet little boy called Jay, and their toddler daughter Jill, who had completely stolen the heart of Dave's father.  Her mother was very conscious of not intruding when the neighbors had company, but occasionally the child would come over anyway and Herman would have her stand on the footstool in the living room so he could "interview" her and delight in her reactions, before her mother came to claim her.  A few years later, a baby boy joined the family, Jimmy, a gentle and sweet little child.
    But time marches on:   Dave's parents gone, 140 Wrentham sold, the swimming pool, the focus of many a summer visit, filled in by the new owners.  Dave's father had a penchant for acquiring that which would bring the family together, and an inground pool, though not exactly a novelty at the time, was rather cutting edge.  He installed the pool, with help from neighbors and family, the weekend that Marilyn was being born.  Hello, grandchidren in the pool!
    When Dave heard that David's curiosity had led to his driving by the old Kingston homestead, a communication by Skype or such, Dave suggested he stop in and see Jan and Jerry.  Their 3 kids were grown and gone by now.  But no one answered the door.  David took pictures of their house also; it was so close to #140.
   Their house and lawn looked exactly the same.  No one had removed their front porch as had been done on the Schroder house.  Dave called to mind the last he had heard about Jerry.  An old mutual friend told him he was accustomed  to seeing  Jerry riding his bicycle around town.  It was easy to picture things as they had been, the inside as frozen in time as the outward appearance.
    Today, Dave took it upon himself to call Jerry, and tell him David had driven by his house, but no one was home.  Jerry answered the phone, from the haven of his seemingly unchanged home.  He told Dave that Jan, his wife, had died several weeks ago.  He said that his daughter Jill, had died several years ago, suddenly, at the age of 44.  And that he no longer rode his bicycle around the town.
 

Stir Crazy

   While I probably am, I wonder about something else:   Why does every chef and cook on television use the word "stir" as a noun when describing how to follow a recipe.  "I pour in the ingredients and give it a stir."   "Make sure you give it a good stir."  Didn't people used to just stir the stuff up.  Now you can't simply stir something, you must give it a stir.  Maybe nouns are sexier than verbs.

The A.C.'s

  We bought our first air conditioner one day in July, a few months after we were married and living in an upstairs apartment in Schaghticoke.  The weather that summer of 1968 might have set some kind of record because that apartment was so stifling hot it was intolerable.  After a miserably sleepless night, we drove to some store in Albany where they were having a truck sale of air conditioners in the parking lot.  It was the window inset type and and made life tolerable for the rest of the summer.   I think it ceased to work after a while; I don't remember what happened to it.  If memory serves, we also had, for a while, an air conditioner from Kingston when the folks down there installed central air.  That air conditioner may have gone to Don first and then here, or maybe it was the other way around.  Some summers in our house were hotter than others, but we always installed them, using them frequently or only occasionally.  When my uncle's wife died, she kindly bequeathed to me her 2 air conditioners.  Some years we installed all 3.
   One feature all those air conditioners had in common was their weight; they were pretty good sized and they were heavy as all get-out.  But every year Dave faithfully brought them up from the basement and then back down for the winter.  That was the procedure for many years until about a decade or so ago.  Those old A.C.'s refused to die, but they were so darn heavy that it was getting tedious to handle them.  One day we bought a new, lightweight one, I think at Rite-Aid.  That worked out so well that we bought a second one the next year, and left the monsters in the basement.  I know one of the guys at Dave's office said he would like one of the older ones, for what reason I can't remember, something about the cooling agent.  So we still had 2. I think Dave brought another to a recycling center some years ago.  I know we had the last behemoth until last summer when I put a sign on our lawn offering it and a dysfunctional dryer for free.  A man responded and while he hoisted the clothes dryer with no difficulty,he said the A.C. was the heaviest he's ever encountered.
     So we had the 2 later-model white units, and when Dorothy's friend Gwen was moving back to the city, she  offered her brand new AC to Dorothy to give to us, as she knew Dorothy had central air.  That accounts for three air conditioning units, but I can't explain*why there were four in the house.  At least one too many, for our present purposes, with  only 2 people living here now.  I got rid of one of them today.  It looked quite new, was in the original box, though I don't know its origin.
* In addition to the 2 modern AC's we had bought in recent years, at Rite Aid and such, plus the one from Gwen via Dorothy, the newest of all, just a few months old, was a gift from David to his father.  It has a remote control for easy temperature and fan adjustment.  Thank you, David.
 

Olympic Observations

Criteria for Olympic Athletes
      Beautiful, white, perfect, prominent teeth, and minimal boobage.

Mayhem in the Morning

     This morning, quite early, I was vacuuming the floor, trying to prevent the baby, now in the crawling stage, from being covered in cat hair.  I saw a small spider on the kitchen floor.  I aimed the vacuum at it; it scurried away.  Or attempted to do so. I pursued it as it scurried, caught up with it, and ran the vacuum right over it.  I hope it's dead.  I hope criminal charges are not forthcoming.

The Presidency

  I'm listening to Hillary wind up her speech.  I can imagine Donald Trump saying, "Oh, all right, let her have it."

Death by Ostrich

   Well, I wasn't killed, but could have been, by this very beast.  One summer day, we decided to take the kids and visit Safari Land, an area animal park open at the time. Local television personality David Allen used to advertise it. Somewhere north of Greenwich, maybe Gansvoort or some place.
   It was a drive-through nature preserve, several miles of roads through segmented areas, with a booth at the entrance of each fenced section, some of them staffed,  and a number of signs.
  We had a station wagon and the kids could see through the windows: "Look at that lion,"  in regard to a rather desultory looking animal lying near some rocks.  The sign over the road to that enclosure advised visitors not to get out of their cars and to leave the windows rolled up.
   Driving a distance down the winding road, we came to an enclosure saying visitors could leave their cars to walk among the animal life there.  Husband and kids were  not  inclined to do so, maybe because it was a hot day, or maybe they just didn't feel like it.  I, probably wanting to participate in the day's adventure by  doing more than just sitting in the car, got out.  I looked around, trying to see signs of animal life--the visitor-friendly type.  I spotted an ostrich, a distance away; "Look, kids."
     I don't know how fast an ostrich is capable of running, but it didn't take long for it to start closing the gap between it and me.  They really pound the ground when they hurry. Safety zone maybe, but I decided to get in the car, without a lot of time to spare either, and slammed the door shut.  That ostrich ran right up to our car, and started drilling its beak  against the roof of the car.  It made a lot of noise.  The roof of the car was not damaged, but I don't think I could have said the same for my head if it had been the target. At some point, someone took the picture posted above, through the closed window.

TMI

   For all it's worth, I don't want to watch any more videos or even see any pictures of any member of any species, human or animal,  giving birth.

Holy Lucifer!

  I know most politicians, celebrities, and talk show hosts use speech writers to some extent or another, but I'm pretty sure that Dr. Ben Jonson writes his own speeches.  Nothing he said tonight made any sense at all.

Tempus Doth Frickin' Fugit

    Drove past the Schaghticoke Fairgrounds today.  Grounds are completely cleared of Country Fest activity, and workers are changing the Signboard to the dates of the Schaghticoke Fair.

Anniversary of Sorts

  Two years ago today, second TKR.  Home from the hospital in less than 48 hours, back to "normal" in less than a week, and no pain at all, thanks, I suppose, to the wonders of nerve block.  All in all, as many have said, a remarkable recovery.
    Some years ago, my knees were causing me so much misery, affecting my ability to walk, not to mention even stand, that my sister encouraged me to have the replacement surgery that a doctor said would help. She said she would have similar surgery, but her medical condition ruled out the prospect.  I was in dread of surgery, anticipating  a long, drawn-out period of incapacity.  I told her I was waiting for her to get strong enough to help me through it. She said nothing in response, but  I can see her face, serious and thoughtful.  She, who'd always waded in to help, even before she was asked, had no resource left to offer.
   There was a time when I might have believed she did help, in what was, for me, an extraordinary recovery from major surgery, but I can't say I have that kind of true faith anymore. But still, sometimes, the thought enters my mind...

McDonald's Lobster Roll Review

     Off to McD's to get the new Lobster Roll, one only; I do not partake of lobster.  As it turned out, neither did the one for whom the lobster roll was intended.  I'd even brought along a cooler with ice pack, so the lobster would be fresh and tasty when it arrived home.  "How is it?" I asked the consumer.  "No lobster to speak of, nothing to taste but lettuce."  The cost for the lettuce sandwich with teeny shreds of lobster was $8.99.  I suggested that if he filed a complaint with management, they'd probably offer him another.  He said, "No, I don't want another one."

Senses Sympathy, Sham

     I am not proud of this and certainly would not attempt to take credit for any remaining aspect of my physical prowess, but I will say that though all my other senses may have declined, I retain one, that being a fairly decent sense of smell. For several weeks, I detected the odor of mildew in the area of the kitchen sink.  I looked beneath but everything was clean and dry.  I went down to the basement and followed the path of the plumbing and the wooden floor beneath where the sink would be.  All looked clear, with no evidence of leakage anywhere.  I poured Clorox into both drains of the sink, followed by boiling water.  I did the same with vinegar.  Each of those treatments took the odor away for only a day or so.  Finally, I researched the Handyman on Google.  He suggested pouring DRANO down the sink, to clear out the trap, he said.  I did so, about 2 weeks ago now, and so far the odor has not returned.  A success story.
    Yesterday morning, as I filled the teakettle, I smelled an unpleasant odor. At first I had the thought, "It's back again."  But almost instantly, my sense of smell registered not mildew, but something else, something dead.  I checked the trap behind the breadbox, which I had set just the day before, after Maybe signaled a mouse might be around, and that I might want to do something about it.  Sure enough, a mouse was in the trap, already starting to reek in the heat of June.  Mildew and dead mice are both bad smells, but they're not the same.  Discerning nostrils know the difference.
     Today I read the unfortunate conclusion to the search for a local woman who has been missing for a month.  Her body was found in  a wooded area near where she was last seen. An extensive search utilizing helicopters and tracking dogs had failed to find her.  The woods were deep and the foliage thick, so the helicopters would have been of little use.  But what about the tracking dogs?  The woman had been depressed, said her family.  She had evidently walked into the woods by herself, on foot. Her scent would have been available as an aid to the dogs.  How could they have missed her?  Decay would have started almost instantly.  I understand carrion dogs are sometime used in such instances.  So, Uncle Tom's Cabin aside, I wonder, how effective are tracking dogs anyway.  Same suspicion would apply to drug-sniffing dogs. The dog handler spies a likely looking subject at a bus station or such, and says, "Hey, Rover, let's go check out that suitcase over there."

Strawberries Field

   One of the reunion attendees reported she had picked 50 quarts of strawberries, for making jam, pies, etc.  I don't know whether it was at Hand Farm or Strawberry Acres. It reminded me that as yet I hadn't had any seasonal strawberries this year, which are the only ones worth buying, as far as I'm concerned.  The last two packs of California strawberries I bought went in the garbage. They looked fine but were pithy and dry.   Time was when the local supermarkets would carry fresh strawberries, but I haven't seen any this year.  I believe the growers do not want to share any of the goldmine that the strawberries represent.
  Since I was in the general area yesterday, I drove to Hand Melon.  Though the people I'd talked to said they were selling for $5.00 a "basket," the price on that Sunday was now $5.75, based, I presume, on whatever the traffic would bear.  The customers were streaming in.  A notice was posted saying you could pick your own for $2.75 per pound.
    Now I didn't care what the price was that day.  I was going to buy strawberries.  And I was not in the mood to pick my own.  But I couldn't help but wonder.  Since a pint equals a pound, the pick-your-own berries would be $5.50 per quart.  The berries I bought were in a blue cardboard package, with no mention of the size.  I weighed the container, with unhulled strawberries, and it weighed a pound and a half.  Who would know strawberries would come in a pint and a half container.  So I paid $5.75 for 1 1/2 pints.  I calculate the price to pick a pint and a half would be about $4.12.
     Such ambiguity:   a pound,  a pint, a quart, a container in between those 2 sizes.
     The berries I bought taste pretty good, but they are very small, so a lot of prep time, all that hulling.