"Take a live look at Times Square AHEAD OF the ball drop at midnight." WRGB CBS NEWS
"NYPD ramps up security AHEAD OF Times Square New Year's Eve celebration." NBCNEWS.COM
1/2/2019 Trump stands by wall AHEAD OF meeting with Dems. CNN
Monday, December 31, 2018
"Keep Me in Your Heart for Awhile" Warren Zevon From "The Wind"
Memorial lyrical background to Paul Schroder's Tribute youtube.com pds929 Last words of advice------"Enjoy every sandwich."
"There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done.
Keep me in your heart for awhile."
"There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done.
Keep me in your heart for awhile."
Sunday, December 30, 2018
For the Birds
Sign of Decline
Completely unsolicited, a bunch of email invites for ProCanna CBD Oil. From the CBD Medical Journal, so entirely vetted, I'm sure. Two separate emails today already.
Saturday, December 29, 2018
Angels Unaware--High School Graduation
Dorothy Evelyn Rita Madigan King Madigan HVC Graduate, Age 16
December 29, 1939 June 1, 2011 And that hair! Bottom picture: Age 7 in 3rd Grade
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Kennedy Center Honors
I caught the last part, because we were watching The Lion King. But I saw enough to confirm that Adam Lambert is beautiful.
Monday, December 24, 2018
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Books Galore
So many books. So few readers. Sure, some people still buy books; memoirs are hot right now, but what percentage of the buyers ever read what percentage of the text is a matter of speculation.
Our waste contractor tells us hard-cover books are not recyclable. Even at our small local library, I've witnessed the sorry sight of scores of "weeded-out" books having their covers ripped off in order to meet disposal requirements. There are too many books and no one wants them. When Dave still worked in Albany, he would regularly donate a carton of unwanted books from our own accumulated collections to the Albany Public Library. They accepted them back then. For what purpose, we never knew.
In the house right now are bins of books, of all different types.Sometimes I wish I could find a certain book to track down some elusive thought or memory, but the search would be an overwhelming one.
Long ago, when I was first teaching, a fellow teacher of English had retired and was moving to Arizona. She was disposing of her properties, including a camp on the river. She gave us the key to her camp, and invited us to help ourselves to her lifetime collection of books, which were in the bookshelves that lined the walls. I have a memory of picking out half a dozen old books which related to the subject I taught. Some of them then would probably have been very desirable as rare and antiquarian volumes, but that market must have greatly narrowed over time.
One of the books I took from the camp was a book that contained the poetry of Robert Frost, who was a popular writer then. The book contained not only his poetry, but also analyses of his most well-known poems. I have no memory of who wrote the critiques. That is one of the books I wish I could locate now, though I'm not sure it's still in my house.
"Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening," that critic surmised, was more than a merry jingle to a sleighride on a beautiful winter's night. A much darker element was proposed, a rather shocking insight into the mind of the beloved and avuncular appearing Robert Frost.
"...The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep"
What if these words were not just the musing of someone who casually stopped to admire the stark cold stillness of a neighbor's woods, alone, in the middle of the night? What if the words represented the seduction of suicide, which was put off, at least for the present, because he knew he had responsibilities in life.
Our waste contractor tells us hard-cover books are not recyclable. Even at our small local library, I've witnessed the sorry sight of scores of "weeded-out" books having their covers ripped off in order to meet disposal requirements. There are too many books and no one wants them. When Dave still worked in Albany, he would regularly donate a carton of unwanted books from our own accumulated collections to the Albany Public Library. They accepted them back then. For what purpose, we never knew.
In the house right now are bins of books, of all different types.Sometimes I wish I could find a certain book to track down some elusive thought or memory, but the search would be an overwhelming one.
Long ago, when I was first teaching, a fellow teacher of English had retired and was moving to Arizona. She was disposing of her properties, including a camp on the river. She gave us the key to her camp, and invited us to help ourselves to her lifetime collection of books, which were in the bookshelves that lined the walls. I have a memory of picking out half a dozen old books which related to the subject I taught. Some of them then would probably have been very desirable as rare and antiquarian volumes, but that market must have greatly narrowed over time.
One of the books I took from the camp was a book that contained the poetry of Robert Frost, who was a popular writer then. The book contained not only his poetry, but also analyses of his most well-known poems. I have no memory of who wrote the critiques. That is one of the books I wish I could locate now, though I'm not sure it's still in my house.
"Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening," that critic surmised, was more than a merry jingle to a sleighride on a beautiful winter's night. A much darker element was proposed, a rather shocking insight into the mind of the beloved and avuncular appearing Robert Frost.
"...The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep"
What if these words were not just the musing of someone who casually stopped to admire the stark cold stillness of a neighbor's woods, alone, in the middle of the night? What if the words represented the seduction of suicide, which was put off, at least for the present, because he knew he had responsibilities in life.
Saturday, December 22, 2018
LUNA-tics
This story pretty much writes itself. A dog comes home for Christmas. Not since "Lassie Come Home" has there been such a furor of publicity. And there's nothing wrong with that if you're a dog lover.
New dog-bite legislation has been enacted in the city of Troy, and no longer will a dog summarily be sentenced to death based on its history of a single bite. Extenuating circumstances will now be taken into consideration. And that all seems reasonable.
But remember the words of a prominent politician: Don't believe what your ears hear or what your eyes see. Believe in the story that's being told:
This dog "bit" another dog. That happens, doesn't it, sounds almost like normal canine behavior. But what if the biter charged up a flight of stairs, through 2 barricades, and attacked a much smaller dog on its own property. Oh, the barricades were flimsy, one a baby gate. And the human who got bitten may possibly have been bitten by the owner's own dog, in the process of breaking up the fight. Even if that were so, the blame would rest on the attacking dog. Though remember, Luna BIT the other dog. Don't use the word ATTACK,
Okay, these words are what you may have read or heard on the media. Thus, subject to interpretation----we weren't there/
. But wait. there's more. The inevitable Christmas Miracle Reunion. It's live. Prepare yourself for the display of intense emotion. The family, mother and child, is waiting. The dog is brought out on a leash, ostensibly into the arms of its family, but instead seems much more interested in the array of donated Christmas presents in honor of its homecoming. Probably a beef jerky stick in there somewhere. That doesn't stop the owner, who is holding back tears: we know this is true because the narrator is telling us. The owner attempts to snuggle the dog, holding firmly onto its head so she can plant a kiss onto its lips, which the dog is kind of forced to return, so the camera gets its shot. The young girl in the family pets the dog, awkwardly, as if this is new behavior for her.
Amid all the YouTube versions of dogs greeting owners they've long been separated from, this reunion has to be on the lowest excitement scale ever. Luna does not seem impressed. Tune in next year----there's bound to be a sequel.
New dog-bite legislation has been enacted in the city of Troy, and no longer will a dog summarily be sentenced to death based on its history of a single bite. Extenuating circumstances will now be taken into consideration. And that all seems reasonable.
But remember the words of a prominent politician: Don't believe what your ears hear or what your eyes see. Believe in the story that's being told:
This dog "bit" another dog. That happens, doesn't it, sounds almost like normal canine behavior. But what if the biter charged up a flight of stairs, through 2 barricades, and attacked a much smaller dog on its own property. Oh, the barricades were flimsy, one a baby gate. And the human who got bitten may possibly have been bitten by the owner's own dog, in the process of breaking up the fight. Even if that were so, the blame would rest on the attacking dog. Though remember, Luna BIT the other dog. Don't use the word ATTACK,
Okay, these words are what you may have read or heard on the media. Thus, subject to interpretation----we weren't there/
. But wait. there's more. The inevitable Christmas Miracle Reunion. It's live. Prepare yourself for the display of intense emotion. The family, mother and child, is waiting. The dog is brought out on a leash, ostensibly into the arms of its family, but instead seems much more interested in the array of donated Christmas presents in honor of its homecoming. Probably a beef jerky stick in there somewhere. That doesn't stop the owner, who is holding back tears: we know this is true because the narrator is telling us. The owner attempts to snuggle the dog, holding firmly onto its head so she can plant a kiss onto its lips, which the dog is kind of forced to return, so the camera gets its shot. The young girl in the family pets the dog, awkwardly, as if this is new behavior for her.
Amid all the YouTube versions of dogs greeting owners they've long been separated from, this reunion has to be on the lowest excitement scale ever. Luna does not seem impressed. Tune in next year----there's bound to be a sequel.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Tis Christmas time.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
Oh, no, not again.
I had to watch Jeopardy in the living room, and therefore had to postpone my cycling, because the TV in the room with the exercise bike is stuck on Channel 13. So after Jeopardy was over, I repaired to the room to cycle away, usually for about half an hour.. That hardly counts as exercise, but it's what I do now.
Anyway, I find it almost impossible to cycle away even for half an hour without watching TV. And what is on the available Channel 13, but a Pentatonix Christmas. Egad. I think it's a repeat because I remember turning it off before, but now I'm pretty much a captive audience.
So bizarre: they're singing Hallelujah while dishing out food in a cafeteria setting, ostensibly, or so I perceived, to homeless or needy people. Why they chose that song I can't even imagine. Praising the Lord, I suppose, but what's that song got to do with it. At least they're not children, but I think Leonard Cohen would expect the song be sung by an individual, not a group.
At the end of the song, and the show, I had to cut my cycling time a little short: I was only at 5 miles, instead of my usual minimum of 7 miles, but the next program was that kid with the puppet. Egad to the nth.
Anyway, I find it almost impossible to cycle away even for half an hour without watching TV. And what is on the available Channel 13, but a Pentatonix Christmas. Egad. I think it's a repeat because I remember turning it off before, but now I'm pretty much a captive audience.
So bizarre: they're singing Hallelujah while dishing out food in a cafeteria setting, ostensibly, or so I perceived, to homeless or needy people. Why they chose that song I can't even imagine. Praising the Lord, I suppose, but what's that song got to do with it. At least they're not children, but I think Leonard Cohen would expect the song be sung by an individual, not a group.
At the end of the song, and the show, I had to cut my cycling time a little short: I was only at 5 miles, instead of my usual minimum of 7 miles, but the next program was that kid with the puppet. Egad to the nth.
Believe at your own risk
So the dog is reprieved. That's fine, considering it was her first, and non-fatal, bite. The lame media consistently refers to the dog as a pitbull mix. I wonder what the other .05 mix might be. She looks pretty true-to-breed, doesn't she?
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Words of Reassurance
Today's visit to the ophthalmologist brought me into contact first with Alexis and next Skeet, Because I had an issue which was counter to my scheduled appointment, I had a short wait in the examining room until the doctor returned from lunch. Maybe because it was a deviation from the norm, Skeet checked in after a short time to say I hadn't been forgotten, and to ask if I wanted water or anything. I didn't; I carry my own. But that was the first time that had happened in that office.
When the doctor arrived, I told him of my concerns, including that I had had 5 separate surgeries on my eye, and that I wanted to keep seeing while I was still living. He answered that, "My goal is the same as yours." He said he was willing to make any adjustment or accommodation that I was comfortable with. And so we agreed.
No overt sarcasm or snarkiness or patronizing attitude, as can be usual in that office. So I'm relieved to be able to adjust my attitude toward that practice in general, at least for now. Nowadays it doesn't take much to make me feel a little better about things.
LATER: Nope, mistletoe evidently grows from the seed in its berries.
When the doctor arrived, I told him of my concerns, including that I had had 5 separate surgeries on my eye, and that I wanted to keep seeing while I was still living. He answered that, "My goal is the same as yours." He said he was willing to make any adjustment or accommodation that I was comfortable with. And so we agreed.
No overt sarcasm or snarkiness or patronizing attitude, as can be usual in that office. So I'm relieved to be able to adjust my attitude toward that practice in general, at least for now. Nowadays it doesn't take much to make me feel a little better about things.
LATER: Nope, mistletoe evidently grows from the seed in its berries.
Monday, December 17, 2018
Plant Life
The will to live---among plants that is.
Last Valentine's Day, one of my gifts was a floral bouquet. The flowers, maybe they were tulips, and maybe it was Easter and not Valentine's Day, eventually withered and were thrown out. But the supporting greenery was still so fresh and vital looking that I kept them in the vase of water. If they root, I'll plant them outside when spring comes, I thought.
Well, they didn't root, but they still appear as fresh as the day I got them, almost a year ago. I inspected them the other day, and what do I find, on the bottom side of several of the leaves, but what appear to be tiny seedling plants. I wonder if I can plant one of them.
I'm trying to recall if that's how mistletoe grows. I'll look it up if I find the motivation.
Last Valentine's Day, one of my gifts was a floral bouquet. The flowers, maybe they were tulips, and maybe it was Easter and not Valentine's Day, eventually withered and were thrown out. But the supporting greenery was still so fresh and vital looking that I kept them in the vase of water. If they root, I'll plant them outside when spring comes, I thought.
Well, they didn't root, but they still appear as fresh as the day I got them, almost a year ago. I inspected them the other day, and what do I find, on the bottom side of several of the leaves, but what appear to be tiny seedling plants. I wonder if I can plant one of them.
I'm trying to recall if that's how mistletoe grows. I'll look it up if I find the motivation.
Friday, December 14, 2018
Animal Tracks
I wonder what little beast may be living under the ramp and crawling down the walkway and up on my front steps at night?
Royal Shot
I just saw the Christmas Card photo of the royal family, William's branch. Everyone looks adorable, but little George looks as if he's doggy-peeing on the tree. An awkward sight.
Dental VS Ophthalmology
This is not a debate about the relative merits of these two important medical specialties, but rather of the creature comfort afforded by both.
\
DENTAL OFFICE: You the patient are seated in a fairly comfortable chair. It has padding, a headrest, a footrest, and armrests. The chair is adjustable to your needs, and someone else adjusts it. There is a tray that slides in front of you, with various piece of equipment or implements. The dentist, dental assistant and technician all lean in to provide their services. Almost all the needed equipment, including x-ray machine, are brought to you as you sit in the chair. Yes, there may be some discomfort and even pain, but it is not because of your position. You remain pretty much passive throughout whatever the procedure is; the professionals do all the work.
OPHTHALMOLOGY OFFICE: Yes, you the patient are seated in a chair. But don't expect to get comfortable in it. For almost all the testing that follows will require contortion on your part. And compared to dentistry, the majority of patients here are in the elderly age group. The office equipment does not conform to you, but the other way around. Except for the administering of eye drops, the staff has no actual physical contact with you. You are the one who has to lean forward and place your forehead against a brace on the machine while resting your chin on another part of it. The assistant may screw the opening up or down for a better fit, but you are straining your back and neck to accommodate the machine more than the other way around. You may be taken to another room for a field of vision test. Again, you strain to conform to the machine. You're on a chair, no backrest at all this time. Lean forward into the machine and press a button when you see a flash. This has to be a primitive and uncertain method of testing. It;s rather like the early game of Pong,and look how far that technology has developed in the gaming world. But not in medicine. Meanwhile, the technician in charge of the testing plays no active role, just sits, bored as heck, but not physically stretched into an uncomfortable position, as is the patient.
It is obvious that ophthalmic testing machines have not advanced in keeping with the times. Why shouldn't patients be able to remain seated in a chair, and have the equipment conform to their needs. What patient, especially those of a certain age, needs to endure unnecessary headache and back strain caused by having to contort their bodies to fit the machines. But I suppose if someone were to invent such accommodating devices, that would necessitate the purchasing of new office equipment, and that would be the show stopper.
\
DENTAL OFFICE: You the patient are seated in a fairly comfortable chair. It has padding, a headrest, a footrest, and armrests. The chair is adjustable to your needs, and someone else adjusts it. There is a tray that slides in front of you, with various piece of equipment or implements. The dentist, dental assistant and technician all lean in to provide their services. Almost all the needed equipment, including x-ray machine, are brought to you as you sit in the chair. Yes, there may be some discomfort and even pain, but it is not because of your position. You remain pretty much passive throughout whatever the procedure is; the professionals do all the work.
OPHTHALMOLOGY OFFICE: Yes, you the patient are seated in a chair. But don't expect to get comfortable in it. For almost all the testing that follows will require contortion on your part. And compared to dentistry, the majority of patients here are in the elderly age group. The office equipment does not conform to you, but the other way around. Except for the administering of eye drops, the staff has no actual physical contact with you. You are the one who has to lean forward and place your forehead against a brace on the machine while resting your chin on another part of it. The assistant may screw the opening up or down for a better fit, but you are straining your back and neck to accommodate the machine more than the other way around. You may be taken to another room for a field of vision test. Again, you strain to conform to the machine. You're on a chair, no backrest at all this time. Lean forward into the machine and press a button when you see a flash. This has to be a primitive and uncertain method of testing. It;s rather like the early game of Pong,and look how far that technology has developed in the gaming world. But not in medicine. Meanwhile, the technician in charge of the testing plays no active role, just sits, bored as heck, but not physically stretched into an uncomfortable position, as is the patient.
It is obvious that ophthalmic testing machines have not advanced in keeping with the times. Why shouldn't patients be able to remain seated in a chair, and have the equipment conform to their needs. What patient, especially those of a certain age, needs to endure unnecessary headache and back strain caused by having to contort their bodies to fit the machines. But I suppose if someone were to invent such accommodating devices, that would necessitate the purchasing of new office equipment, and that would be the show stopper.
Thursday, December 13, 2018
Oh, Lord!
Please deliver me from children's performances of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." The song is not about praising the lord. It is about sex. Not that there's anything wrong with that, especially in today's raunchy climate.
But to see a child, in the aura of innocence, stand and sing the song as if it's a religious tribute is just wrong.
I try to avoid such spectacles, but last night I was more or less forced into viewing one such. I don't know what happened, but the remote to the bedroom TV will not allow the channel to be changed, even with the installation of new batteries. So I'm in bed with the channel stuck on Channel 13, which is fine with me because I intend to watch the Tonight Show.
But in the meantime, what show comes on but Little Performers or whatever it's called. I'm now a captive audience. One young boy sang a song and while his voice was pleasant in the lower, softer range, he of course had to shriek to get the audience approval, and it was very hard on the ears. Then came a kid and a dog, dressed alike and out of control when it came to cupcakes.
A young girl, from Ireland no less, made an appearance to sing, in all her innocence, "Hallelujah." (Almost beyond belief, she was joined by Pentatonix, but that's another horror story.) Granted, Cohen has changed the lyrics, omitting and adding, editing, as the mood suited him in his many performances. But his Hallelujah is not in praise of the lord, but as one notable singer put it, "A hallelujah to organism." Not a difficult observation with the lyrics "Remember when I moved in you and the holy dove was moving too, and every breath we drew was Hallelujah." And the opening references to Samson and Delilah---what can that mean to a child --maybe relating to cutting her Barbies' hair. We won't even consider, "what was going on below" that's no longer happening or the significance of the flag on the marble arch.
It's a beautiful and significant song, certainly overdone. But at least could someone please keep it out of the mouths of babes. And don't let them anywhere near Leonard Cohen's tribute song to Janis Joplin.
But to see a child, in the aura of innocence, stand and sing the song as if it's a religious tribute is just wrong.
I try to avoid such spectacles, but last night I was more or less forced into viewing one such. I don't know what happened, but the remote to the bedroom TV will not allow the channel to be changed, even with the installation of new batteries. So I'm in bed with the channel stuck on Channel 13, which is fine with me because I intend to watch the Tonight Show.
But in the meantime, what show comes on but Little Performers or whatever it's called. I'm now a captive audience. One young boy sang a song and while his voice was pleasant in the lower, softer range, he of course had to shriek to get the audience approval, and it was very hard on the ears. Then came a kid and a dog, dressed alike and out of control when it came to cupcakes.
A young girl, from Ireland no less, made an appearance to sing, in all her innocence, "Hallelujah." (Almost beyond belief, she was joined by Pentatonix, but that's another horror story.) Granted, Cohen has changed the lyrics, omitting and adding, editing, as the mood suited him in his many performances. But his Hallelujah is not in praise of the lord, but as one notable singer put it, "A hallelujah to organism." Not a difficult observation with the lyrics "Remember when I moved in you and the holy dove was moving too, and every breath we drew was Hallelujah." And the opening references to Samson and Delilah---what can that mean to a child --maybe relating to cutting her Barbies' hair. We won't even consider, "what was going on below" that's no longer happening or the significance of the flag on the marble arch.
It's a beautiful and significant song, certainly overdone. But at least could someone please keep it out of the mouths of babes. And don't let them anywhere near Leonard Cohen's tribute song to Janis Joplin.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
Good Browser
After years of using the same pathway to our bank accounts, and successfully paying almost all our bills online, last week the system failed. Either I couldn't log on as usual, or else I'd log on and the message would read no connection. I thought maybe the bank's site was down.
After waiting 4 days, and with bills to pay, I called the bank's customer service line. The guy who answered, and I'm sure he was of the youthful tech savvy ilk, assured me there was no problem with the bank's site, and asked if I was able to use another browser, and something about needing to delete cookies and.or do something else with them.
Not wanting to appear any more ignorant than need be, I just thanked him and said I just wanted to verify that the bank's site was ok. I'm pretty sure he saw through the guise, but what does he care.
So I worked on finding an alternative browser, checking out anything that might fall into that category. After some unsuccessful tries, I spied Microsoft Edge, which was completely unfamiliar to me, but I tried it and it worked. I don't know what to do with those superfluous cookies, but if I can find them, I'll delete them.
After waiting 4 days, and with bills to pay, I called the bank's customer service line. The guy who answered, and I'm sure he was of the youthful tech savvy ilk, assured me there was no problem with the bank's site, and asked if I was able to use another browser, and something about needing to delete cookies and.or do something else with them.
Not wanting to appear any more ignorant than need be, I just thanked him and said I just wanted to verify that the bank's site was ok. I'm pretty sure he saw through the guise, but what does he care.
So I worked on finding an alternative browser, checking out anything that might fall into that category. After some unsuccessful tries, I spied Microsoft Edge, which was completely unfamiliar to me, but I tried it and it worked. I don't know what to do with those superfluous cookies, but if I can find them, I'll delete them.
Mental Incarceration
How many, O, How many? Mental incarceration sounds a lot like brainwashing, doesn't it? As for lost moral compasses, who the heck knows how that happens.
Earthquake? Tremor?
At exactly 5 a.m. today, I walked into my kitchen and there right in the middle of the floor was a white disc, about a foot in diameter. Kind of like a flying saucer, or a frisbee. I had no idea what it was or how it got there. A little eerie, since no one else had been in the house, that I knew of anyway. Not until I happened to look up did I see it was the light fixture that had fallen off. Also a little mysterious as that bulb rarely burns out and it's been a number of years since that light cover has been removed.
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
More Oil
I'm living "Groundhog's Day." It seems I should expect a change, but back we go to the past. I changed fuel oil suppliers this season because John Ray's prices were much higher than any of their competitors.
Last March I called and told them to stop delivery, and hired Polsinello / Mirabito, who made their first delivery this fall at $3.11 per gal.
On 11-26-18, John Ray delivered---unordered---49 gal. at $4.299 per gal. I called and I finally offered to pay them what I was paying now. The rep gratefully accepted, and said she'd send a revised bill for that amount.
On Dec. 12, I received the same bill with price as before, which is $210.65 for 49 gal.
Today the Polsinello truck made delivery. The driver said "it didn't take much." The delivery was for 42 gal at $2.979 per gal. totaling $125.71.
I offered the explanation to the driver,who said, "Oh, Free Oil!" He sees their trucks, doesn't know how they can do business.
I think my kind and generous offer to John Ray has just lowered. If they want to dispute it, they can just take back their "unordered goods."
Last March I called and told them to stop delivery, and hired Polsinello / Mirabito, who made their first delivery this fall at $3.11 per gal.
On 11-26-18, John Ray delivered---unordered---49 gal. at $4.299 per gal. I called and I finally offered to pay them what I was paying now. The rep gratefully accepted, and said she'd send a revised bill for that amount.
On Dec. 12, I received the same bill with price as before, which is $210.65 for 49 gal.
Today the Polsinello truck made delivery. The driver said "it didn't take much." The delivery was for 42 gal at $2.979 per gal. totaling $125.71.
I offered the explanation to the driver,who said, "Oh, Free Oil!" He sees their trucks, doesn't know how they can do business.
I think my kind and generous offer to John Ray has just lowered. If they want to dispute it, they can just take back their "unordered goods."
Sunday, December 9, 2018
Kinda funny, I guess
Today while paying for a prescription at Rite Aid, the pharmacist there, new to me, accused me of having a fake ID. I didn't have to show my license, but he must have peered in while I was removing my credit card. I don't know what he thought, but this is what he saw, nothing different from the last several years:
Oh, the Humility!
I renewed my subscription to the Troy Record, unable to resist the incentives offered as enticement. As is general policy in much of business lately, the old loyal customers are asked to help pay the price of reeling in new customers.
Anyway, the Record was delivered yesterday. I already get the Times Union, and while their Crossword is mind-numbingly easy, and the Jumble is, well, the Jumble, I have begun to actually look forward to the Cryptoquip, and pride myself on how skilled I have become at solving it --to read a whole sentence or two with the hint of only one letter.
With time still on my hands, I perused the puzzle page of the Record, and found the crossword to be of a higher level than that of the TU. I actually had to use both Across and Down clues instead of just reading and filling in one or the other. So, that done, I looked at their Cryptoquote: 4 lines and not a single letter for a clue. Egad, how can that be possible? I dismissed it as an impossible exercise, but then had the thought that it appeared regularly. The newspaper paid the syndicate, so there must be a demand for it. Those readers can't all be geniuses, so I decided to give it a try. Applying both the elements of skill and common sense, I came up with: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF JEALOUSY AND THE POWER OF ENVY TO DESTROY----OLIVER STONE
So now, to fill the moments of the day, I have 2 Cryptic exercises to solve---simple work for simple people.
Anyway, the Record was delivered yesterday. I already get the Times Union, and while their Crossword is mind-numbingly easy, and the Jumble is, well, the Jumble, I have begun to actually look forward to the Cryptoquip, and pride myself on how skilled I have become at solving it --to read a whole sentence or two with the hint of only one letter.
With time still on my hands, I perused the puzzle page of the Record, and found the crossword to be of a higher level than that of the TU. I actually had to use both Across and Down clues instead of just reading and filling in one or the other. So, that done, I looked at their Cryptoquote: 4 lines and not a single letter for a clue. Egad, how can that be possible? I dismissed it as an impossible exercise, but then had the thought that it appeared regularly. The newspaper paid the syndicate, so there must be a demand for it. Those readers can't all be geniuses, so I decided to give it a try. Applying both the elements of skill and common sense, I came up with: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF JEALOUSY AND THE POWER OF ENVY TO DESTROY----OLIVER STONE
So now, to fill the moments of the day, I have 2 Cryptic exercises to solve---simple work for simple people.
Little Wars Major Victories
Life is always full of challenges, and mine has been no exception. For most of the setbacks and problematic situations, I've either accepted them or regrouped and worked around them. But I chose to engage in at least 3 major battles and victory, of one sort or another, has been mine.
My memory of details about the first is a little vague, having occurred a long time ago, and before I took the copious notes which I learned are integral to waging a successful battle.
When I graduated from college and began my teaching career, we had a limited time period to earn a master's degree, to keep valid our teaching certification. I think then it was 5 years instead of the 10 which it much later became. I was well on my way to fulfilling that requirement with the time limit fast approaching when I received a letter from the college saying there had been some sort of miscalculation, and I would not be eligible for certification. Back then, leniency was rare indeed, and I think it meant that I would have had to start over. College had not been easy, and I'd had my share of negative happenings, which I had come to accept as part of my fate. But this was too important.I looked for a way to disagree with the decision, and found the sole recourse was to arrange an in-person interview with the Dean of Misery or such and plead my case. His name, I think, was Dr. Llewellyn Jones.
I found myself in the anteroom to his office one afternoon, contemplating my chances. The door opened and a young woman came out. She was crying, real tears streaming down her face.Tears of sadness or relief, I couldn't determine. I entered to meet Dr. Jones, who seemed amiable enough. I presented the scant paperwork that I had, including their admission of error. He skimmed over the pages and said I was fine. He amended the decision. All was well. But I learned that, sometimes at least, one person has the power to transcend all the bureaucratic red tape, and grant your request. That was the lesson learned, and the path I would pursue.
Battle #2 took much more time and was much more crucial: the struggle to obtain health insurance through my employment. Dave's insurance had expired and we had no viable route to any other policies. I'll spare the details of this struggle, but with newly available access to the internet, hours and days of research ensued, plus waiting for some hard-headed guardian of finances in the business office to either retire or die, both of which events eventually transpired. Again, it meant contacting the right person or persons, the decision makers. After 5 long years, we were finally enrolled in a health plan. Victory was sweet, if you can call it that.
My latest, maybe last, battle has come, almost, to a favorable, and life-changing conclusion. Only a matter of time until a person, or group of people, will add the final touches to what has been a 2-year odyssey into the heretofore unknown.
My memory of details about the first is a little vague, having occurred a long time ago, and before I took the copious notes which I learned are integral to waging a successful battle.
When I graduated from college and began my teaching career, we had a limited time period to earn a master's degree, to keep valid our teaching certification. I think then it was 5 years instead of the 10 which it much later became. I was well on my way to fulfilling that requirement with the time limit fast approaching when I received a letter from the college saying there had been some sort of miscalculation, and I would not be eligible for certification. Back then, leniency was rare indeed, and I think it meant that I would have had to start over. College had not been easy, and I'd had my share of negative happenings, which I had come to accept as part of my fate. But this was too important.I looked for a way to disagree with the decision, and found the sole recourse was to arrange an in-person interview with the Dean of Misery or such and plead my case. His name, I think, was Dr. Llewellyn Jones.
I found myself in the anteroom to his office one afternoon, contemplating my chances. The door opened and a young woman came out. She was crying, real tears streaming down her face.Tears of sadness or relief, I couldn't determine. I entered to meet Dr. Jones, who seemed amiable enough. I presented the scant paperwork that I had, including their admission of error. He skimmed over the pages and said I was fine. He amended the decision. All was well. But I learned that, sometimes at least, one person has the power to transcend all the bureaucratic red tape, and grant your request. That was the lesson learned, and the path I would pursue.
Battle #2 took much more time and was much more crucial: the struggle to obtain health insurance through my employment. Dave's insurance had expired and we had no viable route to any other policies. I'll spare the details of this struggle, but with newly available access to the internet, hours and days of research ensued, plus waiting for some hard-headed guardian of finances in the business office to either retire or die, both of which events eventually transpired. Again, it meant contacting the right person or persons, the decision makers. After 5 long years, we were finally enrolled in a health plan. Victory was sweet, if you can call it that.
My latest, maybe last, battle has come, almost, to a favorable, and life-changing conclusion. Only a matter of time until a person, or group of people, will add the final touches to what has been a 2-year odyssey into the heretofore unknown.
Saturday, December 8, 2018
The Traveling My Pillow
All these exotic places, most of which I've never heard. All but the last through Fed Ex:
11/27 Osseo, MN
11/29 Shabbona, Il
11/30 Cicero, IL
12/02 Swatara, PA
12/03 East Hanover, PA
12/04 Macungie, PA
12/04 Windsor, CT
12/07 Valley Falls Post Office
12/08 Out for Delivery
Arrived evening of 12/08---Stuffed in mailbox.
I perceive there may be a return trip for the little fella.
11/27 Osseo, MN
11/29 Shabbona, Il
11/30 Cicero, IL
12/02 Swatara, PA
12/03 East Hanover, PA
12/04 Macungie, PA
12/04 Windsor, CT
12/07 Valley Falls Post Office
12/08 Out for Delivery
Arrived evening of 12/08---Stuffed in mailbox.
I perceive there may be a return trip for the little fella.
Call in the Night
It's an older TV commercial, old enough to be before cell phones. The young couple is awake, in the late hours, evidently. He is on the phone talking to his mother and she is holding a baby, awakened no doubt by the sound of the ringing telephone.
He is gently and calmly reassuring his mother, and his wife is smiling as she holds the baby. I can't remember what problem the mother had called with, or what product was being advertised. And I can't even hazard a guess as to what market was being sought, but it must have been somewhere in the land of sheer fantasy.
He is gently and calmly reassuring his mother, and his wife is smiling as she holds the baby. I can't remember what problem the mother had called with, or what product was being advertised. And I can't even hazard a guess as to what market was being sought, but it must have been somewhere in the land of sheer fantasy.
Dogmatic
Really? I read where it is now illegal to leave your dog in a cold car, as well as a hot one, where they could most surely die. But how cold would it have to be for a dog to freeze to death if left in an unheated vehicle. Well sure, if for an extended time period, like overnight or for days and days. But most dogs are very capable of coping with cold weather, and many enjoy and prefer it. Our dogs, all 3 consecutive collies, delighted in the snow. They were long-haired of course, and bred to be outdoor animals, so common sense should prevail.
My high school science teacher often declared that the term common sense should be replaced by simple sense. There is nothing common about it.You can predict that on any chilly day, some good-intentioned person, lacking sense of either the common or simple variety, will break a car window to rescue a dog who is in danger of being subjected to the cold.
Perhaps there should be a law mandating that dogs unsuited to climate variations be kept in their native lands. Keep those Chihuahuas in Mexico, or wherever they originated. As for dog clothes, dogs do not like wearing clothes, or booties either. That's why, unlike humans, they're covered with fur, and are able to lick their feet.
It seems, kind of like the last days of Rome, our society is deteriorating to the point of a lack of distinction between humans and animals, particularly dogs. Though there was the recent case of a man, probably in Florida, having regular sex with his pony. That's against the law, I gather, though who knows what the pony would say. It is now usual and accepted for people to take their dogs to bed, and it would be rare to confirm the crime of bestiality. Let sleeping dogs lie. But people regularly, and publicly, kiss their dogs on the mouth, and allow dogs to put their mouths on the mouths of their babies and children. Dogs have no more germs than humans, they say. But dogs will willingly eat birdpoop, and even worse, catpoop. And did you ever see the ecstatic expression on the face of a dog who's rolling on his back over a dead and decaying animal carcass. Almost any dog would remove his doggie sweater for that fetid opportunity.
My high school science teacher often declared that the term common sense should be replaced by simple sense. There is nothing common about it.You can predict that on any chilly day, some good-intentioned person, lacking sense of either the common or simple variety, will break a car window to rescue a dog who is in danger of being subjected to the cold.
Perhaps there should be a law mandating that dogs unsuited to climate variations be kept in their native lands. Keep those Chihuahuas in Mexico, or wherever they originated. As for dog clothes, dogs do not like wearing clothes, or booties either. That's why, unlike humans, they're covered with fur, and are able to lick their feet.
It seems, kind of like the last days of Rome, our society is deteriorating to the point of a lack of distinction between humans and animals, particularly dogs. Though there was the recent case of a man, probably in Florida, having regular sex with his pony. That's against the law, I gather, though who knows what the pony would say. It is now usual and accepted for people to take their dogs to bed, and it would be rare to confirm the crime of bestiality. Let sleeping dogs lie. But people regularly, and publicly, kiss their dogs on the mouth, and allow dogs to put their mouths on the mouths of their babies and children. Dogs have no more germs than humans, they say. But dogs will willingly eat birdpoop, and even worse, catpoop. And did you ever see the ecstatic expression on the face of a dog who's rolling on his back over a dead and decaying animal carcass. Almost any dog would remove his doggie sweater for that fetid opportunity.
Neti-pot
I'm sorry to hear of the neti-pot related death, but it should come as no surprise. When Dr. Oz demonstrated its use several years ago, I almost died of disgust.
Gas-shopper
I've wondered why there are frequently cars lined up at Stewart's to fuel their vehicles when the station down the street has lower prices and seemingly fewer customers. Now I read, on the reliable source of Facebook, that the station further down the street has had cars damaged with water-contaminated gasoline, which they won't reimburse for. What to believe. What to do...
Thursday, December 6, 2018
Thruway Authority
I just read that a tollbooth worker in Herkimer was arrested for stealing funds from the Thruway Authority. It triggered a memory of my driving home from Herkimer, one of many times from our meetings over 15 years.
This particular day, I was alone entering the thruway booths, and because the booth there, and then, was rather isolated and far to the left of the lane I was driving in, I assumed there'd be another closer to me before I got on the Thruway. But no, there was only the one booth, and I'd already passed it. Too late.
All during my drive home, I was recalling horror stories of what became of drivers who skipped getting their ticket. Some say you have to pay the entire length of the Thruway, rumors said it was a criminal act, etc. Whenever a trooper car showed up in my rearview mirror, I foresaw being pulled over and charged with who-knows-what. Could they track cars who'd sneaked on and who didn't have a ticket. I worried all the way.
I would normally have exited in Albany, but I decided to lessen my penalties by getting off at the Amsterdam exit. I knew it was not as busy as Albany, and figured my situation might not be as traumatic.
I pulled up to the booth and told the attendant I didn't have my ticket. "Where did you get on?" was his question. I said Herkimer, and he said that would be $2.50. I paid him and that was that.
This particular day, I was alone entering the thruway booths, and because the booth there, and then, was rather isolated and far to the left of the lane I was driving in, I assumed there'd be another closer to me before I got on the Thruway. But no, there was only the one booth, and I'd already passed it. Too late.
All during my drive home, I was recalling horror stories of what became of drivers who skipped getting their ticket. Some say you have to pay the entire length of the Thruway, rumors said it was a criminal act, etc. Whenever a trooper car showed up in my rearview mirror, I foresaw being pulled over and charged with who-knows-what. Could they track cars who'd sneaked on and who didn't have a ticket. I worried all the way.
I would normally have exited in Albany, but I decided to lessen my penalties by getting off at the Amsterdam exit. I knew it was not as busy as Albany, and figured my situation might not be as traumatic.
I pulled up to the booth and told the attendant I didn't have my ticket. "Where did you get on?" was his question. I said Herkimer, and he said that would be $2.50. I paid him and that was that.
Fuel for Afterthought
Today I received a bill for fuel oil delivery, $210.65 for 48 gallons of #2 heating oil at $4.29 per gallon. I had called when the fuel was delivered on Nov. 28 because I'd cancelled deliveries back in March, saying their price was too high. When I called, the rep said she didn't know how to handle the issue, so she would check and someone would call me back.
Of course, no call came, and I received the bill for the full amount today. I called again, explained, and the rep said she would have to contact a supervisor and get back in touch with me. I said that would be fine, told her I could come up with an equitable solution, but would gladly wait to hear. She asked me what my suggestion would be. I said I'd pay what I'd arranged to pay with my new supplier. She, seemingly somewhat relieved, said that sounded like a good solution, and she'll send me a revised statement. She added that they didn't want to lose a customer and that they have a variety of payment options for the future.
Who knows what happens next.
Of course, no call came, and I received the bill for the full amount today. I called again, explained, and the rep said she would have to contact a supervisor and get back in touch with me. I said that would be fine, told her I could come up with an equitable solution, but would gladly wait to hear. She asked me what my suggestion would be. I said I'd pay what I'd arranged to pay with my new supplier. She, seemingly somewhat relieved, said that sounded like a good solution, and she'll send me a revised statement. She added that they didn't want to lose a customer and that they have a variety of payment options for the future.
Who knows what happens next.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
The Fugitive
One August morning in 1967, I drove to Dave's apartment on Massachusetts Avenue in Colonie, and we set off for a day trip to Niagara Falls. I've been there several times since then, but this was my first trip there and the most enjoyable. We were young and totally unencumbered and spent a glorious day there.
We left Niagara Falls at the end of the day, later than we'd anticipated. It was dark by then and it suddenly came to us that we may not get back to a television set in time to watch my favorite TV show, The Fugitive. The show aired at 10:00 p,m., and it was to be the season finale, the wrap-up with Detective Girard ending his search.
Dave never minded driving fast and we were in my 8-cylinder Chevrolet SuperSport convertible, making good time. We were flying when Dave, observing in his rear-view mirror said, "There's a cop following us." He wasn't stupid enough to try to outrun the cop, but he cut his speed, and changed lanes, maybe more than once. Somehow, exiting the Northway onto Central Avenue, the cop either lost sight of us or gave up the pursuit. Either way, he'd never used his siren. Maybe he too wanted to watch the conclusion of The Fugitive,
We pulled into the driveway exactly at 10 o'clock, and raced up the stairs to Dave's apartment just in time to see the entire episode.
The one-armed man had been brought to justice, and the Fugitive was a free man. So much fun.
We left Niagara Falls at the end of the day, later than we'd anticipated. It was dark by then and it suddenly came to us that we may not get back to a television set in time to watch my favorite TV show, The Fugitive. The show aired at 10:00 p,m., and it was to be the season finale, the wrap-up with Detective Girard ending his search.
Dave never minded driving fast and we were in my 8-cylinder Chevrolet SuperSport convertible, making good time. We were flying when Dave, observing in his rear-view mirror said, "There's a cop following us." He wasn't stupid enough to try to outrun the cop, but he cut his speed, and changed lanes, maybe more than once. Somehow, exiting the Northway onto Central Avenue, the cop either lost sight of us or gave up the pursuit. Either way, he'd never used his siren. Maybe he too wanted to watch the conclusion of The Fugitive,
We pulled into the driveway exactly at 10 o'clock, and raced up the stairs to Dave's apartment just in time to see the entire episode.
The one-armed man had been brought to justice, and the Fugitive was a free man. So much fun.
Monday, December 3, 2018
Of Yore
In the faculty room, the seasoned teacher of English was frustrated by students' misuse of the words "affect" and "effect."
"It's simple," he declared. "While the word effect can be both a noun and a verb, the word affect is always a verb."
I ventured to say that the word affect can also be a noun. He disagreed, rather vehemently, and strode to the bookshelf in the corner of the room, took down the Webster's, and looked up the uses. The conversation came to a sudden end with his comment of a single word-----"G*#@DAMMIT!"
The high school Social Studies teacher, who didn't teach spelling, noticed that for several years many of her tenth grade students were consistently misspelling the word Australia, inserting an extra i before the l.
The reason came to light when my son, who knew how to spell when he was in third grade, told me his teacher gave the class a hint as to how to spell Australia. She told them:"Remember, there's a TRAIL in Australia."
As testament to the teacher's effectiveness, many of her students used her spelling mnemonics tip at least seven years later, and probably to this day.
The good old days.
"It's simple," he declared. "While the word effect can be both a noun and a verb, the word affect is always a verb."
I ventured to say that the word affect can also be a noun. He disagreed, rather vehemently, and strode to the bookshelf in the corner of the room, took down the Webster's, and looked up the uses. The conversation came to a sudden end with his comment of a single word-----"G*#@DAMMIT!"
The high school Social Studies teacher, who didn't teach spelling, noticed that for several years many of her tenth grade students were consistently misspelling the word Australia, inserting an extra i before the l.
The reason came to light when my son, who knew how to spell when he was in third grade, told me his teacher gave the class a hint as to how to spell Australia. She told them:"Remember, there's a TRAIL in Australia."
As testament to the teacher's effectiveness, many of her students used her spelling mnemonics tip at least seven years later, and probably to this day.
The good old days.
Friday, November 30, 2018
Brooklyn Bridge / Genius Marketing
I have an idea for selling sneakers to girls, what with girl-power and all. But to simply advertise my new product is expensive and time consuming. Wait, I have an idea! How about if I have a nine-year-old girl with a complicit father write me a letter first and ask why she can't buy the shoes in her size. I'll bet that will garner loads of free publicity in a matter of hours. The public loves human interest stories like that.
If they were enthralled by the huge cow story, they'll buy into anything. I don't think there was a single media outlet that didn't feature the huge steer. Over 6 feet tall, it was said. A gigantic steer towering over the other cattle, too big to be slaughtered. But why is a lone Holstein in a field with a herd of lesser brown cows, of a breed known to be small in size. Where did big cow come from?
A number of years ago, there was a trailer at the Schaghticoke Fair featuring a giant cow. It cost a dollar or so to go in and view "the largest cow you've ever seen." I remember because to one of my kids that was the year's top attraction. He would hit anyone up for a fistful of quarters so he could run up the ramp into the trailer and see the massive animal. Of course, there were scores of very large-sized cows in the regular cattle barns, probably of about the same size. But since everything is relative, a cow standing in a trailer will appear to be of a more impressive size than if standing in a stall among many other similarly sized cows. Just as a single large cow will look immense when pastured with a breed of small cows. Or puppies.
If they were enthralled by the huge cow story, they'll buy into anything. I don't think there was a single media outlet that didn't feature the huge steer. Over 6 feet tall, it was said. A gigantic steer towering over the other cattle, too big to be slaughtered. But why is a lone Holstein in a field with a herd of lesser brown cows, of a breed known to be small in size. Where did big cow come from?
A number of years ago, there was a trailer at the Schaghticoke Fair featuring a giant cow. It cost a dollar or so to go in and view "the largest cow you've ever seen." I remember because to one of my kids that was the year's top attraction. He would hit anyone up for a fistful of quarters so he could run up the ramp into the trailer and see the massive animal. Of course, there were scores of very large-sized cows in the regular cattle barns, probably of about the same size. But since everything is relative, a cow standing in a trailer will appear to be of a more impressive size than if standing in a stall among many other similarly sized cows. Just as a single large cow will look immense when pastured with a breed of small cows. Or puppies.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Private problems. Publicly aired.
I had so many calls to make today that I haven't even gotten to the only bright spot of my day--the Cryptoquip.
Call #1 was to John Ray about unwanted fuel delivery. Rep saw there was a Delivery Stop on March 24. She doesn't know what to do about it. She'll ask somebody, who is to Call Me Back.
Call #2 was to Mirabito. Why my online bank check was returned for insufficient information she couldn't say. They will send me a statement, and I should call the bank and ask.
Call #3 was to Omnicare Prescription Co. about responsibility for charges, She knows nothing about the source, can't help me. Call the VA, or VVH, anybody but them.
Call #4 was to VVH about prescription responsibility. She'll have Allison Call Me Back, but in meantime call Finance Director.
Call #5 was to VVH Finance Director. I left message. He is to Call Me Back.
While I wait, I'll address the Cryptoquip.
Call #1 was to John Ray about unwanted fuel delivery. Rep saw there was a Delivery Stop on March 24. She doesn't know what to do about it. She'll ask somebody, who is to Call Me Back.
Call #2 was to Mirabito. Why my online bank check was returned for insufficient information she couldn't say. They will send me a statement, and I should call the bank and ask.
Call #3 was to Omnicare Prescription Co. about responsibility for charges, She knows nothing about the source, can't help me. Call the VA, or VVH, anybody but them.
Call #4 was to VVH about prescription responsibility. She'll have Allison Call Me Back, but in meantime call Finance Director.
Call #5 was to VVH Finance Director. I left message. He is to Call Me Back.
While I wait, I'll address the Cryptoquip.
Fate
Bill's close friend during their childhood years in Kingston was his cousin Jim, Jr. Their lives would separate when Bill entered the military and would settle across the country, where he raised his family, which included 6 children. His cousin took over the successful family liquor distribution business, and raised his family of 3 children.
Both cousins' first-born were sons, born within a few years of each other: Paul and Jay.
One had the reputation of "not taking very good care of himself," and recently succumbed at the age of 60.
The other was an avid and driven four-season athlete, a competitive swimmer in his youth. He was known for 4-hour daily physical workouts and his activities: biking, hiking, kayaking, skiing, mountain climbing, had climbed all 35 Catskill mountain peaks. He regularly rode his bike 125 miles from Woodstock to his summer properties in Lake George. Four years ago, he died at the age of 54. He'd choked while eating dinner with his father at a restaurant.
We who survive attempt to attach consequences for lapses in judgment in taking care of our mortal coils, and statistically with some rationale. But in the chaotic stream of life, taking control is often only a metaphor for whatever happens. (Both fathers are now in their 80's, apparently not that committed to any particular regimen.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Scrooge-itis
I'm watching my first Christmas show of the year. It started off with Pentatonix and has gone steadily downhill since, if that's even possible. Talk about phoning it in. But who likes those old holiday songs anyway? Unless of course Hoda is dancing with Al.
***Today the John Ray fuel truck stopped and made a delivery. Odd enough, because I'd called them last spring saying to stop deliveries because their price was too high. Polsinello, now Mirabito, filled our tank Nov. 12, and price was $3.179 per gal. Average NYSERDA quote was about $3.14. John Ray's price today was $4.299 per gal. Tank only took 50 gal. because it was recently filled. So I'll call John tomorrow---looks like he owes me 50 bucks.
I could gripe some more--there are issues---but I'll stop and count my blessings. There are some.
Gotta go---Jingle Bell Rock is on. O, Lordy, the annoying kid and the puppet, AND, no less than Howie Mandel grotesquely embarrassing people while pimping his show, and John Legend with the worst lip-synching performance in the history of TV. I wonder if the Christmas Tree will be blood-red.
***Today the John Ray fuel truck stopped and made a delivery. Odd enough, because I'd called them last spring saying to stop deliveries because their price was too high. Polsinello, now Mirabito, filled our tank Nov. 12, and price was $3.179 per gal. Average NYSERDA quote was about $3.14. John Ray's price today was $4.299 per gal. Tank only took 50 gal. because it was recently filled. So I'll call John tomorrow---looks like he owes me 50 bucks.
I could gripe some more--there are issues---but I'll stop and count my blessings. There are some.
Gotta go---Jingle Bell Rock is on. O, Lordy, the annoying kid and the puppet, AND, no less than Howie Mandel grotesquely embarrassing people while pimping his show, and John Legend with the worst lip-synching performance in the history of TV. I wonder if the Christmas Tree will be blood-red.
Monday, November 26, 2018
April 27, 1968
Bottom, Far right--Paul, (Eric) Thomas, (Tammy) Philip Nov. 22, 2018
(Herman F. Schroder April 12, 1908--November 18, 1977 Age 69)
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Turkey bag?
Well yes, please, if such a thing exists. So the check-out person deposited my 24+ lb. turkey into---the turkey bag. And, yes, it made it much easier to carry.
Trivia Minutiae
Yesterday, because my packaged piecrust fell on the floor at the checkout lane, I learned that Walter makes his own piecrusts. I didn't know anyone did that anymore. (I told him I didn't mind that the edges might have crumbled a bit.)
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Table
I don't know where it came from. It may have been left in a house we moved into, as was a frequent occurrence then. People moved and with only a passenger car and a few relatives to help them out, they frequently abandoned large items that were not necessities. I don't know how long we were in possession of the table either, but I know we owned it in Valley Falls until my mother gave it away. She had little fondness for old pieces of furniture or appliances, as she spent most of her life with old hand-me-down stuff that no one else needed or wanted.
The first house I remember the presence of the table was the Schmidt house we rented in Melrose. I think now the table would be referred to in the antique furniture description as a library table. It was dark wood with a shallow drawer in front and a built-in magazine rack on either side. There was a shelf or narrow platform across the bottom of the table, maybe for additional storage or a place to rest your feet. But to me, at three years old, the table was a secure hiding place, and the bottom shelf a sort of cot. I remember crawling into that space when I felt sad and alone. I think I felt that way because our mother, though always at home, was so busy trying to keep everything together, she didn't have a lot of time to nurture her kids' sensitivities. She was busy dawn to dusk with endless chores that would be unfathomable in today's world.
The house had no electricity, no telephone service, no running water, no central heat. All water for laundry, (done by hand) had to be carried into the house, heated on top of a wood stove, which she needed to replenish by toting the wood into the house, starting the fire, not to mention shaking the stove down and carrying out the ashes. There were tools for that---pokers and ash buckets, scuttles. And used water had to be carried out in buckets also. To say nothing of the toileting facilities, also based outside. Wash days meant pumping and heating water, scrubbing clothing etc. on a washboard in a tub and then discarding the water outside. Almost everything needed to be ironed back then, in the days before wrinkle-free fabrics. The iron had to be heated on top of the stove, handled with great care, and re-heated regularly, unless you owned a second flatiron, which she didn't. Clothes had to be dried on an outside clothesline though in harsh winter weather they were often hung on a line strung around the stove.
There was an icebox, and the drip-pan for the melted water had to be emptied regularly before it overflowed onto the floor. The floors needed sweeping regularly too, remember no electricity, no vacuums. And my mother had to cook for a family of five, with very little access to grocery stores.
In addition, my mother had outside chores to attend to ---chickens, a garden, other animals from time to time, including a milk cow which was bought when she observed the milking on a prosperous dairy farm we once lived on. She saw that the milk was strained for flies, and she couldn't stand to give that milk to her kids.
So we kids were on our own a lot of the time. I would feel sad and sorry for myself, thinking nobody cared about me. And I would crawl into my secret space under the table and cry. Of course I never complained out loud or told anybody; none of us kids ever did. I would cry in private, hidden away from everybody, invisible. Or so I thought.
Then one morning, my sadness was outed. Uncle Joe, passing by, stopped, asked me what was wrong, and without waiting for an answer, handed me a box of Freihofer's chocolate doughnuts, which meant the bread man had just stopped by. I remember running to my mother and giving her the box of doughnuts. She seemed glad to get them, so I was comforted and the day got better.
As I said, my mother got rid of that table; it's long gone, as are Uncle Joe and Freihofer's deliveries, but I don't suppose I could fit in that space now anyway.
The first house I remember the presence of the table was the Schmidt house we rented in Melrose. I think now the table would be referred to in the antique furniture description as a library table. It was dark wood with a shallow drawer in front and a built-in magazine rack on either side. There was a shelf or narrow platform across the bottom of the table, maybe for additional storage or a place to rest your feet. But to me, at three years old, the table was a secure hiding place, and the bottom shelf a sort of cot. I remember crawling into that space when I felt sad and alone. I think I felt that way because our mother, though always at home, was so busy trying to keep everything together, she didn't have a lot of time to nurture her kids' sensitivities. She was busy dawn to dusk with endless chores that would be unfathomable in today's world.
The house had no electricity, no telephone service, no running water, no central heat. All water for laundry, (done by hand) had to be carried into the house, heated on top of a wood stove, which she needed to replenish by toting the wood into the house, starting the fire, not to mention shaking the stove down and carrying out the ashes. There were tools for that---pokers and ash buckets, scuttles. And used water had to be carried out in buckets also. To say nothing of the toileting facilities, also based outside. Wash days meant pumping and heating water, scrubbing clothing etc. on a washboard in a tub and then discarding the water outside. Almost everything needed to be ironed back then, in the days before wrinkle-free fabrics. The iron had to be heated on top of the stove, handled with great care, and re-heated regularly, unless you owned a second flatiron, which she didn't. Clothes had to be dried on an outside clothesline though in harsh winter weather they were often hung on a line strung around the stove.
There was an icebox, and the drip-pan for the melted water had to be emptied regularly before it overflowed onto the floor. The floors needed sweeping regularly too, remember no electricity, no vacuums. And my mother had to cook for a family of five, with very little access to grocery stores.
In addition, my mother had outside chores to attend to ---chickens, a garden, other animals from time to time, including a milk cow which was bought when she observed the milking on a prosperous dairy farm we once lived on. She saw that the milk was strained for flies, and she couldn't stand to give that milk to her kids.
So we kids were on our own a lot of the time. I would feel sad and sorry for myself, thinking nobody cared about me. And I would crawl into my secret space under the table and cry. Of course I never complained out loud or told anybody; none of us kids ever did. I would cry in private, hidden away from everybody, invisible. Or so I thought.
Then one morning, my sadness was outed. Uncle Joe, passing by, stopped, asked me what was wrong, and without waiting for an answer, handed me a box of Freihofer's chocolate doughnuts, which meant the bread man had just stopped by. I remember running to my mother and giving her the box of doughnuts. She seemed glad to get them, so I was comforted and the day got better.
As I said, my mother got rid of that table; it's long gone, as are Uncle Joe and Freihofer's deliveries, but I don't suppose I could fit in that space now anyway.
Monday, November 12, 2018
A Million Little Things
The point is that if someone had been here, I would have said,"Look, Tistrya is wearing my old dress," And then thrown the card away. But having no one to comment to, the card remains a stark reminder of the solitary life.
Not that I ever read the newspaper to anyone in the house, but often there would be a comment or two, on a mutual basis. Same with television--watching TV shows alone is akin to doomsday, with no venue for incidental or frivolous remarks. It is probable that any prospective listener would not be interested anyway, but when you live with someone, there is no choice, is there? Who would have guessed that a reluctant audience still served the purpose.
Humans are social beings, and human interaction a necessity. That is why research is now showing that people can remain healthier if they avoid isolation. And not just through organized and scheduled visits by someone from the outside world. Recent studies showed that it is healthier, for those who are able, to live in a community where there are neighbors and regular occasions for even incidental contacts. Worth thinking about.
Saturday, November 10, 2018
Dinosaur in the Waiting Room
The other day I was in a medical office, having driven patients there for their appointments. Anticipating a wait of more than a few minutes, I found the magazine rack and picked up a copy of one of the selections. There was not a great variety to choose from, but at least the issues were current.
When I resumed my seat in the waiting room, I noticed that I was the only person who was in possession of a magazine. All the others, except for very young children, were occupied with their phones. Every single one. The office was fairly busy, and I, waiting for 2 separate appointments, waited for a considerable length of time. The percentage of phone users remained constant for each and every patient. No one even looked at the magazine rack.
No wonder it's now possible to pay pennies per copy for magazine subscriptions. You just need to assume the risk the publishers may go bankrupt before your subscription runs out.
When I resumed my seat in the waiting room, I noticed that I was the only person who was in possession of a magazine. All the others, except for very young children, were occupied with their phones. Every single one. The office was fairly busy, and I, waiting for 2 separate appointments, waited for a considerable length of time. The percentage of phone users remained constant for each and every patient. No one even looked at the magazine rack.
No wonder it's now possible to pay pennies per copy for magazine subscriptions. You just need to assume the risk the publishers may go bankrupt before your subscription runs out.
Friday, November 9, 2018
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Expiration Date
Yesterday I threw away Dorothy's driver's license renewal. It was mailed to this address, where she used to stay after her loss. Her present license would expire on her birthday this year, Dec. 29. I remember when her license was last renewed, we joked about how she'd be good for at least those 8 years. Hope is what we live for.
Friday, October 19, 2018
Cat Creepiness
Maybe and I have shared this house for 13 years now. She can do pretty much what she wants as long as she is faithful to the litter box and stays off the kitchen table and counters. She has always obliged.
She is not a lap-sitter and so does not go on the chairs, though she likes the sofa. That's fine with me. When Dave left, she slept on his empty bed for a while. I put a towel over the bedspread, and she slept there for several weeks. She has never attempted to get on the bed where I sleep. Never, that is, until last week. Probably she found it when I was away for several nights. She now will not stay away. I shoo her out and she returns. I close the door and she paces and meows. When Andrew is here, she knows she's protected.
She is not a lap-sitter and so does not go on the chairs, though she likes the sofa. That's fine with me. When Dave left, she slept on his empty bed for a while. I put a towel over the bedspread, and she slept there for several weeks. She has never attempted to get on the bed where I sleep. Never, that is, until last week. Probably she found it when I was away for several nights. She now will not stay away. I shoo her out and she returns. I close the door and she paces and meows. When Andrew is here, she knows she's protected.
First and Last Rose
Dorothy's rose bush has bloomed every year, but this year not until October 18, just "ahead of" the frost. It's pink, pale and puny, but still...
Guess I'll Have to Dig the Dahlias
Monday, October 15, 2018
Dreams---where things at least happen
I was cooking a large leg of lamb. I might have done so in real life once in the 60's, but certainly not since. We were in the backyard of the old house, a number of people around. I cooked it outside. It was huge, juicy-looking and easy to slice. I looked for a serving platter and put the slices on the platter, but they seemed to disappear.
The house a few doors down had been sold, and when the owners moved they had dismantled and taken with them an outdoor utility shed. Where the shed had been was a deep cavity, muddy and ominous looking. A little boy was peering into the deep hole. He said he'd not go nearer because he knew the danger.
By the time I got into the house where the lamb had been taken, all the people had eaten and were off on their own pursuits. There was still a lot of meat left on the leg of lamb.
The house a few doors down had been sold, and when the owners moved they had dismantled and taken with them an outdoor utility shed. Where the shed had been was a deep cavity, muddy and ominous looking. A little boy was peering into the deep hole. He said he'd not go nearer because he knew the danger.
By the time I got into the house where the lamb had been taken, all the people had eaten and were off on their own pursuits. There was still a lot of meat left on the leg of lamb.
Saturday, October 13, 2018
Before the Frost
Zinnias---(4-5)so tall you can't even see the flowers on top. I don't know where these seeds came from. They're pretty though.
Marigolds---(6) planted a lot of seeds, but only these grew. Pretty, though.
Cherry tomatoes--(7) They self-seeded in pot from last year's gift.
Basil in pot---(8) from Christmas gift. Pesto anyone? Help yourself.
Yellow flowers---(9)Don't know what they are or where they came from. Cute.
Sunday, October 7, 2018
Country Music
Because I can't bear the news, not wanting to hear about the tragic limousine crash or the Supreme Court debacle, I turned the channel, at bedtime, to CM Country Choice. Did you ever realize Dave Dudley's "The Pool Shark" sounds just like Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue?" Me neither, but then I didn't know I could remember the words to songs I haven't heard in decades. "It's almost like a song, but just too sad to write." "Heaven's Just One Sin Away" and many many more.
If the regular TV news was too sad to watch, the music nostalgia was even sadder. All those semi-forgotten talents and replaced by what. O the Horror! And to see that Tammy Wynette was born in 1942, and she's been gone for a very long time. I remember being in the maternity ward at St. Mary's and my roommate had just given birth to her 4th daughter. She and her husband were trying to pick a name for her, and Tammy Wynette was singing on some TV show. The husband said "What about Tammy?' and that's what they named her. Dave got a kick out of that.
If the regular TV news was too sad to watch, the music nostalgia was even sadder. All those semi-forgotten talents and replaced by what. O the Horror! And to see that Tammy Wynette was born in 1942, and she's been gone for a very long time. I remember being in the maternity ward at St. Mary's and my roommate had just given birth to her 4th daughter. She and her husband were trying to pick a name for her, and Tammy Wynette was singing on some TV show. The husband said "What about Tammy?' and that's what they named her. Dave got a kick out of that.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Crowded House
There was a time when I thought too many people lived in the house. Of course, my parents and sister and brother; they were always there. Uncle Joe lived with us as long as I can remember, in a series of houses in a few short years before Valley Falls. Aunt Helen came to live with us about a year after her mother died in 1950. At one time my mother provided day care for a number of different families, and then she provided overnight care, Sunday evenings through Friday evenings for a family, who would leave 3 or more kids with us, depending on their ages. When that ended, my parents took in foster children who lived with us. Several were short-timers but 2 of them stayed with us for about 10 years.
The house was fairly large, but old, with only one bathroom, and the bedroom I shared with my sister had a door in each of its 4 walls. Helen and at least one of the resident children would have to pass through our bedroom to get to their rooms, and Helen, with her job at a hospital laundry service, would leave for work at 6 a.m. Monday through Saturday. She would have to make several trips through our room, tending to her oil burner and her cat and dog.
There was always someone coming and going, noises, discussions, arguments. There was very little privacy or even time to be alone.
Sara's store was next door, once accessible through a door in our middle room, which my father had boarded up. There was always activity there. Someone was almost always on the front porch, or the back stoop for that matter. I "helped out" in that store from the age of 11, from 6 to 7 all seven days of the week and then on weekends and school vacations also from 1 to 2. Sara had to eat lunch and dinner, and sometimes she and her sister would take a Saturday off and I'd be there all day. It was strange how adults, always women of course, would sit in the extra chair and confide in me, in Sara's absence. I had nothing to offer, but I did listen, which I suppose is what they wanted.
The point is there were always plenty of people around, and of necessity almost constant interactions. And this carried over into my professional life as a teacher and later as a tutor and advocate. Most of my life I was paid to talk to people.
For almost thirty years, the same was true for the smaller house I lived in. At first 3 people, then up to 5, all ensconced in a small residence, with all the usual coziness and conflicts. The number of inhabitants reduced gradually from 5 to 4 and then 3, and finally (or so we thought) to 2 of us. The excitements and discoveries lessened but still there was the interaction of another life in the house.
A lifetime of being steeped in and saturated with human connections is replaced with silence and all the privacy anyone could want.
The house was fairly large, but old, with only one bathroom, and the bedroom I shared with my sister had a door in each of its 4 walls. Helen and at least one of the resident children would have to pass through our bedroom to get to their rooms, and Helen, with her job at a hospital laundry service, would leave for work at 6 a.m. Monday through Saturday. She would have to make several trips through our room, tending to her oil burner and her cat and dog.
There was always someone coming and going, noises, discussions, arguments. There was very little privacy or even time to be alone.
Sara's store was next door, once accessible through a door in our middle room, which my father had boarded up. There was always activity there. Someone was almost always on the front porch, or the back stoop for that matter. I "helped out" in that store from the age of 11, from 6 to 7 all seven days of the week and then on weekends and school vacations also from 1 to 2. Sara had to eat lunch and dinner, and sometimes she and her sister would take a Saturday off and I'd be there all day. It was strange how adults, always women of course, would sit in the extra chair and confide in me, in Sara's absence. I had nothing to offer, but I did listen, which I suppose is what they wanted.
The point is there were always plenty of people around, and of necessity almost constant interactions. And this carried over into my professional life as a teacher and later as a tutor and advocate. Most of my life I was paid to talk to people.
For almost thirty years, the same was true for the smaller house I lived in. At first 3 people, then up to 5, all ensconced in a small residence, with all the usual coziness and conflicts. The number of inhabitants reduced gradually from 5 to 4 and then 3, and finally (or so we thought) to 2 of us. The excitements and discoveries lessened but still there was the interaction of another life in the house.
A lifetime of being steeped in and saturated with human connections is replaced with silence and all the privacy anyone could want.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Waiting
For all the years when I sat in my car and waited outside schools or at other venues for my kids, I wasn't worried that they wouldn't appear. I knew they would, but a separate part of my mind believed they would never appear. That schism wasn't helped by the fact that whatever child I was waiting for always seemed to be last or near last. I can't remember a single time when they appeared first. That deep part of my brain believed, calmly enough, that I would not see them emerge from whatever doorway held them. That was the phantom part of my brain.
That same thought process has returned. I'm waiting for a mailing. I see official word that it is enroute. I know mostly what message is being relayed, and I am told it should arrive soon. I can't really believe it. Maybe it's a form of PTSD.
That same thought process has returned. I'm waiting for a mailing. I see official word that it is enroute. I know mostly what message is being relayed, and I am told it should arrive soon. I can't really believe it. Maybe it's a form of PTSD.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Medicare Card
I have not received my new Medicare card. Not that I'm concerned about it, but I've read several notifications that we all should have received our new card by now and to call if we had not. So yesterday I called. After the usual screening questions, the rep, sounding surprised, said, "Oh, I see I haven't sent it yet!" Oh my gosh, someone taking personal responsibility. What a nice touch. Then she adds, "You can expect your new card in 4 to 6 weeks." Good thing is I don't really care.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Back in the Day
A friend and I were drinking at Fay's in North Greenbush when the band played a song she didn't want to hear. She threw a cigarette pack at them; they didn't pay any attention. But if she were to run for Supreme Court Justice, I'd have to call her out. I have the details: the song was "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."
Monday, October 1, 2018
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Appearances
When a woman gives public testimony, she must remain composed and in control of her emotions, so she won't be considered flighty or neurotic.
When the man gives retaliatory testimony, he can be a blubbering basket case-emotionally distraught, offended, angry, full of self pity.
Which is worse--to be the accuser or the accused. And what happens when something really bad happens to a sober judge. Is he capable of self restraint.
I wonder if he's going to tell us when he finally did have sex. And maybe show us where he marked it on his calendar. That calendar which he says is key to his high school activities, while his class yearbook is irrelevant.
When the man gives retaliatory testimony, he can be a blubbering basket case-emotionally distraught, offended, angry, full of self pity.
Which is worse--to be the accuser or the accused. And what happens when something really bad happens to a sober judge. Is he capable of self restraint.
I wonder if he's going to tell us when he finally did have sex. And maybe show us where he marked it on his calendar. That calendar which he says is key to his high school activities, while his class yearbook is irrelevant.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Ahead of Tomorrow's Allegations
Women all have them, memories of the way things were back when it was a man's world. That mode of operations was revealed even today, remnants of the age of sexism and intimidation, and still going strong with the champions of male dominance; men are the truth tellers, and why ruin a man's reputation for something he may have done years ago. Even if he went somewhat astray, it was decades ago and he has long since assigned it to the past, part of his adolescent growth period.
That would be sound reasoning except for the fact there was another person involved, a woman who lives with the memory, unable to reconcile it to youthful exuberance. Some things leave a lasting impression, and not a good one.
A while ago, I was cleaning out my files, stored from a long time ago, when I was young enough to think everything was worth preserving for those who would doubtless be interested in retrieving what had gone before.
I came across a manilla file labeled Yucky Things. I knew instantly what was in it, and threw it away, unread, because it made me feel embarrassed, as if I had done something not exactly wrong, but somehow unwise. I don't know why I'd kept it, as I had never told anyone about it. I realized I never would, so I tossed it. The point is this event was way more than 36 years ago, more than 50 even, but the aura of it remains as clear as when it happened. Here is the tale, which I may well delete in the light of day.
After I had taught for 3 successful years, being granted tenure even, I decided to resign. I thought it stagnant to continue to teach at the school I'd attended. A friend in similar circumstance felt the same. We were 25 years old and wanted to seek our fortunes elsewhere. We discussed flying to Hawaii, and indeed she did so, but I backed out for various reasons. My sister was working then in the education or employment division of the State,and she referred me first to a job as a representative for NY Telephone. She later told me of a teaching position in Brant Lake of all places, but it seemed somewhat interesting.I never went anywhere alone if I could help it, so one day Dorothy, Ruth and I set off for the then extremely remote location, a place we'd never even heard of.
We 3 girls arrived at the school for the interview, with the principal, a man in his mid or late 30's. All seemed to go well, and he offered me the position. I was wary of the job because in addition to English, there was a class of Latin. He said since I'd taken 3 years of high school Latin, it should be easy. I wasn't sure of that, but indicated I'd think about it.
After the interview was when things started to get weird. He wanted to show us the community, such as it was. He piled us 3 girls into his car, and drove us first to his house where he invited us in to where his harried-looking wife was surrounded by 4 or 5 children, one in a playpen. We soon left for what was to be an extended tour of the entire area. We 3 were exhausted by then after the long trip on dirt roads, and we were hungry and thirsty, and I had a migraine, a regular occurrence in those days when hungry, thirsty and stressed.
We really wanted to get started back home, but Principal Mr. Z. was in no hurry. It was an isolated location, and we assumed he enjoyed driving around with 3 young girls in his car. He even drove us to a log cabin, somewhere in the wooded area, and said he could arrange for me to live there.At one point he saw a person he knew and he stopped the car to talk to him. He rolled down the car window, which is what you did then, actually use a handle to roll the window. In doing so, he reached across me, in the front passenger seat. And his arm remained across my chest, if you know what I mean, during the fairly long conversation. Innocent gesture maybe, but I was uncomfortable enough to recall it to this day.
Eventually we got to leave. He called me several times , but I said I didn't want to teach Latin and declined the position. Things got weirder.
Later that summer, some months later, he called me again. He had left Brant Lake and was now in Germantown, and he had the perfect teaching position for me. So Dorothy and I drove down there as he'd requested. I couldn't think of a reason to not accept the job, so indicated I'd take it.Mistake!
Home, I had second thoughts, and after awhile wrote him a letter saying I would not be taking the job, citing personal reasons.You may think that would be the end of it, but no.He called me at home trying to get me to change my mind,so often that I wouldn't answer the phone. Then he called me at work, the manager asking me if I wanted to take the call. I said no and the manager said he didn't think so; I gathered Mr. Z, was being a jerk.
THEN, I received a call from the Teacher Placement service at Albany State, a service I'd had no contact with, though my graduation records were there. The administrator there was a woman, and she directed her anger at me. How dare I say I'd take a teaching position and then decline it! She told me Mr/ Z. had called her, expressing his displeasure, and that in conversation with him the only "personal reason" they could think of was that I must be pregnant.
Obviously I did not take the job. I felt stupid and embarrassed and was afraid that my teaching career was forever ruined. That didn't turn out to be true, but I didn't know that then.
So I, as many other women, can relate to the present. The scars of being alone and powerless last a lifetime. Even women then touted the culture of the males. There was no place I knew of to go for assistance. I never told anyone because I felt awful about what had happened.
I'm sure Mr. Z. must be in his grave by now, BUT if I had learned somewhere along the years that he was being considered for one of the highest positions in the land, I like to think that I would break my silence and tell what happened.
The pathway, thanks to other women, is a little more traveled now as compared to years ago when absolutely no one would have listened.
That would be sound reasoning except for the fact there was another person involved, a woman who lives with the memory, unable to reconcile it to youthful exuberance. Some things leave a lasting impression, and not a good one.
A while ago, I was cleaning out my files, stored from a long time ago, when I was young enough to think everything was worth preserving for those who would doubtless be interested in retrieving what had gone before.
I came across a manilla file labeled Yucky Things. I knew instantly what was in it, and threw it away, unread, because it made me feel embarrassed, as if I had done something not exactly wrong, but somehow unwise. I don't know why I'd kept it, as I had never told anyone about it. I realized I never would, so I tossed it. The point is this event was way more than 36 years ago, more than 50 even, but the aura of it remains as clear as when it happened. Here is the tale, which I may well delete in the light of day.
After I had taught for 3 successful years, being granted tenure even, I decided to resign. I thought it stagnant to continue to teach at the school I'd attended. A friend in similar circumstance felt the same. We were 25 years old and wanted to seek our fortunes elsewhere. We discussed flying to Hawaii, and indeed she did so, but I backed out for various reasons. My sister was working then in the education or employment division of the State,and she referred me first to a job as a representative for NY Telephone. She later told me of a teaching position in Brant Lake of all places, but it seemed somewhat interesting.I never went anywhere alone if I could help it, so one day Dorothy, Ruth and I set off for the then extremely remote location, a place we'd never even heard of.
We 3 girls arrived at the school for the interview, with the principal, a man in his mid or late 30's. All seemed to go well, and he offered me the position. I was wary of the job because in addition to English, there was a class of Latin. He said since I'd taken 3 years of high school Latin, it should be easy. I wasn't sure of that, but indicated I'd think about it.
After the interview was when things started to get weird. He wanted to show us the community, such as it was. He piled us 3 girls into his car, and drove us first to his house where he invited us in to where his harried-looking wife was surrounded by 4 or 5 children, one in a playpen. We soon left for what was to be an extended tour of the entire area. We 3 were exhausted by then after the long trip on dirt roads, and we were hungry and thirsty, and I had a migraine, a regular occurrence in those days when hungry, thirsty and stressed.
We really wanted to get started back home, but Principal Mr. Z. was in no hurry. It was an isolated location, and we assumed he enjoyed driving around with 3 young girls in his car. He even drove us to a log cabin, somewhere in the wooded area, and said he could arrange for me to live there.At one point he saw a person he knew and he stopped the car to talk to him. He rolled down the car window, which is what you did then, actually use a handle to roll the window. In doing so, he reached across me, in the front passenger seat. And his arm remained across my chest, if you know what I mean, during the fairly long conversation. Innocent gesture maybe, but I was uncomfortable enough to recall it to this day.
Eventually we got to leave. He called me several times , but I said I didn't want to teach Latin and declined the position. Things got weirder.
Later that summer, some months later, he called me again. He had left Brant Lake and was now in Germantown, and he had the perfect teaching position for me. So Dorothy and I drove down there as he'd requested. I couldn't think of a reason to not accept the job, so indicated I'd take it.Mistake!
Home, I had second thoughts, and after awhile wrote him a letter saying I would not be taking the job, citing personal reasons.You may think that would be the end of it, but no.He called me at home trying to get me to change my mind,so often that I wouldn't answer the phone. Then he called me at work, the manager asking me if I wanted to take the call. I said no and the manager said he didn't think so; I gathered Mr. Z, was being a jerk.
THEN, I received a call from the Teacher Placement service at Albany State, a service I'd had no contact with, though my graduation records were there. The administrator there was a woman, and she directed her anger at me. How dare I say I'd take a teaching position and then decline it! She told me Mr/ Z. had called her, expressing his displeasure, and that in conversation with him the only "personal reason" they could think of was that I must be pregnant.
Obviously I did not take the job. I felt stupid and embarrassed and was afraid that my teaching career was forever ruined. That didn't turn out to be true, but I didn't know that then.
So I, as many other women, can relate to the present. The scars of being alone and powerless last a lifetime. Even women then touted the culture of the males. There was no place I knew of to go for assistance. I never told anyone because I felt awful about what had happened.
I'm sure Mr. Z. must be in his grave by now, BUT if I had learned somewhere along the years that he was being considered for one of the highest positions in the land, I like to think that I would break my silence and tell what happened.
The pathway, thanks to other women, is a little more traveled now as compared to years ago when absolutely no one would have listened.
Remembering Wedding Anniversaries
September 26. 1964 Dorothy and Gus
September 24, 1966 Rosemary and Joe
September 24, 1966 Rosemary and Joe
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Thursday, September 20, 2018
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