5 Charming Lane Nowadays

 Zestimate $336,700

Me and C.C.

 

Duly Unnoted

 In 7th grade, our teacher required us to have a composition notebook for Social Studies class. No class list for parents to peruse, just get the notebook. We alll had one; they all looked alike. On social studies days, maybe twice a week if I remember correctly, Mrs.Foster would spend considerable time writing the social studies questions and then the answers to those questions on the blackboards. It took a while because the blackboards covered two sides of the classroom, and she had lots of questions and their answers. We dutifully copied everything she wrote on the board into our notebooks, in pencil. Pens were for grown-ups. (This reminds me that when I was a freshman in college, I turned in an assignment written in pencil and the instructor rejected it--Use ink, she commented.)  Anyway, it took the teacher  a while to write the blackboard assignement, so sometimes I had a wait time until she was in a position so I could see the board.

   At times, my 12-year-old self was feeling emotional about something troubling---the death of my grandmother that fall, an argument at home, a pet  that died, a problem with the roof, I had my pencil in hand, locked and loaded, ready to write. Now the teacher did not collect these notebooks. She may have done an in-classroom check occasionally  to see if we'd all been up to task, but they were ours to keep. All the following test questions would emanate from that notebook. 

  At times, feeling some pressure from my thoughts and fears, I would write personal comments sideways in the margins of my notebook. Nothing bad or inappropriate, but thinking it was out of place and wrong to be mixing my feelings with schoolwork, I would always at some time erase my sad tales from the margins of that dedicated social studies notebook.  Writing my woes down was kind of a self-therapy, I suppose, though not anything acceptable for that time.

I don't write my thoughts and feelings in a notebook that much anymore. Instead I write in my Blog, as the Blog knows, and instead of having to use a pencil eraser to dispose of any potentially troublesome remarks, all I have to do is delete...

  

Change

 Tonight Maybe had a seizure, quite severe, right on the couch where she'd been sleeping while I read the papers. As usual, I scratched her head and told her she'd be all right. When she came to, what wasn't usual was that she followed me into the room where I changed to  my nightgown  and then into the bedroom. Seeking comfort from fear of the unknown perhaps.  

 It reminded me.

    My mother had a heart attack in 1978 and was in hospital for a week or more. When she came home,   she and Helen were in shock as to what had happened, and did not want to be in the house alone. Danny was a baby, the kids had school, Dave worked in Albany, so Ma and Helen spent several nights here, sleeping on the 2 couches in the living room. I'd drive them home for the day, and then back here until they adjusted to the "new normal" and could stay in their house.

 My mother died 5 years later, and Helen was alone for the first time in her life. She had what she called "that all-gone feeling." Dorothy and I stayed with her. She was now sleeping on the big couch in the middle  room, which my mother had taken to sleeping on. I dragged out the old cot from beneath the stairway, set it up in the middle  room, near Helen,  and Dorothy was to sleep on the couch in the living room. But no, Dorothy soon came into the middle room and crawled in bed with me, both of us in that rather narrow cot. But we slept. Some years later, Helen was hospitalized for what was to be the last time. I slept on a cot in her hospital room the night she died.

 Lloyd at age 46 was hospitalized for a terminal illness. I slept in the hospital the night before he died. His siblings had visited but left. Dorothy may have stayed in his room, I don't recall. After he was gone, I stayed in Dorothy's house. She had an extra bedroom with a daybed for me to sleep on. But during the first night, Dorothy left her bedroom and squeezed into that daybed with me.She didn't want to be alone. 

  When Dorothy was on Hospice, and no one could say  how much, or how little, time she had left, Danny came home from college and was with her when she died. 

  Changes. 

  

  

   

RIP Helen, Matt and Nanny, St John's Cemetery, Gurley Avenue

 

IPF

 Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.  I now know what this is and what options are available to stave off  an incurable disease as long as possible. Turns  out treatment is a bitter choice. Most of us should be grateful for what does not lie ahead. 

That Rare Old Nightmare

 It was late and the night was dark, nothing unusual there. I was in bed when I heard a scratching at the door. At first I attributed it to the cat, but it grew too loud, and emanated from outside the front door. I got up and looked out the window to see a car in the driveway and two figures at the door. I turned the outside light on and yelled that the police were called, and the figures hurried away.

 I went back to bed, relieved, but after a while heard the same noise again. I knew they were back. I went into the kitchen and closed and locked that door, which is usually left open so the cat can access its litter box. I went back to bed, again, but was too terrified to sleep. I guess you could say I must have slept fitfully to some degree, as it came to me that maybe it was all a dream. I wanted to go into the kitchen and see if the door was locked, as that would show if it really happened, but I couldn't make myself get out of bed, paralyzed with fear, I suppose would be the term.

   For some reason, I opened the front door and Dave was there, in the doorway, youthful and cheerful, and reassuring. I was so glad to see him, no longer afraid of the figures in the dark of the night. We spoke in the doorway but he wouldn't come inside.    End of dream.

   

IMHO

 I was asked my opinion tonight, so I feel somewhat empowered to voice my views on another subject. Let's see, verboten topics include politics, religion, children, my health or lack thereof, personal differences, ...Wait, I know:  most men don't dress old-school fashion anymore, that is, wearing suits. But many, perhaps  most notably local reporters and meteorologists, wear suits but do not wear them well. They look bulky and frumpy, if that term can apply to the male sex. It appears they buy their suits off the rack and have no idea how the suit should fit. 

  When Dave was working for various companies, he every day wore a suit with shirt and tie. He always bought his suits at Specter's in Albany. Every two years, he would retire the old and buy new. And his suits were always fitted by the master tailor there. It is true that Dave then could have served as a prototype for suit sales. But his fashionable look was determined by the experienced and accomplished tailor. A main rule for a man's jacket was that the length of the coat should hit the bottom of the hand, just above the fingers. 

  Recalling that rule, I can see where today's suit-clad men have gone wrong. Most wear jackets that are too short.A notable exception is Steve Caporizzo, who may have his suits tailored, and always looks well dressed.  The others wear suits that mainly don't cover enough of the business in front, or else bulge out in the back over their rumps.  Take note; it will be apparent what I've pointed out. (While this message may be boring in its insignificance, its chance of offending its readers should be negligible.