New Product

 Haven't been to sNs for a while. I found a new product in the soda aisle:  Irish Ginger Ale. Knowing that online Dr. Jeremy London calls soda liquid poison, I felt compelled to buy it anyway. Who could resist a product with "Vitamins, Antioxidants, Energy & Zero Sugar,  0 Calories and Aspartame-free." True, while "Irish-Inspired,"  it is made in the U.S.A. and bottled by Polar Corp.  in Worcester MA. It does contain 46mg* of caffeine and 37mg of Green Tea Extract plus some other stuff. It is a "Sparkling beverage with ginger flavor and other natural flavors."   (The check-out clerk made me promise to tell her how it was. I was going to leave her a can but thought that might be against company policy.)  Each can bears the message, "Sparkling Love, Frannie's"  

* about half of the caffeine in  a cup of coffee

Case in Point, Ma

 "Climbing up the tower"  in SPOT 518 , which  tower BTW is on the Siena College campus. How else would you climb but up. Well, clamber down maybe.

Word Sounds

   Dr. Tommy Martin, of FB Shorts fame, says that food sounds are real, as applied to uneaten  food, and maybe so, and maybe the same principle applies to unspoken words. Just as the leftover food cries out to be eaten, words left unuttered cry out to be, if not heard, at least released. Dreams are typically not the substance of any welcomed conversation, regardless of Elaine Benis' s recounting the tale of George Washington's wooden teeth.

 Anyway, here's a dream that will not leave my mind, un-exhorted:

  A man approached from the long driveway of a  house I've never lived in outside the dream, and he asked if he could have some arrangement that was at the bottom of the driveway. I guess it must have been some type of flower box or such. At first I was going to say take it, but I liked its being there so I told him where he could get one of his own, for free I think. He didn't know how to get there or do this, so he asked if I would help. I agreed. He seemed like  a simple person, otherwise well, but he had extreme difficulty trying to communicate, so I had to intercede. When he spoke, he made a deep growling-type sound which accompanied his words, rather off-putting to all those in the area. After many and varied machinations, we finally succeeded in resolving the issue at hand.  So I hoped anyway.

   I had already decided that I would not ride with him in his car, so I would drive him home. The trip turned out to be far from a simple rural drive, but a  tortuous  and twisted route until we reached his home. His home seemed almost like a cave, whose interior housed many individuals. One was a child who needed to go to school and another was an older woman who seemed to want to relocate to another place, what she called her real home. The child's school, which we eventually found, was in a downtown urban area, almost like chinatown. I felt relief at finally accomplishing my mission when I dropped the child off, but then the grandma, forgotten til now in the backseat, spoke up, saying she wanted to go home. But she didn't know where in this crowded section of town she lived. We stopped at place after place, including at a diner with outdoor cooking where the streetwise chef tried to direct us. 

I didn't know where I was or how to get out of the situation to get back home. The growling echoes of the man's voice were consuming my senses. All seemed gone wrong. Then the phone rang. Thanks, Snookie.

  

Musing

 Slow news day here, but aren't they all. 

My mother didn't have much formal education due to circumstances beyond her control. She was not a critic of grammatical usage or of the language patterns of others.  But I remember a few of her pet peeves, or more accurately, observations,  about how words were used.  And she was correct.

  I would say, for example, that the cat climbed up the pole. She would say she didn't know why I would say cimb up. Why not just climb.

 She would wonder how it was possible for her to follow the directions on her pill bottle, which said "Take one pill twice daily."  Seems wrong, she would say. 

Car Talk

 Ever since my angst filled incident of April 11, I have driven my car on only a few short trips. Indeed, my car has been in one or more garages for much of that time. Broken keys (2) with resultant ignition replacement, dead batteries, varying reasons for that initial incident from service technicians and family members alike all contributed to my non-driving. 

  There were several allusions to the possibility of driver error in gas pedal and brake application. I was certain I had not made that error, but at the same time I knew it was a mechanical possibility. And I felt distrust toward my familiar old car. I pored over the mechanics' recommendations, trying to  determine  the most likley reason for the terrifying occasion of April 11. Though I had attributed what seemed like engine revving to some fault with the gas pedal, most evidence pointed to the braking system. Both front and rear brakes were found to be problematic to some degree.  

  After the car's last visit to Rensselaer Honda's Repair, the technician courteously returned the car to my  house, saying two drivers were unable to replicate the incident I'd had, but the thorough inspection resulted in numerous other non-critical improvements.  He recommended the brakes be worked on.

  I made an appointment at Valley Falls Auto for today, and the front brake pads and rotors were replaced.And even more reassuring, as per ChatGPT, the "front calipers were replaced due to pins being seized." 

  I do understand that Chatbot is not always right, but the explanation "he" provides almost exactly replicates what happened on that fateful April day.  See attached.

  

My mother---life saver

 One day in the early 1950's, when my mother was in the field next door tending to the goats that were tethered there in daytime, she was approached by the young woman whose family had just moved into the apartment above the then post office. 

  They engaged in friendly conversation, the woman telling her she had moved here from Pennsylvania with her husband and two young children. They met a few times, always friendly and social, but then one day the woman confided to my mother that she was in desperate circumstances, with no jobs or income, and that she planned to kill her children and then herself. She even detailed how she would do it; she would strangle her toddler daughter and smother her young son. 

   My mother never told me what words she used in reply, but she told her she could get help. We didn't have a telephone at the time, and my mother didn't drive, so I assume she probably told Sara, who knew a lot of people in town. I was too young to have been involved, but it seems that Flanagan, the chief officer at the Valley Falls Mill, must have been contacted because both the husband and wife got jobs at the mill and my mother cared for the two kids, aged 3,  and 17 months. Those were the first kids my mother cared for besides us and she did so for several years. 

Out of the past

 Yesterday I was greeted by name in the grocery store. I don't know how he recognized me after almost four decades ago when he sat in my Englisn class. I didn't recognize him, but that's understandable  as he's not a kid anymore. In brief conversation, he told me how he had not gotten very good grades in school and the grade I gave him was the highest. I said whatever grade he had received, he had earned; I went by the work submitted. He said I was a good teacher because I talked in a clear way that he could  understand, and he thanked  me again for that. 

   It's very humbling and rather sad to find that something so simple as a grade in a high school subject is still recalled and remarked upon as a life's milestone. If I could go back in time, I'd like to raise the grades of all the struggling students I've ever taught. But a long delayed victory would be as meaningless as that conceded to Pete Rose: too late.

   

"Doctoring"

After Dr. Sproat was gone, my father used to drive my mother to Dr. Sgambati in Mechanicville. I remember how pleased she was with her first cortisone shot when her knees were failing her. Unfortunately, her joy was short-lived as the remission  from pain was brief and the cortisone effectiveness was limited to only 3 injections. 

   She continued her relationship with Dr. S. probably for blood pressure control and such, nothing too serious. And as the years passed, I would drive her and Helen to the office, probably about every 6 or 8 weeks. They both liked Dr. S. and he would comment on their dresses, so it was kind of a contest to see who could wear the prettiest dress. The office was always full of patients waiting their turn, and I remember walking my young kids around the block during the wait if the weather allowed. Then to Golden's drugs to pick up their prescriptions. A routine and even pleasant pattern until one day everything changed.

On New Year's Day of 1978, my mother had a heart attack while mashing potatoes for that day's dinner, and she was hospitalized for about a week.A shocking turn of events for all of us but gradually things returned to routine visits again, and I would drive my mother and Helen who actually seemed to enjoy meeting with Dr. S. 

 On a cold Sunday morning, October 30, 1983, Marilyn had stopped by the house on her way home from church, where she had been dropped off earlier. She told my mother that she was going to run home, and her Nana said, "Marilyn, you'll freeze." Those might have been the last words she ever uttered because a short time after M. arrived home, Helen called in panic, that her sister was awful sick. We called 911 and rushed down, but it was too late. My mother was in final stages and was soon gone.She was 78 years old.  End of that story.

   Helen grieved with extreme loneliness. But she made a  decision on her own---no more medicines or doctor's visits. She was 82 years old and we honored her wishes. Her next, and final, medical visit was to the hospital in the summer of 1995, where she passed away at the age of 94, 11 years after she decided against medical assistance. 

  

New Fixtures

 When a light bulb burns out, Joe T. does not do artifacts.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, Stayin' Alive