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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! I watched an episode of Nova on PBS the other day here at The Home. It dealt with the new World Trade Center being constructed in Manhattan. It wasn’t a maudlin show (which it very well could have been); brief history of the events that resulted in the new construction – mostly it dealt with new construction techniques, style, and spirit. Boring? A bit, but, also fascinating… Part of the new complex is a 9/11 Museum. It’s being constructed below ground level – seven stories down using some of the remaining retaining walls that were constructed back when the original towers were built years ago in the 60s and 70s to keep the Hudson River at bay. One scene got to me. I can’t explain why; it just did. In the museum is one of the staircases left intact after the collapse of the towers. The narrator said something like, “…thousands used these stairs to evacuate; thousands never got the chance to use them.” Stairs. Steps. We encounter them every day in our lives. I use the staircases here at The Home several times a week. I’ve never really thought about stairs/steps as part of life. They’re just there to be used (or not – The Home has an elevator). There is nothing special about them – they provide a way to get from one place to another; they’re easier going down than up, but that’s the nature of stairs – they don’t make a promise life is going to be easy. I don’t know why I was touched with a surviving relic from a disaster as deadly as 9/11 and how it could evoke such emotion in me. Stairs. Steps. Staircases and stairways. I guess it has to do with them being mundane. Expected. They assist us but we rarely appreciate their purpose in life. Sort of like family and friends – we don’t appreciate their importance until it’s too late. I’m glad the 9/11 museum is exhibiting something so simple from a day that was unimaginable. Culture has featured stairs/steps/staircases in various forms through the years. Who can forget Led Zeppelin’s 1971 “Stairway to Heaven?” In “Gone with the Wind,” Scarlett O’Hara descends the staircase at Tara to meet with Rhett Butler; she wore a dress fashioned from curtains. “Hello, Dolly” has Dolly Levi coming down the main staircase at The Harmonia Gardens. Rocky Balboa ran up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in an iconic moment (I tried that feat twice when I lived in Philadelphia – I crapped out, both times, near the top, never achieving success). And how about in “Sunset Boulevard” Norma Desmond says, “All right, Mr. DeMille. I’m ready for my close-up,” at the bottom of the stairs? Here’s a link I found concerning staircases around the world: http://www.oddee.com/item_96882.aspx I’m sure there are many other occasions in life that feature stairs/steps/staircases/stairways. Those are a few off the top of my head. Speaking of “off the top of my head” – yesterday I got my hair clippers out to give myself a haircut. I’ve had the clippers for 21 years. The first few swipes worked – on the sides of my head. Then the clippers stopped working. Damn. I futzed with the clippers to no avail. I looked in the mirror and saw a 60-year-old man with a Mohawk and what appears to be a bad mullet. Yes. Picture it: a 60-year-old man with a Mohawk/mullet. Not a pleasant sight. Mom cuts Dad’s hair on a monthly basis (Dad, about two years decided $6/haircut was a waste of money, so they bought a clipper. I asked if Mom could “finish” my haircut since it will take a few days for my replacement clippers to arrive from amazon.com. They agreed. I was already scheduled to pick them up for Dad’s eye doctor appointment and trip to the farmers’ market…I’ll just go early and hope to have my hair finished by Mom. I warned them, I might be wearing a hat. In hot and steamy weather. And my hair is going to be attended to by an 82-year-old woman exhibiting early signs of dementia. Oi. Okay, I’d better go. I’m not making any sense. Stairs? Steps? Stairways and staircases? Why? Hair problems? Time for the blue pill…and maybe a mid-afternoon nap. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I took a mid-day nap yesterday here at The Home…I’m trying to train myself to do so for 10-15 minutes each day to rejuvenate. I awakened two hours later. So much for discipline! During my nap, I dreamed about an event that occurred years ago (it was sort of fun – what else is stored in my brain?). I wish there was an app so I could discover what’s remembered and why. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know. Nevertheless, my dream involved Martina, Easter, the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, Philadelphia, communion, and crowds. I worked with Martina at a bookstore in Center City Philadelphia…she was an artist (she made her own paper! I didn’t know that could be done!). She, on her off-hours, trolled thrift shops for vintage clothing – and sometimes wore her finds to work in the bookstore…sometimes they were embarrassing (only my opinion), but for the most part, she exhibited good taste. Easter, 1986: my partner-at-the-time, Chuck, and Martina, and I decided to attend Easter services at the basilica. Chuck and I arrived on time and waited on the basilica steps patiently as people in throngs entered the cathedral – where was Martina? She lived across town from us; the basilica was centrally located. As the masses entered the church, we caught sight of Martina approaching us. She appeared to walk awkwardly – teetering on the sidewalks. Martina NEVER wore heels, but on that Easter Sunday, she did. She wobbled and had her arms outstretched to maintain her balance. She was dressed in a flowered heavy material ladies suit from, oh, I’d say, the 1950s – tight skirt, close fitting jacket, and those heels. She made it precariously over six lanes of traffic, wobbled up to us and said, “Hi! Happy Easter!” We entered the cathedral as a three-some. The pews were filled. We tried to make our ways to a side-chapel, of which there were many. No luck on that front – they were jammed with other late-appearing worshipers. Saddened, the three of us exited the basilica and waited outside on the steps for the mass to end and then take part in the promenade to Rittenhouse Square for the annual (sadly outdated, but some fabulous hats!) Easter parade. Martina wanted to show off her “new” outfit. It was a beautiful day, and although we missed the “cut off” for mass attendance we didn’t want to waste the day. As we sat on the steps of the basilica, we noticed street vendors moving their sidewalk-push carts into position outside the church. Even at that late hour, parishioners showed up only to be turned away at the big doors of the basilica. Then I got an idea for the following year. My idea: set up shop outside the basilica and offer Sacrament-on-a-Stick. It would allow those who arrived late for Easter Mass to still partake. I didn’t do it the next year…I made contact with a former monk (who happened to be my first partner – it’s sad I turned him into a monk – at least for several years) and presented him with my idea. He guffawed and choked and laughed. He said, “That is so funny and so wrong at the same time.” I took that as a compliment…and haven’t given up on my idea of Sacrament-on-a-Stick. There just might be a market for it come Holy days. I’ll have to nap better in the future. Until then… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I went through my files and found a piece I penned several years ago (2004) for a contest…it won. My story from years ago: __ New Prompt: On my desk is a snow globe of Snoopy sitting at his typewriter on top of his doghouse. He's typing the words, "It was a dark and stormy night..." Here's the first sentence of your story... "It was a bright and sunny day..." The rest is up to you. It was a bright and sunny day that Tuesday at the end of summer. Technically it was still summer; the calendar said autumn wouldn't start for another 10 days. The previous days had presented us with high humidity and temperatures here in Pennsylvania and we were all tired of summer by then. The night before we had experienced storms accompanied by high winds, heavy rains, sky-brightening jags of lightning followed rapidly by house-jarring rumbles of thunder. That morning, though, a crystal-clear blue sky, light winds and bright sunshine greeted us. I replenished the birdfeeders in my backyard, fed Mr. Squirrel, who frequented every day, his morning ration of peanuts, came back inside and patted my cat (Miss Bessie Smith), grabbed my briefcase and lunch, locked my front door and started off on my five-block walk to the office. The scent of the two-doors-down neighbors' autumn clematis filled the air as I walked past. I nodded and chatted briefly with some neighbors along the way. The air was clean after a long period of haze. There was a hint of fall as I walked on; it was only a matter of time until the leaves started to change colors and provide us with the many hues of Mother Nature going to sleep for the winter. A block away from my office I saw a co-worker drive into the parking lot. Steve waved to me; I nodded to him and waited. He parked, got out of his car, and joined me for the walk of the last block to our office building. We discussed the storms of the previous night and he told me later in the day he'd have to get home to clean up some branches littering his backyard. We looked up as a plane from the local airport flew overhead beginning its ascent into the ether. We blinked as the bright sun glinted off the body of the plane. "What a glorious day, huh?" Steve smiled and looked at me. I smiled, nodded and opened the door to our building. We went inside; he went upstairs to his office; I went to my desk. The sunshine was so bright I had to close the blinds on the window beside my desk. I put my lunch bag in the refrigerator, came back to my desk, turned on my computer, and waited. The door opened. My boss came in. We exchanged greetings, mentioned the storms of the previous night, remarked about the nice weather, discussed details about the staff meeting scheduled for later in the morning, and he went to his office. Other co-workers arrived and we discussed the change in weather and how pleasant it felt. Life was good. It was 8:05 a.m. September 11, 2001. It was a bright and sunny day... __ Sad remembrance…still…I’m happy I saved this entry. As time goes on, memories tend to fade…it’s important to recall what was experienced on a fateful day. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Lame blog entry here from The Home. Nothing exciting took place or made an impression on me over the past few days. I avoided the other passengers on this Titanic Cruise to Hell and kept to myself. Something that made me smile: http://www.newyorker.com/humor/issuecartoons/2013/09/09/cartoons_20130902#slide=... It took me a few seconds to “get it” but I did in the end… Yesterday, the passengers here on our ever-approaching-death voyage had our fire extinguishers reviewed, serviced, and accredited during a day-long examination. Each year when the inspectors enter my apartment, I ask them how to use it. It hangs on my kitchen wall, but I’m confident I would not know what to do in the event of an emergency. And each year, the technician shows me how “easy” it is to activate it. He’s always calm and matter-of-fact about the ordeal; he deals with the apparatus every day – I don’t; it hangs on my kitchen wall. In my mind, if I had a fire break out in my apartment, the last thing I would do (after considering whether or not to put on clothes: I sleep naked. Sue me!) is take the fire extinguisher off its place on the kitchen wall, get scissors (which are located VERY close to where any fire would originate) to cut the little plastic activation strip, then, if I’m still alive, aim the nozzle at whatever was burning to douse the flames (probably caused by my making curry chicken). No…I would be screaming nakedly (or not – depending on how intense the fire was: do I have time to don some clothing?) either out the door of my apartment here at The Home or I’d be nakedly (though modestly) waving a tissue through a window at the firemen down below in the parking lot in an effort to gain their attention for assistance in my escape. I’ve been here at The Home for over five years…no need for a fire extinguisher – in fact, it’s just part of my kitchen…like salt and pepper and garlic (I loves me some garlic). Today is Mom and Dad’s 64th wedding anniversary. I asked them yesterday what their plans were. Mom replied, “…leftovers.” Life is good. |
| Ugh! Ran into Complaining Connie last Thursday as I left The Home to run an errand. “Hi, Connie.” (me) *smile* (me again) *cough, cough, inhale, cough; plumes of smoke emanated from her wheelchair* “What’s good about it?” (CC) I thought that a strange (yet typical of CC) (non)response to my “Hi, Connie.” I replied with, “It’s nice weather…no need to run our air conditioners.” She coughed up some phlegm and spit into a ragged tissue in her non-cigarette-holding hand and continued with, “I (loud) NEED (back to normal voice) my air conditioner. The air in these apartments is not safe. I’m thinking of suing them.” *cough* Not wanting to engage her, I walked to my car, quickly – I didn’t want my mood spoiled farther. Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed. I ran my errand praying she wouldn’t be outside when I arrived back at The Home – she wasn’t. I made a vat of chicken curry and roasted a hunk of beef for my meals for the week. Life is good. |
| Ugh! A Facebook friend, and my former favorite boss, posted that her cat (whose name is “Cat” – I teased her about the long process to name her feline) has stopped meowing. She looked for advice on what to do. I replied that my Miss Bessie Smith stopped “talking” at around age 17; she remained silent for the last four years of her life here on Earth – until the day I had her put down, two months shy of her 21st birthday. She screamed like the Dickens, which didn’t help me, believe me. I thought, “What a cruel thing I am doing, but it is now or extended agony for her.” She had lost the ability to walk and use her litter box. It was a tough decision. At times, I wish I could get into the mindset of cats: are you really as aloof as you appear? Do you like me? Is there more to life than napping and eating? What is it about catnip that produces antics of all sorts? Is it available to me? Questions, questions, questions. Something I found online: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q34z5dCmC4M&feature=share My little tribute to Miss Bessie Smith (1989-2010). When I lived on the farm, each evening after dinner I let Miss Bess and Gershwin play outside. Gershwin always stayed close by; Miss Bess, however, tore off around the widow’s house and hunted voles. One night she was gone way after dark. When she finally returned, she sounded like Lauren Bacall. I have NO idea what caused that; it lasted two days and then she returned to normal. I know, why now am I reminiscing? Miss Bess might have visited me in my dreams last night. It could happen. I’m taking a vacation next week…doing nothing except catching up on TV shows, movies, books, and cooking…it’s the end of summer (my least favorite season), so in a sense I’m preparing myself for my very favorite season: autumn. Also my very favorite word of all time is “autumnal.” A strange word, yes – you might ask why not “chocolate” or “money” or “bacon?” I have no answer to those questions. All I know is what I know. “Autumnal” is a good word if one has to choose one…at least, I think it is. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday marked the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on the National Mall. I have absolutely no recollection of that day, even though I was alive and had access to TV…I was 10 years old; sue me! I grew up in a rural area…we were all white. There was no diversity (a word not known nor uttered at the time). When I look back and reflect on the last names of our then-neighbors, I realize I grew up in an neighborhood of Czechs, Slavs, Russians, Germans, Italians, and Swedes. Growing up in the 1950s provided me with outdoor playtime with my neighborhood friends. We didn’t consider our last names, our heritages, our relatives – we played war, cops and robbers, and baseball, and hide-and-go-seek – like kids do. I believe adults make the problems. Kids know how to interact with each other and behave appropriately. Growing up, once a month, Dad would drive all of us to a department store in the nearby town for shopping. On the way, there was one block of a street that led to the parking lot for the store. As soon as Dad turned the corner, he announced, “Roll up the windows, and lock the doors.” We did so like a responsive and on-alert army troop. I looked out the window from the back seat and saw people sitting on their stoops chatting with other people. I never understood why we had to “protect” ourselves…cripes, they were talking to each other – what’s to be afraid of? They were black. Here’s a clip from a studio recording of “South Pacific” (it’s short – less than a minute): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHKzn8aHyXg when I hear that song, I think of those long-ago trips to the department store. A seven-year-old does not have role models; he listens to his parents, or, at the least, the loudest of the parents…the “values” instiller. I think fear/hatred is taught…I don’t believe we’re born with a negative gene in our systems. Well, maybe Complaining Connie, but that’s as far as I’ll go… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I met up with Heidi Hitler while checking my mail yesterday here at The Home. I said, “Hello” and smiled. In return, I got a guttural, “Mphmmt.” I took that as a friendly reply…it brightened my day – NOT! She stomped away to the elevator. I should hook her up with Complaining Connie – I’m almost positive they’d hit it off. In other news from The Home. I had a sudden desire for a plum. I have no inkling where the urge came from…I was just going about my business, and suddenly, I thought, “I could eat a plum.” So I went to my bird-dirt covered car (I haven’t washed it, nor will I – I’m going to let nature handle the situation) and headed off to the farmers’ market to purchase plums. It seems the town is under highway renovation on all the main thoroughfares. Each street I had to travel had limited traffic: lanes closed, lanes changed, traffic cones, backed-up traffic, angry motorists…and all I wanted was a plum. I thought, “Boy, this plum better be good!” What normally would be a 15-minute to-from trip stretched into almost an hour. I was not a happy camper. But I got me some plums. I came home with watering lips and couldn’t wait to chomp into one. They’re not yet ripe. Disappointment. I have them in a paper bag on my counter top hoping they will ripen in a day or two (that works with peaches; not sure about plums – something about them being in a paper bag hastens the ripening process; I think it has to do with carbon dioxide). The drawback is, by then, my yen for plums may have well exited my psyche. I hope not. Plums are good. And…for the most part… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I ran into Larry whilst retrieving my mail yesterday. As usual, he was splayed out on a chair in The Home’s lobby, and as is his custom, he was partially clad: no shirt, short pants (that could have been boxer-shorts underwear – I didn’t peruse him long enough to make a definite determination), no shoes or socks, and a cup of coffee in his hand. “Hi, Larry,” (me) wanting to be polite. “I guess you heard.” (L) (Me) opening my mailbox. “Heard what?” No mail; I was happy. “You know…” (L) I always get creeped out when he says that; I don’t know what to expect… I closed my mailbox door and said, “No, I don’t know, Larry.” (L) “Julie Andrews died.” I was shocked. I had read the headlines online and perused the New York Times Web site before my descent to the lobby mailboxes and hadn’t read of anything relating to Julie Andrews. However, I had seen that Julie Harris, the remarkable actress, had passed away. I replied, “I hadn’t heard that. Thanks for the head’s up.” (L) “No problem. I’m here to inform people of what’s going on. So I guess ‘The Sound of Music’ is now a dirge.” He took a sip of coffee. Dirge? How did Larry know that term? He knows basic words like “a,” “you,” “the” – “dirge” did not fit in. In the stairwell ascending to my apartment, I thought, “Where does he get his news?” Life is good. |
| Ugh! I made spare ribs over the weekend. I’ve never made them before. They’re yummy, but it’s a three-napkin meal – they’re messy. I bought them at the farmers’ market last week and did them in my Crock Pot with barbecue sauce. The package cost me $3.18 and I’ll get three meals out of it, so not a bad deal. I just wish they were easier to eat: ribs cannot be eaten with a fork and knife, the way civilized people eat; okay, I suppose the upstairs folks on Downton Abbey would utilize those tools, but they’re missing the fun of eating spare ribs – smearing your face with barbecue sauce, coating your fingers with barbecue sauce, then licking/sucking your fingers covered in barbecue sauce, enjoying the taste of spare ribs and barbecue sauce…and, finally, the matter that they taste so good you don’t worry about your appearance. Other messy foods from my experiences: corn-on-the-cob – take a whole vegetable in hand, slather it with butter, and then take a bite from it – time and time again. I eat my corn-on-the-cob as if it’s a typewriter; I eat it row-by-row – left to right. My younger brother eats it from one end while turning it constantly and chomping away and devours it to the end of the cob – sort of like a water-wheel; too much turning for me – I prefer the typewriter method. Watermelon: as a kid, I received a wedge/slice of watermelon and bit into it then spit the seeds at people sitting close by (perhaps that’s a weird family thing? My cousin from Yonkers, NY still recalls being the target of those spittings); the watermelon juice ran down my cheeks and chin onto my chest, and here’s the best part: I DIDN’T CARE! Each week during the market trek with Mom/Dad, I ask Mom what’s on her menu for the week. She always asks for Dad’s assistance and she ALWAYS says, “We like to eat.” I found this clip of Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci from “Julie and Julia” – it’s short: a wee bit over a minute, but it is wonderful…and so true when it comes to my relatives…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKn92Unb0d4 We like to eat. I’m happy we can indulge…. Life is good. |
| Ugh! In my welfare-check phone call (I’m immediately put on speakerphone) to Mom/Dad yesterday, I confirmed our trip to the markets today…they always purchase something at the farmers’ market, but not always at the grocery store. Mom always apologizes for not buying something at the grocery store… Yesterday we had drenching downpours and thunder and lightning during early morning hours. I learned through the phone call that Dad drove Mom and him to the grocery store during the rain and complained about how difficult it was to drive in those conditions. I said, “Couldn’t you have waited one day for me to drive you there?” Mom said, “We needed some things.” I asked what was needed that required driving in hazardous conditions. She said, “Let me think. Dad. What did we go to the store for that we needed?” Silence. “Apricot jelly.” I slammed my fist into my forehead. “Apricot jelly? Why?” Mom: “Dad, why did we need that?” Dad: “Because you said we needed it.” Mom: “Because we needed it.” I asked, “…for what?” Silence for a few moments, then Mom said, “…for toast…at breakfast.” *sigh* I’m just a few years away from catching up to Mom. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I met up with Complaining Connie yesterday when I left The Home on an errand. “Good morning.” (me through her plumes of cigarette smoke emanating from her wheel-chair). “Did you gain weight?” *puff exhale plume puff exhale plume* (CC) “Umm, yeah. I haven’t walked in almost a year and I’ve gained back most of the weight I lost.” (me) After several seconds of her coughing up phlegm and attempting to catch her breath – all the while puffing away on a cigarette, she said, “You should make changes that make you happy.” “Happy” is a word I do not associate with Complaining Connie, so I was jarred by her reference to it. She does NOT represent happiness in any manner. She could watch a fledgling robin take flight for the first time after Mama Robin pushes her offspring off the edge of the nest and enjoy the miraculous event, but, no, Complaining Connie would condemn the mother for child abuse. There’s no winning with her…not that I’m trying to “win” per se; she’s always going to find something to grouse about…and make it known to all of us here at The Home. If The Home management ran a yearly pageant for us residents, Complaining Connie would win, hands down, for Miss Negative. And she’d complain about the thorns on the bouquet of roses presented to her. My life outlook is not good, but I’m certainly more positive than Complaining Connie. I feel sorry for her dog, Rascal. A dog deserves to live in a positive environment. Next time I have to run errands, I’ll delay my departure in an effort to avoid Complaining Connie’s negativity. Hot again here at The Home….but it is August – it’s to be expected. Air-conditioners are running full blast. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I ran into Mrs. Roper yesterday in the lobby here at The Home…I could smell her patchouli from the stairwell, so I was prepared. Remarkably, she hadn’t gotten her scarf stuck in her mailbox door. “Good morning,” I said, nodded and opened my mailbox. No mail – YAY! The only things I receive via the USPS are bills and junk mail…the majority of my communications are handled online or via phone. “Good morning, son” she replied. I hardly resemble a “son” even though I am one – not of hers; my parents’ son is what I’m referring to. It’s been years since I’ve heard that description of me (my Scots grandmother called me “son” all the time; maybe Mrs. Roper has Scots in her…). “You have a car, don’t you?” I said, nervous because I wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, “Yeah, I do.” “If I compensated you with a dollar, would you drop me off and pick me up for my yoga classes on Market Street three days a week – Monday, Wednesday, and Friday?” I paused and tried to assimilate what had just occurred: a woman who wears a rather vivid assortment of wigs in various “do’s” and a plethora of multi-colored scarves, and gets said scarves stuck in her mailbox door repeatedly, wants me to transport her to yoga classes across town…I think not. How can someone indulging in yoga (a relaxing/meditative process, I thought) not know to let her scarf get caught in her mailbox door a few days a month? Maybe yoga classes don’t cover the use of scarves? I replied, “Sorry, I’m busy.” I went to the stairwell and headed back to my apartment. I’m not a taxi service…if I do it for one of my neighbors here at The Home, word will spread faster than the flu and I’ll be bombarded with requests for transportation. I don’t think I’m being mean; just practical. Besides, I don’t want my car to smell of patchouli. Oi. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, we’re almost three-quarters of the way through my least favorite month of the year: August. It has 31 days, which prolongs my agony. There are no holidays in August – it’s just there; however, two of my cousins enjoy birthdays at the end of the month – Lora was born August 27 and Frank was born August 29 – both in 1959. Their mothers are sisters (my aunts)…I recall a local newspaper article replete with a picture of aunts/baby cousins that related the story: two sisters, two babies, two cousins: they both delivered in the same hospital and “recuperated” (back then mothers were hospitalized for a few days after giving birth) in a shared room, numbered 222. It’s a little bit of family lore, and they each got their Andy Warhol’s prediction of “15 minutes of fame” even though my cousins didn’t know what was going on. This year on their birthdays, they’ll each celebrate their special days with grandchildren in their own family trees. Where does time go? Mom gave me advice several years ago. Every three months she has to have injections into her eye to treat her macular degeneration. It sounds painful to me – I don’t like needles to begin with; having one come into an eye is torture in my mind. After each appointment she exits the doctor’s office and on the way home I ask how she’s doing (before she nods off). She always says, “Okay.” One time I asked, “Does it hurt?” She replied, “Only for a few seconds…then it’s over. It happens.” This from a woman who birthed six babies and has undergone two knee replacements. Those are each (I’ve never experienced childbirth nor knee replacement surgery) extraordinary painful situations. Mom has taught me how to deal with life and pain….it happens. None of us has a guarantee to live pain-free forever as much as we’d like to believe otherwise…pain is only for a moment or two...it happens. In the meantime… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Temperate here at The Home over the weekend…no need for air-conditioned assistance – opened windows and fans sufficed. And it was overcast…I was happy. I went through my portfolio here at WDC and discovered this tale from years ago:
In other news, I visited with Mom/Dad before we did our weekly trek to the markets. Mom took me on a tour of their yard. It is gorgeous: lots of pink begonias, pink New Guinea impatiens, pink polka-dot plants, pink geraniums, pink hollyhocks… Guess what Mom’s favorite color is? In all the pinkness, I spotted one little hint of deep blue lobelia that survived last winter and emerged again this summer. I associated with that little blue lobelia – an outcast; a proud outcast who isn’t afraid to show color. All in all, a nice weekend here at The Home and its environs. Life is good. |
| Ugh! The temperatures here at The Home dipped into the lower 50s for the past few nights – thank you, Canada! I turned off both my air conditioners and used fans instead. It was peaceful sleeping…a rare August event – this is more like September or October. I’m a quirky sleeper. It HAS to be cool in my bedroom – all year round. Whilst growing up, our house had a furnace in the cellar, but no duct-work to distribute the heat throughout the house. There was a 3x3-foot hole in the living room floor with a grate above it that provided the heat for the entire house. It was a coal furnace, so Mom or Dad got up in the middle of the night and shoveled coal into the furnace and stirred the embers (stoking). As a result, my bedroom on the second floor never became toasty warm and Mom and Dad supplied us kids with multiple blankets to slumber under. I got used to the weight of the blankets and associated that feeling with sleeping. Now, more than 50 years later, I cannot sleep without being covered. I abhor excessive heat because if it’s cold, one can always get warmer via blankets or more clothes; if it’s hot, the farthest one can go is to take off everything and sleep naked. That makes sense, but, I can’t sleep without being covered. Being covered is essential when it comes to my sleep patterns. I now use an eiderdown. It’s just one piece; I miss the weight of multiple blankets– it seems the feathers (down) breathe along with the seasons – it keeps me warm in the cold periods and provides just enough comfort in the warmer seasons. I guess that’s why I see ducks on ponds and roadways all year long – they have the heat thing down pat. I encountered my first eiderdown in 1973 when I spent a night in Iceland on my way to Germany. The hotel room was sparse and I looked for the pile of blankets I’d need to sleep. There were none, just this white, fluffy, what I called a “comforter” and nothing else. I was disappointed because I missed the weight of the blankets, but I slept like a baby underneath that eiderdown. It made a permanent impact on my psyche…both for the sleep and the fact that my traveling companion invited a woman from the bar up to our hotel room who turned out to be a prostitute (my friend was just trying to be nice: he thought she was nice to talk to; I was shocked). Oi. So one night in January 1973 in Iceland I learned about eiderdowns and whores. The eiderdown won. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was my “free” day…no email, no Facebook, no WDC. I didn’t do any of those addictions. I just lounged around with nary a worry. I thought I deserved a day off. Besides, I had nothing to say. Here’s hoping something will materialize today. Life is good. |
| Ugh! In preparation for my nieces’ college-send-off party yesterday, I trimmed my beard. I’ve had it since about 1996, so I’m used to it. I’d had a mustache since I graduated high school (I started growing that the day after graduation in 1971; facial hair at the time was not allowed – heck, the year before (1970) girls were finally allowed to wear pants/jeans to school – I grew up in a conservative community…which made being a gay teen all the more troublesome). I decided to grow a beard to cover up my jowls. Yes, I have jowls. I’ve had them since I was a wee lad…they came with the territory. Kids used to make fun of me by saying things like, “…are those acorns in your cheeks?” or they called me Rocky Raccoon. It was not fun…it was just Mother Nature having a joke on me. Yesterday I toyed with shaving the whole thing off to see what I look like without facial hair. I plugged in the clippers and trimmed. The more I trimmed, the more I saw my jowls. They’re worse now than they’ve ever been (I guess they tend to grow and ultimately sag as one ages – gravity is a great force). If I didn’t have the beard I’d look like one of those droopy-faced dogs in commercials and You Tube clips. Ugh. So I ended up with a close trim; the jowls can be seen (although no one mentions them to me – not even my sister, who is brutally honest), but the beard, in its little way, covers up the visual. As part of my grooming, I also trimmed my ear hairs. *sigh* Yes, I have to do that. I have a few hairs on my chest, but abundant growth sprouting from each of my ears that must be snipped off every few weeks. Thankfully I have a full head of hair…no baldness nor signs of it. Don’t I sound like quite the perfect date on match.com? Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m going to a party late this afternoon for two of my nieces who are headed off to college in the next few weeks. Things have changed since I was their age. I attended the local community college (it was referred to as glorified high school back then) after graduating high school in 1971…my parents couldn’t afford a state or private college. There was no send-off for me in the form of a celebratory get-together with family and friends. I woke up one Tuesday morning in September 1971 and off to college I drove…I lasted one-and-a-half semesters. I wasn’t ready for the discipline…I was heady with gay-teenager angst…I was restless. This was during the height of the Vietnam War. The draft was active: on my 18th birthday I registered as required by law at the local Selective Service office. During that time, draftees were selected by lottery: a random number and a random birth date were matched, and one’s fate was known. We were called to report for a physical examination based on the number matched with our birthday – our draft number; it was generally believed at that time that your draft number was safe if it was higher than 200. The lottery/drawing was broadcast live on radio; I remember that because I was with my high school friend, Neal, on the hill up above the campus on an unusually warm and sunny February 2, 1972 (temperate for Pennsylvania) with a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine that we shared swigs from (for the record, illegally – we were underage; and I can’t recall today who procured it). Neal had a transistor radio tuned into the broadcast….we were both involved in the draft. We each drank from the one bottle of wine as the dates and numbers came across the air. Neal’s birthday, April 2 was pulled: his draft number was 345 (the highest number was 365 – one for each day of the year). We celebrated with each of us glugging some Boone’s Farm and whooped and hollered with joy. Several minutes passed with birthdates and numbers announced. Then the radio broadcast, “July 20” – my birth date: number 33. Both Neal and I were silent. I couldn’t believe my luck. Neal and I went to our cars and I drove home in a stupor. 33? Vietnam? Army? 33? Agent Orange? Guns? How did Neal get 345? Shooting? Killing? Vietnam? 33? Shooting? Killing? I was a mess, but I made it home safely. I didn’t eat dinner that night…I couldn’t. Wow! I’m sweating as I type this out. That was over 40 years ago. I guess I still have some brain cells that recall the episode. One day I might relate my appearance at the draft center; my number came up and I was called to report for a physical exam in October, 1972 prior to reporting for duty…I had to undergo two examinations. Ugh. I’m hopeful today’s celebration will result in nicer memories for my nieces…and me. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Humid and warm weekend here at The Home… I survived with just fans operating instead of the air conditioners. YAY! Today, the forecasters predict showers, my favorite type of day. During my welfare-check phone call with Mom/Dad on Saturday, Mom, about three-quarters of the way through the call, asked, “Who are you?” *sigh* It was a momentary blip, where I said, “It’s me.” She replied, “Oh, I thought you were the other one.” There are six of us children; Mom is 82 and is exhibiting signs of dementia, which runs in her family, and I’m almost assured of inheriting. I smiled on my end of the phone and our conversation continued with no further incidents. So it’s merely a matter of time until my blog posts will make no sense at all. Ugh. Or should I say, “YAY!?” The posts could be entertaining… Life is good. |
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